Strange and Bitter Crop

I was in the passenger seat of a chevy cavalier. I had on a pleather, black jacket, and a turtleneck in October, which in Texas is definitely an unnecessary item. There was a citrus-flavored air freshener in the vent and the sun was being passive about setting, but fairly bold about the heat it kindly decided to share. I'm a typical dude that doesn't remember details for anything. And the only reason I remember these was because of her voice. Nina interrupted the conversation I was having, and I don't recall the topic, with a beautiful pain. That's as simple as it can be put. If the pure form of pain was a sound, Nina knew the key, the rhythm, and the tone to convey it properly.

It was the first time she took me traveling in time through song, wouldn't be the last. She was singing strange fruit. She was painting strange fruit. I saw the leaves, the branches, I saw the feet, she was telling me a story. And then there was the voice. That beautiful voice, low but delicate, too elegant to be Ray Charles, it hung there. Like a soldier's trumpet blowing, alarming your senses, that an invasion was inevitable. She was dragging me there, to that place so many Americans experienced. Dangling.

Her rendition of the song is a haunted house that she's sweeping, decorating, and sharing with every soul who is connected in any type of way to that past. If haunted is the wrong word, pressing play leaves you feeling like space is inhabited with lost names and brave stories with tragic endings. She invented musical time travel. And then there was the accompaniment. I remember thinking the pianist is so in tune with her, they must have practiced for hours. The note choice, the bends, and breaks beyond what would seem possible were more than appropriate. Of course, she was playing the piano. Of course, this woman, this beautiful, strong classically trained, emotional-technician was leading the way.

To Nina, the time traveler.

In her beginnings, track lines were quite literal in separating promise from wishing. Train tracks in her neighborhood, like so many in her day, separated white and black. Her wishes, however, did lead to promise the moment she crossed the tracks to take piano lessons on the white side of town. As a little girl, she took that route weekly. I wonder if she knew who she would be then. Eunice, may not have known she would later go by Nina, but she knew who she was.

Could you imagine being a little girl with an interest in Bach on one side of the tracks and playing southern gospel on the other in 1945? I suppose she always time traveled. She lived outside of her time. You were supposed to keep your head down, speak when spoken to. Go where you're told and do what you're told, despite the moral implications it may have. It's the fear of it all, that must have disappeared in the music. I know I felt liberated to actually feel her music. I'm certain in 1945, I would have stayed in moments she created, with the gift she had, as long as I could.

Because the moment she opened her eyes or was dismissed from her lessons, life would remind her of it all the moment she walked out of the door. I'd want to time travel too. Time, was all it took to see how much talent she really possessed. Around 12 years old she was ready for her first classical piano recital. The church on the white side of the tracks hosted the performance and her parents came to see it. Only, they were told to stay in the back.

Nina decided she wouldn't play a single note until they were able to sit right in front. She does the same for me. Every single time I hear her, her gift ensures, demands even, we all have a front-row seat.

To Nina, the time traveler, fresh flowers today, and forevermore.