In 1981 I drove off a cliff. For the next several weeks I was in recovery in a hospital in Nashville, Tennessee. (Which I will not credit due to the treatment I received. Though I am grateful to be alive, it is not by the grace of any of these hospital employees, and if I were a vindictive soul, I would sue the hospital and the doctors and nurses who were not happy that a Black woman was in their midst, injured-angry-delirious from brain trauma and not easy to be kind to. But I digress . . .)
During that time I was lost and had no real concept of who I was until I was told I was a singer. Then when I heard myself sing – and I remember this moment – I was flooded with emotions and memories from my childhood that helped start the healing process in my brain. Even before I was born, I had listened in the womb to my mother’s beautiful voice and my family’s inimitable musical proclivity. It was my memory of being a musician and singer that propelled my recovery.
The effects of music on different regions of the brain was documented in a film I recently viewed with the students at the Global Jazz Institute sponsored by Berklee College and led/presented by Danilo Perez. The film featured Gabby Giffords, the U.S. Congresswoman shot in the head by that guy who was an angry cuss. (He won’t get his name in this article either.) In one segment of the film, a nurse tries to assist Gabby in saying the word “light,” but Gabby is unable to form the words in her throat. Then the nurse starts singing an old spiritual, “This Lil Light o’ Mine.” Gabby sings the song with the nurse with clarity of diction and no problem remembering how to form the words or sing the notes! I sat there in the mercifully lowered light of that room and wept, remembering how I got my life back singing simple songs that I had learned as a child and piecing my conscious mind back together. That film also added to the theory I have had all my life that the sound and the knowledge of it come first, then the method of expressing what that sound is.
I thank God in my recent years that I had no problem remembering those early days up to my adolescence. The smudge starts and my memories are obscured approximately one year before the accident. I’ve been sort of resigned to be grateful for the recollections I have been able to gather. To start to rebuild one’s life in the middle of it, having lived many years with countless little memories that comprise a life’s story, let’s just say, is not anything I would wish on my worst enemy.
Lately, I’m remembering “Super Fly,” “Where is the Love,” “In the Ghetto,” “In the Bottle,” “Across 110th St” . . . song after song of an era! One that I know I spent singing with great artists and shaped my dreams! I do not actually remember hearing them and embracing them in my mind and heart, but it’s strange how their effect is still evident on the soul even if not in the consciously stored memory. I guess that is what I call the evidence of tones in my heart and sounds in my spirit.