Birth of an NYC Street Musician

So my mom had married a loser, or had gotten matched to one, then married him. It's a long story, but in the church I grew up in, people are matched; meaning voluntary arranged marriages. Sometimes it works out, but in my mother's case, among others, it did not.

Once upon a time, (in the 1990s) we lived in Glendale, Arizona. At the time, it was mostly beautiful, though predominantly white. . . was there racism? I can't actually confirm that notion from personal experience. We were the only black family on the block at the time. We played with all the neighborhood kids, we were invited to their homes and they to ours. It was a childhood that my siblings and I remember reverently, devoid of any conscious discrimination from our neighbors.

So you can imagine how displeased we all were when my mom and aunt announced that our church had finally found suitable matches for them and that we would be making a permanent move to New York City in order to be united with my mom's chosen spouse. I was 15 when we transferred our lease to a family friend and made the long laborious trip to New York City. As member's of the same church organization, my mom and "aunt" had done a lot of missionary work together in their youth and become close friends. They weren't actual birth sisters but no one who knew them could tell otherwise. We, their children, related to ourselves as cousins.

Getting back on track, there were nine of us total; two adults, three girls and four boys. My mom and aunt, equipped only with high school educations at the time, worked hard to make ends meet but there was often only just enough to get by on the barest minimum. I remember walking to the store with the grocery list I memorized in my head: cabbage, butter, potatoes, wheat bread and canned milk, the least expensive brand. Often, we would end up short at the register and I would be sweating bullets counting the last pennies from the fist full of change my aunt had given me to pay for it all. The stress of "not having" still grates on me to this day. I can't stand to see other people in the same situation.

Anyway, we did not have enough money for the trip nor the move to New York (one might say we did so entirely on faith), let alone for all of us to travel together. So we went in phases. The moms and the youngest boys first, next the older boys, and finally the girls. Each group followed the next with months in between. By the time my cousins and I arrived it was the shortest "new home tour" of my existence and easily one of the most underwhelming.

The one room our family of 9 would share at the church center in Harlem, NY was suffocatingly small and lacking any privacy whatsoever. The old church center was a cosmetically challenged brownstone that was at least habitable, but it was a major shift from our previous quiet, sunny home in the Arizona suburbs. It was problematic, but considerably better than being homeless. None of us were ready for the life we were brought into. As I sit here typing this, my resentment for memory of that time period is numbing to say the least. I am no more able to make it make sense now than I could in the past, but what can you do to fix things when you're only 15?

My mom's new husband was clearly unprepared for a relationship as could possibly be. In fact, he was living with a roommate at the time and the apartment wasn't even in his name. He contributed nothing to the move or even groceries for his new wife and family.

My aunt intended on getting set up in New York until her match would arrive. Hers was an international match so there wasn't the expectation that my mom's new spouse would care for her family as well. Within my immediate family it was myself and 2 brothers, one older and one younger. So it was to be my mom and the 3 of us he was to start a new life with. Nothing of the sort ever happened. He was an unemployable Harlem hustler who had been promised a wife through the only church organization I had ever known and that my mom unwaveringly trusted. For months my mom and aunt hunted for jobs with no financial support of any kind or any job to show for their search.

I remember one day my mom looking so sad as she called me into an unoccupied room at the church center. In a lowered voice, she explained to me that we were running out of food. This was clearly evidenced by the solitary bowl of rice I had just eaten for lunch. She mentioned that she had seen some musicians playing outside on the streets and they seemed to be doing okay.

At the time, I had been learning to play the violin for nearly 5 years. She asked if I might try playing outside for a while to see if there was anything I could make. Even if only for a few dollars. Of course I was nervous. I hadn't done any solo performances publicly, only at my school or with an orchestra, but I was tired of having rice nearly every night so I reluctantly agreed.

It was on 125th street in Harlem that we decided to begin setting up my music and stand. My mom reassured me that she would be with me the entire time. Shakily, I placed my bow on the strings of my violin and began playing. Eventually, the streets began to fade away as my nerves calmed and I became caught up in the music. It wasn't long before a small crowd began to form and small change and dollars began to trickle in. After about an hour, a black male, looking to be in his late 20s, drove near to the side walk and rolled down his window. He seemed to be listening intently.

I soon ended the song “The Ash Grove” It was a simple piece. With all the attention from onlookers I couldn’t help feeling a little embarrassed at not being able to present a more advanced repertoire of music. I was rusty. It had been almost a year since my last violin lesson after all. Nonetheless, the young man began to clap loudly as he emerged from his vehicle and the small crowd started to clap as well. I felt a wave of pride and urgency to escape wash over me at the same time. My mom must have noticed because she quickly stepped in and started thanking everyone for their donations. It seems she had decided that I had done enough to call it a day. As the crowd dispersed the man came up to my mom and gave her something that made her cry. Then he turned to me and said encouragingly, “You are a very talented young lady. Don’t ever stop playing young sista because you’re gonna go far!” That said, he smiled warmly at us as we thanked him, hopped back into his car and drove away.

My mother came over to help gather our things with more of an urgency than I understood at the time. We no longer had a vehicle in our new state so we had to walk home. Once home, mom and I borrowed the small closet that also happened to be our pantry as we counted the change and dollars that now lined the inside of my violin case. We counted close to one hundred in loose bills and change. Then, to my surprise, my mom took out a crisp hundred dollar bill that the man had given her and joined it with the rest for a grand total of nearly $200 dollars. She excitedly thanked me and gave me her signature warm hug. Then she prepared to leave so that she could go out and buy groceries for our families. I was really happy to se my mom looking happier than I had seen her during the time since we moved from Arizona.

As much as I hated moving to New York City and leaving my home in Arizona, it was the first time I appreciated the city and it's people. I had nothing but music to give and their generosity gave my family a way forward in our time of great need. In later weeks, I would go out often until my cousins who had also been learning the violin, viola and cello joined me and we formed a classical quartet. My mom and aunt did eventually find jobs and we were able to start music lessons again. It wasn't long after, that my mom's new husband exited our lives of his own volition and the marriage was annulled. My mom has long since remarried to a wonderful man and step father. . . .and yes (if you were wondering) they were "matched".

I am now 41 years old and have a wonderful family of my own. Although I now live in Georgia, (also a long story, lol) I’ll never forget the words and generosity of that man, of New Yorkers, of people. It will always remain in my heart. I'm not sure I've come far enough, but I never stopped playing the violin. It has enriched my life beyond what I could have imagined in the form of the people who have listened to and supported me. For that, I am filled with the inner-most gratitude.