A Greater Story Read online

  My mom had already filed for divorce from her husband, but after the physical abuse encountered the night before, divorce seemed like a weak and dangerous option. She was young and scared, and in those days, “the law” wasn’t exactly eager to rescue or protect endangered wives, especially poor, black ones. It seemed the safer solution would be to take matters into her own hands.

  Over the years as Mom told me this story, the details only increased. By the time I was fourteen, she explained to me that the real reason she’d gone to the laundromat was to have an alibi. “An alibi?” I asked, incredulous. “What for?”

  She said nothing in response, but the look in her eyes told me everything I needed to know. She felt justified for this plan, she explained to me, because the night before her trip to the laundromat, her husband had hit her in the head with a gun. Her options, as far as she could tell, were to kill or be killed.

  But then a man happened into the same laundromat, and Mom’s plan faded into thin air.

  Lamar Collier also had his relational hands full. He was watching not his first, but his second marriage fall apart, and he was at the laundromat for a more straightforward reason: to wash his clothes. Life had been hard for him after his days in the Army—marriage, the birth of two boys who struggled at every stage, divorce, another marriage, the adoption of a daughter, another divorce underway. He wasn’t sure what would relieve the pain he felt, but he was looking, searching, hoping for a way out.

  His relief showed up in my mom.

  The two had a rather friendly yet intriguing conversation. I’d be lying if I were to say that sparks didn’t begin to fly. Especially after they both realized they were in the middle of a divorce. The conversation was respectful and light. It certainly wasn’t enough to spark a relationship that day, but it was enough to distract my mom long enough from her troubles that she no longer felt compelled to carry out her violent plans. And to cause my dad to believe that a new day might, in fact, be dawning for him . . . that things could look up . . . that life could work.

  They were married within a year.

  My dad had grown up in Griffin, Georgia, the county seat of Spalding County, in the middle of nothing but plot after plot of farmland. There were more cows than people, and for most of the youth, the primary goal of life was just to get out. I’m not sure if Dad went to church much; he never really spoke about it. I assume he didn’t. But given the size of his family—his mom and dad had twelve children—this makes sense to me. Probably to you too: Would you want to be responsible for getting a dozen kids bathed, dressed, and out the door if you didn’t have to?

  My dad’s Aunt Mae was the midwife when he was born. She was the younger sister of my dad’s dad (George Collier), and she lived to be 103 years old. Daddy and Aunt Mae were thick as thieves, and she doted on him. As the youngest of a large family, half of his siblings were already married with families of their own during his childhood years. He was born after the fall of the stock market, and the Depression was easing off in the country, giving everyone a chance to catch their breath, but unemployment was lingering at 17 percent. My uncles and aunts describe my grandfather as a kind and gentle spirit who chose to discipline his kids with a serious talk rather than spanking. My dad lost his father when he was around five, which created a huge void in the Collier family.

  When my dad was in high school, the household consisted of him, Sara Collier (my dad’s mother), and two expectant sisters-in-law, Aunt Mamie and Aunt Lena. Back then, pregnant wives stayed with relatives to help take care of them while the husbands worked around the clock to prepare for the baby. My dad tells stories of how simple life was with only him and his mother. Every morning, he got enough water from the well, eggs from the chickens, and milk from the cows for the two of them. Once his sisters-in-law moved in, his workload doubled. After the birth of his nephew (Jeffery), my dad and his mom were the primary caregivers for a few years because the baby’s parents were working constantly to provide a comfortable life. The three amigos—Dad, his mother, and Jeffery—spent their days fishing in the Flint River, riding around town, and sometimes just looking up at the starry night.

