It was mentioned in a local newspaper that I chanced upon at the library that a certain organist was coming to our little town to perform. I got busy figuring out when and where, and elected to attend the lunch hour dress rehearsal over the evening's main event as I had already committed to something else for that time slot.
I got there nice and early to get a good seat. He's famous. You have no choice but to be at his concerts a good bit before opening time to be able to pick a seat you like. It is a wonder he deigned to come to our neck of the woods and play when he's already been booked for a European tour in 2014, playing Vienna, Strasbourg, London, Berlin, Moscow, the works...
I found a nice spot that would afford me a comfortable exit after the concert and walked toward the main entrance of the chapel. I went up a few steps, entered the external foyer, and was about to walk into the vestibule when a woman my age stepped out from the shadows, put the tips of her black pumps against the tips of my black pumps, looking very grave, said in an incredibly soft voice,"Mrs. Gurpur, it is much nicer upstairs." She moved her voluminous nose even closer to mine and consequently the eyes too, and said,"I am the new junior pastor here," and nodded furiously as she adjusted her maroon tie and patted down her navy blue blazer.
I can take a hint. I went up the floating staircase and sat down in the dark and desolate and narrow balcony upstairs. I was stunned she knew my name. I had never been to this church before. I didn't know the woman at all. I thought I must be getting famous or something but then quickly discarded that thought. I know my limitations. And I trust my instincts. My instincts were going w~i~l~d !!!! I felt the hairs on the back of my neck rise. I knew she was not to be trusted. But I was here for some good music. This was God's house. One ought to feel safe here. So I chose to feel safe.
The concert wouldn't begin for another 40 minutes so I tried to nap while I waited. I must have dozed off for 15 minutes and when I woke up I felt like I might have been transported to the UN or something while I was sleeping. There were people speaking Tagalog, Chinese, Korean, French, Spanish, Afrikaans, even a Canadian version of Punjabi, and lots of English, as I tuned into what was going on around me. I couldn't help but stand up and stretch after my nap and get a good look at the pews below us. There were women with golden hair almost across the board, while the gentlemen were mainly greying to various degrees or were very nearly bald. I didn't catch sight of a single dark-skinned person down there except for the one young lady in a lilac sweater and pretty white dress who was walking along the pews handing out flyers to each of the attendees, smiling and talking to each attendee as she walked by. No one came upstairs to give us any flyers though. I sat down and waited for the concert to begin.
The opening act was a single Christmas carol by the church choir, in honor of the season, "I'm Dreaming Of A White Christmas".
Suddenly I felt like the witch just shat all over one of my most favorite tunes, one that I strongly associate with a Currier and Ives, picture perfect, Christmas.
The concert, a truncated version of what was to come that evening, was still a little vision of Heaven, given what had just passed.
Feeling very grateful to have heard this music live I got up to leave. I walked slowly to my car, looking around to see what I might have missed on my way in. Possibly someone had been stationed in the parking lot to tell the witch whom to be expecting at the door. There was no one around on a radio or cellphone or bluetooth. That person's services were most likely needed elsewhere by now so he or she was probably gone.
I read bumper stickers as I walked by them. There was a "My dachshund is smarter than your honor roll student" , a "Coexist", a " D 7:1", a "MysterySpotUSA", an "I believe in the 13th amendment", another version or two of "My dog is smarter than you" , and the pièce de résistance, "Secede". Lincoln should have let her secede.
Just when I thought the worst was over, a truck over took me but then a little later we were both at the same red light and I saw he had a picture of a noose for a bumper sticker.
I was driving home with mixed feelings towards the maestro. His genius and his success made the witch hate me even more, and before she even met me. One can safely assume she hates the maestro for growing up a child of the holocaust, penniless, in the Bronx, and now rubbing shoulders with the best of them. She wouldn't want any of us with the darker skin tones getting a closer look at him and seeing his darker skin tones. What if he inspired us to greater things? What if??
Funny thing is, the witch has big black bushy eyebrows to frame her brown eyes that are a disconcerting contrast to her very yellow hair. I guess she chooses to keep her brows intact to offset her nose as wide as the Himalayas are high. I wonder if she knows who wrote "White Christmas".
I turned on the radio for some Christmas cheer and they were playing "Away in a manger..." conjuring up the image of a cherubic brown baby swaddled in a bundle and kept warm by the love of his parents and that of the menagerie around him.
Now that half the town is talking about our segregationist here I hear the witch not only colors her own hair a tacky yellow, but subjects her kids, a kindergartner and a middleschooler, to coloring treatments too.
I wish she had been born colorblind.
- SDG
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