We are molded in our parents’ image.
Among the many life-enriching things parents impart to their children, their fears and prejudices are also transmitted, whether they realize it or not.
They are not temporary. In my book EMOTIONS: Not your Mama’s ABC’s! I write about prejudice.
Check out my story Happy Hour.
***
I was hired to play my guitar and sing for happy hours at a local tavern only a couple miles away from the NFL stadium in Phoenix, Arizona. When I told a friend of my gig, he said “Man, I can’t believe you are even allowed in to that place with all the rednecks.
“Prejudice, he said, dies hard, but not in that place.”
The place was a typical watering hole filled with typical working men and women (no white collar workers here!) and the ages of the patrons varied anywhere from the minimum drinking age to some fellas that looked closer to the maximum drinking age, if there is such a thing. The jukebox was loaded with diverse music: country music, old country music, older country music, and a sprinkling of even older country music. I chuckled when I skimmed through some of the titles and in a span of about fifteen seconds or so, figured out what my playlist would look like for this motley assemblage.
I ordered a cold Bud and a shot of whiskey (just to fit in of course) and bellied up to the old wooden bar. I overheard Gary, a painter, talking to his buddy George, a plumber. I knew their names because they were wearing name patches above their shirt pockets. Gary’s white overalls were splattered with many colors of different paints and George’s shirt and pants, well, they had whatever plumbers spilled on them and I decided I really didn’t care to know what. Both men were already half in the bag and Happy Hour was still half an hour away. Gary was telling a story about his last job painting a new addition for a client he referred to as a “bean counter” and George was laughing coarsely and loudly.
Oh brother, I thought as I drained my shot and took a long pull on my beer. After a brief sound check of my axe and microphone, I returned to the bar where I scribbled my playlist on a couple cocktail napkins. Merle, Hank, Conway, and other giants populated the list as I surmised that even newer country and God forbid, country rock were out of the question tonight. After some small talk with the bartender and a trip to the outhouse (really, an outhouse!), I returned and plugged in.
I was raised with absolutely NO prejudices by my parents and I have always considered myself accessible and tolerant of all races, colors, and creeds. Having traveled extensively overseas as a child also served to open up the world and its diverse cultures and peoples to me. My best friends in high school in England were black, but to me they were just my brothers-from-a-different-mother.
Usually, I set out a big jar for tips and I put a little sign that designated the tips would be used for “Green Fees.” I decided against that, thinking not exactly the golfing crowd here tonight.
Earlier in the day I saw on the news that Michael Jackson, the King of Pop, had died. I grew up on his music as did many of us, and I remember taking the news particularly hard. In spite of how anyone feels about his eccentricities, there is no denying the man’s genius and major impact on music in the micro and the planet in the macro. I still get chills when I recall the first time I saw him “moonwalk,” his patented dance.
A strange thought occurred to me.
Think I’ll shake up the County Club, I thought to myself. I decided I would begin my set with an a cappella rendition of She’s Out of My Life, one of the King’s many hits.
“Hi. My name is Markus (one of my stage names) and I want to start out tonight with a song that I dedicate to the passing of a true music legend.” As the now-full bar swiveled their squeaky bar stools in my direction, I flipped the mic switch on and gave a very soulful from-the-heart version of the classic. I was so wrapped up in the song I did not pick up on the fact the noisy room had quieted. So much so that as I belted out the last few notes, the tavern was now devoid of sound, the bartender even muting the television behind the bar. Even the pool-playing rowdies had stopped playing and turned in my direction. When I finished, I opened my eyes expecting the worst. What happened next still blows my mind when I think about it.
The entire bar of typical white working men and women were actually standing and cheering! I received the only standing ovation I ever got in my several decades of playing music.
I can’t lie, I teared up and choked out a quick “Thank you. Now let’s turn the music up and the lights down. This son-of-a-bitch is now officially a honky-tonk!”
My best solo gig ever.
As the crowd hooted and hollered approval, I turned my head to the left, and caught a glimpse of the true source of prejudice in the bar.
It was my reflection in a cracked Heineken mirror looking back at me.
***
Stay well.
