Kalimba Magic

Message from Mark
How I Almost Got Punched in Fry's

It was Labor Day weekend 2011, and I was in the produce section of Fry's supermarket in Tucson, AZ. As I was bagging some peaches, I noticed an African American woman talking to the produce manager. I could not see her face, but I noticed she had beautifully braided hair, gold in color. I am one to notice really nice hair on people, maybe because I am sorely lacking in the hair department.

About 20 seconds later, an African American man came around the corner, burdened with five or six large green bundles that I think were heads of lettuce. He asked the produce manager about the location of produce bags, who answered, "They are over there, behind that guy," meaning behind me. Then the woman with the beautiful hair turned around, and I was surprised to see that she looked much older than I had expected from her beautiful hair.

Still not fully paying attention, as if in the distance, I heard, "Damn it - he's a COMPLETE IDIOT! I'll just do it myself. You can never trust a white man to do ANYTHING! They only want to **** our black women!!"

I located the produce bag dispenser, tore one off to give to the man, but when I turned I saw that he had tossed his produce into his partner's cart and fetched a bag from another roll further down the aisle. Standing there, empty plastic bag hanging uselessly from my fingertips, my eyes met those of the produce manager, also African American. He looked embarrassed. It was then that I realized the other guy had been ranting about... ME!

Me! Ha! There must be some mistake.

My first impulse was to just get the hell out of there. I started moving with new purpose towards the dairy section, but I could still hear the disturbed man nearby, and I kept seeing him wherever I went in the store. And every time, he was ranting about me.

The sensible thing to do, of course, would be to not look back and exit the store asap. But I realized that a gross misunderstanding had taken place. For this black man I represented all white people. He had obviously been badly hurt many times by white people. He was not reacting to ME, but to the many white people who had hurt him and/or his loved ones.

About five minutes later, I was backtracking to get something from an aisle I had skipped while avoiding the man, but suddenly coming towards me, there he was. He made a very angry face.

It was then that I felt a veil of protecting light wrap around me. I felt that I could not be hurt, that I could DO THIS! I could be a peace maker and actually set things right between me and this hurting man, and possibly even help him open a door to healing the hurt from which his rant had sprung.

I stopped walking and looked at him. I placed one arm over my stomach, the other at my side, and said, "Sir, did you know that I was trying to help you get a produce bag?"

I stood perfectly still to be non-threatening, but his angry look got darker and deeper: "YOU were looking at me like YOU thought I was a worthless piece of trash. I saw you! I am very intuitive, I pick up on people's vibes, I know what you were thinking about me, that I was a worthless piece of trash."

He clenched his fists and his teeth, which I could see were mangled, like he had been punched in the face many times and they hadn't healed quite right. Just think what he could do to my teeth. Other thoughts occurred to me: what if he thought I had been eyeing his woman when I had admired her hair or when I stared at her when she had turned and I saw the disparity between her age and her hair?

A crowd was gathering around us where we now stood in the meat department. That made me feel slightly safer, like if a fist went flying into my mouth, several people might jump in and save my life.

"Look," he said, "I'm old school. I'm 52 years old, and I gotta stand up for me and my wife when bad things happen to us."

He is 52... OK, I'm 49. We've had some of the same experiences, I thought. I grew up in Dallas, where I had felt deeply uncomfortable with the racism. I didn't know where this man had grown up, but it must have been a hard time. I knew that he had probably been called "boy" hundreds or thousands of times. That people probably tried to knock the pride out of him - but he still had it.

I looked directly at him and spoke with as much respect as I could muster - always addressing him as "sir" as if that three letter word could be the antidote to "boy": "Sir, I am 49 and I am sorry about this misunderstanding, but I was only trying to help you back there. I didn't mean anything bad. I guess I was just surprised to see you carrying all those vegetables." I tactfully left out the part about his wife's hair.

I felt the wind at my back.

I turned to my Bb Treble Kalimba, which I just HAPPENED to have in my shopping cart. I almost always go shopping with a kalimba. It is especially nice to play while waiting in line.

"Do you know this musical instrument?" He didn't. I played a phrase of the Mbira Cycle.

"Well, it was made in Africa." I showed him the back side: Made in South Africa. "These were first made over 1000 years ago - some unknown African genius invented it. And it is SO beautiful. I play this instrument every day, and every day I give thanks for the beauty and wonder that comes out of Africa."

He smiled. He SMILED!! I smiled too. He looked at me and then... he apologized. He reached out a hand and we shook.

The crowd around us dispersed in disappointment. This peaceful direction had nowhere near the entertainment potential as the possible fist fight. Then from a couple aisles away, his wife called impatiently, "Come ON Clifford, it's time to go!" Clifford headed down the aisle towards her voice.

I looked down gratefully at the kalimba in my hands. Oh, how lucky I was to have my kalimba with me! I proceeded to the check-out lines, trying to remember exactly what had happened. Could I have made a difference in Clifford's heart? Could I have given him something new - the idea that a white man could have such respect for African creativity? I don't know. It's just a stray minute in the supermarket.

But it was a good minute. I had understood something about this man. He had understood something about me. We had connected. I had succesfully carried myself in a non-violent manner. I had stood up - not to a hurting man, but to rage and misunderstanding and racial bias and hate - both what Clifford had felt towards me, and also the sea of racial bias and hate that Clifford had been sailing against his entire life. And I saw that Clifford was separate from that rage and hate. I am sure that sea of racial bias and hate is still there for Clifford to sail against, but I can say that this white man and that black man smiled together and shook hands in mutual appreciation and respect.

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