  To say my dad loves his siblings would be an understatement. As the youngest, he was always ready to jump in and help out whenever needed. Running parallel was my dad’s faith in God’s protection. This faith was put to the test in August of 1992 when Hurricane Andrew hit Miami. Homestead in Dade County was the home of my three aunts (Aunt Hattie Mae, Aunt Louise, and Aunt Christine) and two uncles (Uncle Leon and Uncle Milton, aka Uncle Po Boy). Five of my dad’s siblings were in the direct path of that Category 5 hurricane. He and two of my uncles (Uncle John in Atlanta and Uncle Marvin in Los Angeles) wrestled with the urge to hit Miami like the cavalry and bring their family to higher ground. As the story goes, my dad and his two brothers had to sit by the phone, waiting to hear from their siblings. Looking back on that white-knuckled time, my dad bounced between bargaining with God to protect the family he loved in Miami and finally owning Psalm 46:10—“Be still, and know that I am God!”

  Sara and I, at four years old, were unaware of the anxiety my parents were experiencing, but we felt something was different. My parents tried to maintain an everything is fine attitude, but a low-level panic punctuated their movements.

  It was Monday night, which meant Monday night football so my dad’s “No talking during football” rule was in effect. That night, the TV was not blasting the game. It was quiet in the house, except for my parents on the phone, trying to contact our Miami family.

  The news reporters described a nuclear-disaster type of devastation in Florida. Hurricane Andrew stripped homes down to the concrete foundations with wind speeds as high as 165 miles per hour. Neighborhoods populated with community centers, churches, and department stores were flattened, resembling a barren desert. Busy phone circuits became unbearable for my parents as they watched photos of the wreckage on the news, looking hard to find our family standing behind a newscaster. Finally, a cousin was able to get through on the phone and report that all the Florida Colliers were safe physically, but their homes were destroyed. My dad traveled to Miami to help his siblings, and the reality of the destruction came when he could not find the street his sister lived on. He said nothing in the vicinity resembled a residential area—it looked more like a developing country. The rebuilding was slow, but the Collier family had to dig deep and bond together to support each other. According to the National Weather Service, Hurricane Andrew destroyed more than 63,500 houses, damaged more than 124,000 others, caused $27.3 billion in damage, and left 65 people dead.

  Mom’s family was a bit smaller than Dad’s. She is the oldest of two brothers and one sister, and she grew up in our nation’s capital, which was a hotbed of political activity. During Mom’s formative years, the murder of Emmett Till, a fourteen-year-old African-American who was lynched in Mississippi, was a defining moment for her. This act of violence sparked Mom’s activist spirit at an early age. The Civil Rights Act of 1957, Greensboro sit-ins, and the Montgomery bus boycott fueled by Rosa Parks forced Mom to take an active role in the fight for freedom and equity. However, against the backdrop of her social activism, music fed her soul on different levels. Acoustic musicians such as Simon and Garfunkel, Bob Dylan, Woody Guthrie, and Joan Baez singing protest songs birthed out of American folk music energized and exposed her to labor and global politics. Of course, the music of Motown, including the Supremes, the Miracles, the Temptations, the Four Tops, Martha and the Vandellas, and Marvin Gaye, spoke to Mom’s very life of heartache, joy, and teenage angst.

  Mom was only fourteen years old during the iconic March on Washington for Jobs and Freedom. This was the event that gave us Dr. King’s “I Have a Dream” speech.

  Mom made the bold decision to attend Howard University, a notable, historically black college. This is the university that educated Thurgood Marshall, first African-American United States Supreme Court Justice; Toni Morrison, Nobel Prize for Literature recipient; Richard Smallwood, Grammy Award–winning gospel singer; Roberta Flack, Grammy Award–winning singer; Ralph Bunche, Nobel Peace Prize recipient; and so many others. It seems that Howard University’s motto, “Truth and Service,” made an indelible mark on my mom. The ideology of “truth” gave birth to my mom’s quest for “truth of self” or her authentic self. Decades later, this quest led Mom (with Dad beside her) to the teachings of the Faith Healing Clinic in Washington, DC.

  When my parents met while living in Washington, DC, they were ready to embrace their greater story. By the time Dad was a grown man, what he had to show for himself was a rather cool demeanor and quiet confidence, two failed marriages, one son suffering with HIV/AIDS, another son stuck in prison for who knew how long, and a lonely yet warm heart. When one of Dad’s brothers, Uncle John, became a pastor, Dad’s interest was piqued. For the first time in his life, he started going to church near our home.

