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Sweltering… scorching… searing?…they were all words that could best describe the time. The year was 1968 and the resilient tensions between the races seemed out of place, as the crisp December wafts of air would blow through the city of Brotherly Love. Though surrounded by racial chaos, tonight Penn Square’s majestic presence felt tranquil amongst the wolves of bigotry. It was the stress and heaviness that led me here this night. I had to escape the weight that seemed to heave daggers at my back. I believed that this exact moment would be perfect for my search. A search for the innocence and inspiration that seemed lost with the times.
As I approached the secluded, almost peculiar placement of a park bench, I couldn’t help the feeling of optimism as it slowly began to pour over me like honey. I reached my temporary resting place with cautious steps, as I surveyed my surroundings looking for restlessness amongst the moonlit greenery. Relieving the weight off of my weary feet, I reached into my tattered satchel and retrieved my weapon of choice. Has it really been 35 years since my ole’ grand pappy left me his old brass sax in hopes of carrying on the Hytower tradition. A tradition my absent father ignored and forgot as bottle after bottle of liquid torment snaked down his throat and clouded his vision. Becoming repulsed by the memory of my fathers drunken stupors, I licked my lips as if to wipe away the nauseating thought and readied myself for renewal and the rekindling of my love lost.
“Bwwwoooo-eeep..bwwooouuu-eep..baadda boooooo…. “, the tarnished gold goddess resting between my calloused fingers sang into the hollow night. Her screams of love and lust for her lover, cut through the thick night air, exposing her vulnerability to all of Philadelphia. My foot began to slowly merge and join in unison with the wails of the saxophone. The unity of rhythm, potentially a perfect role model for the crisis affecting the nation, became hypnotic and soothing. “Tat-ttiity, Tat-titty, tat tat tat…Tat-ttiity, Tat-titty, tat tat tat”, my right foot drummed along. The golden goddess responded in kind to my comforting, yet impromptu beat with her own challenge. “Baa-da-doo doooooo…DE DE Daaaaaa!” she retorted. Any unsuspecting visitors would have been able to visualize two passionate lovers embracing after a heated argument. The presence of this unwanted guest would have gone unnoticed and ignored as the ole’ jazz player from Coffeeville, Alabama continued to discover new and old crevices of his love returned.
Mr. Coltrane would have been proud, staring down from saxophonist heaven among the stars. The passion and zeal exuding from that bench was reminiscent and as hypnotic as the chanting in Coltrane’s “A Love Supreme”. It could have easily reminded one, of the commanding voice of Sir Fredrick Douglass, as he caressed the masses like mist in the air. Reminiscent of lyrics sung from the Negro national anthem, giving one hope through adversity. “Yes Sir”, I said, with satisfaction as I slowly removed my love from my lips, as her last cry sailed into the night. I thought to myself with great hope, as it sailed away, that it may reach another frustrated and lost man. A man who has encountered great pain with the recent events gripping the nation. A man who almost forgot what love felt and sounded like. But I hope and pray that, like tonight, those lonesome souls will be able to find their LOVE lost…and embrace it.
If somebody told me I had only one hour to live, I’d spend it choking a white man. I’d do it nice and slow." -Miles Davis
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