Elegy for Elijah McClain.
Illustration By Matty Miller
Oh Elijah! I’ve been waiting a while to write to you. I thought I could sit for a spell, in the quiet of my thoughts to have the chance to string along my stream of consciousness like pearls. The pressure fell upon me with the enormity of a cavernous well. I tricked myself. I convinced my heart to believe a lie, one that sounded like “If you just shovel deep enough, you’ll find them; you can trust your emotional numbness to do the labor of selecting each one, Danielle.” After all I wanted them, my words about you, Elijah, to glimmer and shine.
Photo: William Recinos
But they wouldn’t come to me, those words. Spirit withheld them from me, so I’ve been in a bad way. I feel vexed trying to find the words to write for you. I put off the posts that demanded justice for you, Elijah. I apologize. I thought peace could find me if I made sense of what happened to you. But then the vigils gave way to sound, heard by millions from Denver to NYC. Those pitches resonated like thunder in honor of you. I could hear strings vibrate from all around, their sounds reverberate the racism enacted on your body in hopes of freeing you from it. The symbolism is captured on film is quite powerful. We see the police storming the peaceful scene in Denver as the calls and cries of musicians and witnesses go ignored. Luckily there was peace in New York, or so I’m told. Press play and the videos of your vigils display a rich dissonance. You’d think it’d be enough to do better, to learn better. My tears fell hot on my cheeks when I watch those musicians play in remembrance of the violence that happened to you.
I break down under this weight of acknowledging the pain you endured, because it feels all too familiar to me. Perhaps this is due to my recollection of Black string musicians’ stories of enduring the complicated pain of racism, sexism, classism, ableism and homophobia. It reminds me of the subtle violences that stalk us in the halls, on the way to our lessons in the Conservatories, the Departments, and the Colleges of Music. It lives in the performative posts of our well meaning non-Black orchestra directors, our colleagues and our teachers, who vow to do better, to be finally be clued in to our struggles as people of culture. They pledge a musical inclusion by posting our faces along with these scripts, without our consent, as mere tokens of diversity cased in concert black attire. Additionally, that evil lurks in the street corners, the restuarants and the airports where artists play covers of radio hits for tips. But the hardest part is realizing not one of us knows when it will strike.
My thoughts rush to the Black musicians who play stringed instruments at all levels and us coming together from various entry points. We are all learning, working and producing melodious chords that vibrate from the ether of our ancestors’ souls. Just as you did. Some of us were deterred and put down our instruments, for a while at least. We were burned out by bearing the trauma of the white supremacist patriarchal capitalism inherent in Western classical, Jazz, and Pop music performance. So now, Elijah, you have reached the ancestral plane as they say. I can’t help but wonder: Do you sit with Draylen Mason, and the others who have unjustly gone before us? Do you [all] marvel at the horror of what our world has become?
Maybe I am “writing” out of turn. I apologize if I offend. To be clear I ask these questions in reverence and not out of disrespect. It’s just that my mind wanders back to the issues that plague our kind: Are there any Black women, non-binary, and femme string players who reside with you? We never hear their stories, but I feel a deep conviction in their existence. Will you [all] watch over us? Protect us. Is there better for us to behold, a heaven that exists beyond the racist and gendered microaggresions white women hurl at Black women bassists at their gigs. The ones who play commanding the spirit of Ron Carter on a particular tune while fielding questions like,“Do you know who Esperanza Spalding is? I felt you were channeling her tonight. Oooo not teally? How interesting. What about Mishelle N’degeocello? Certainly you should know about them as a Black woman musician.” Am I asking for too much, all too soon? I pray that you tell me.
Photo: Eva Mitalii
Photo: Moises Alex
I feel an urgency. It is as if time is running out. If 2020 has taught us anything it is that time moves quickly. So swiftly I write to you, it’s for Peyton, Ashleigh, Aaron, Shanice, Alex, Shamari, Amina and Allyson. I ask this hastily hoping for a better future for Harlem, Jess, Jordan, Sasha, Daniel and Aisha. I inquire for Tanai, Alex, Fahren, Kayla, Lauren, Promise, and Jasmine. And I don’t forget to include Jahna, Leah, Mollie and Khalid. I petition you, Elijah, on behalf of Brandee, Jarvis, Byron, Jess, Chelsey, Kelsey and Esperanza. Plus Melanie, Amadi and Aaron. I write with Matthew, Lisa, Aja and Birgitta in mind too. Yes, surely you can now see that these names are just but a few. So what say you?