  For some people—maybe you as well—“surrendering to Jesus” is a slow and sporadic transition where they lean in one iteration at a time, with every iteration getting a little more rocky, emotional, intriguing, and scary. It’s not that they aren’t sincere in their decision to follow Jesus; it’s just that turning over control to an “invisible force” can freak a person out. My parents are the other kind of people, the kind who jump in with both feet while smiling. Like the first disciples Jesus called—Simon Peter, Andrew, James, and John, who upon encountering Jesus “immediately followed him” (Matt. 4:18–22), leaving behind their boats and their families alike—Mom and Dad knew a good thing when they saw it, and to them, Jesus was very good.

  In the African-American community, we may not all start out loving Jesus, but when it’s time to “come home” for one reason or another, we all seem to make
our way there. Usually through a series of events that often include hitting rock bottom because of our own decisions, we come home. While neither my mom nor my dad had any real use for Christianity before, they were fully devoted believers from that point onward. They talked the talk. They walked the walk. They encouraged and, many times, dragged Sara and me to our church in Georgia on Sundays. They were in this way of living. They were in it for good.

  Dad was eventually so transformed by the life-changing power of God that he became a preacher of God’s Word. Dad looked up to his brother John and had followed in his footsteps now twice: once when he took over the barbershop on Auburn that John used to run, and a second time as he took over Uncle John’s church. Practically, this meant that my family went from attending a kid-friendly, ten-thousand-member multicultural church to a small, backwoods community that boasted twenty people on Easter. In no time, we were running the place. We arrived early. We stayed late. Dad did his best to serve those twenty well.

  At that time I was already interested in music, and my father promised me that if I would agree to help out with the music on Sundays, he would buy me the Triton, which was a massive, full-size, weighted keyboard by Korg. If you were a serious producer, you had one. The Triton. It was the greatest of all production modules during that time, and even at age twelve, I knew I needed one. I wanted to be as strong a producer as Pharrell Williams and as distinctive a performer as Usher. Well, a Christian version of Usher. Dad knew that holding out the Triton like a carrot would lock me in musically with New Hope Baptist.

  Every Sunday morning I woke to the smell of Jimmy Dean sausage. I stumbled out of bed and wandered toward my seat at the kitchen table, where I inhaled a plate of eggs, bacon, sausage, and grits as the king of the black church, Bishop T. D. Jakes, wailed from the enormous old-school TV perched on the living room floor. After breakfast, Dad and I carried the weighty Triton through the house and down the porch toward the back of our beloved white Volvo station wagon. That car was a box on wheels, but it was our box.

  Only after strategically loading in the Triton were humans allowed to wedge themselves in too. Mom and Sara slipped into their assigned seats, being sure not to bonk their heads on the unforgiving corners of the keyboard, and off we’d go. I-20 East, exit University Avenue, two right-hand turns, and there we were in the hood, home to New Hope Baptist Church.

  I need to paint you a picture of the hood of the church. It was in an area of Atlanta known as Pittsburgh. Back in the day, the area was described as a working-class, black community with self-reliant and proud residents. Starting in the 1960s, the neighborhood began a slow decline as black families relocated to previously all-white areas. By the 80s, the slow decline accelerated into a rapid downward spiral as home values depreciated.

  Trust me, I’ve heard stories about New Hope’s celebrated years. My Uncle John organized the church months after Dr. King was assassinated. As a Civil Rights worker, he longed for a new brand of hope after riots threatened to tear this country apart. When climbing the steps up to the church became more challenging, Uncle John saw my dad as the next leader of his flock.

  When I started attending New Hope, the neighborhood was peppered with abandoned homes, vacant lots filled with broken cars, and small, high-priced convenience stores that replaced the larger chain grocery stores. I remember seeing lines of cars parked on the streets because none of the homes had driveways. This was a depressed area, but the few members of New Hope were determined to show men to God and God to men. Me? I just wanted to play the Triton.

  I quietly played the keys—“mood music”—as people arrived. I played as Dad put on his preaching robe. I played all throughout the service, rising in volume as Dad hit his three key points with passion—points that always emphasized faith. I played and played and played songs about Jesus, despite the R&B chords in my head. Bless New Hope’s heart for indulging my version of “Amazing Grace,” which sounded like a Stevie Wonder hip-hop remix. They were determined to support a young man’s attempt to “get” gospel someday.

  While I never did “get” gospel music, through my dad’s solid teaching, I got the message.

  Sitting there Sunday after Sunday, I couldn’t help but take in exhortations to be respectful, to keep my feet planted on the path of righteousness, and to practice things like patience and goodness and love. I remember my father bringing homeless people from Auburn Avenue home to cut the grass and earn some income, saying, “Get the man a glass of cool water, Sam.” I was confused at the time about why these homeless people were in our yard, but over time I saw that it was just kindness at work. He was treating them like he’d want to be treated. There was that Golden Rule at work.

  Dad preached what he lived: Be noble. Be truthful. Be kind. Be the best version of you that you can possibly be.

  Bring all of you to this great, big world.

  Even though I played the required church music, the gospel song that cut straight through to my soul and set my musical lexicon ablaze was “Brighter Day” by Kirk Franklin. If you have not heard that song, please put this book down, find the song, listen, then pick this book back up. The song opens with a wicked guitar intro—similar to a Funkadelic throwback—and then Kirk Franklin hits the mic, telling us to “come get your bounce on” while the horns pump out hard over the funky guitar intro! I still get charged thinking about it. That song opened my eyes to the wider world of gospel music, and I was hooked. My blood already pumped music 24/7, but this new urban gospel grabbed me and would not let go. And when I thought about how the word gospel means the Good News and how traditional gospel music evolved, I could not help but gravitate to its great story even more.

  Allow me to unpack my meaning. When I dove into the origins of gospel music during American slavery, I could feel the heartbeat melodies and low earth hums that wrapped around the sharp musical chords to give birth to the spirituals. Stepping further into this story, I listened to Harriet Tubman’s hidden messages cloaked in the spirituals—such as “Go Down, Moses” to signify that a “deliverer” was nearby—and I stood in amazement. Scanning this story even deeper, I came across Thomas Dorsey, the father of gospel music and my homeboy (he was from Villa Rica, Georgia). He stepped into his musical talent, first through down-home blues as a composer for blues megastars Ma Rainey and Bessie Smith. Understand, that was happening around the 1920s and 30s, and Mr. Dorsey walked away from secular music (a lucrative career) to gospel music. He married the blues styles and rhythms with religious lyrics, which electrified the listeners. Building onto the gospel music story, the gospel quartets started a new direction around the 40s. Groups such as the Dixie Hummingbirds, the Soul Stirrers, and the Five Blind Boys of Mississippi built on Mr. Dorsey’s work.

  Looking back over the gospel music story, with each decade building upon the narrative, I have to give thanks to the legacy that produced the thumping beat I was nodding my head and patting to—Mr. Franklin’s “Brighter Day.” At fourteen years old, my musically inclined friends and I found our sacred place in this music. Don’t get me wrong. We were still jamming to Usher’s “You Don’t Have to Call,” J.Lo’s “All I Have,” and Missy Elliot’s “Work It”—but “Brighter Day” spoke a musical language that I understood wholeheartedly.

  At New Hope, the congregation allowed my group and me to perform “Brighter Day” during the church service. We rehearsed the song countless times until we perfected it masterfully. I discovered how rehearsing prepared me to perform the song, but it did not prepare me for the audience’s response. I had anxiety wondering how my traditional church home would receive this urban gospel song. Their staples were songs like “Just a Closer Walk with Thee,” “Jacob’s Ladder,” and “Jesus Is All the World to Me.” Keep in mind, this was an older congregation who was raised with and loved the spirituals. Would they reject my view of gospel music? So many gospel singers were criticized for melding secular and sacred music; would that be my same fate? I had to shake off those negative thoughts and step up to the plate. I had to realize how fear was trying to stifle me and, instead, press forward. I had to realize that God was in charge and my intention was to spread the Good News through song.