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After black, they would confine me to my room. A tiny room with one window, where their words said minutes earlier would form long sentences and wrap around in a circle above my head like those music boxes loving mothers would clip to the sides of their infants cribs. I hated my room.
I hated the dark. They knew it, too, and took pleasure in locking me in. Locking me in where they could get me. Dear Reader: Please note, if you ever were a six year old child, remember what it was like to lay in bed and imagine that loud heartbeat pulsing thick from underneath your mattress. Remember that hand that hovered over your face once you closed your eyes.
Remember that loud breathing that resided around your open window.
The creatures. That white little girl that crawled towards you in the night, hair hanging around the neck, fingers outstretched To a child it is horrid. To an adult, it is a memory that most barely ever remember.
Twenty years later. I didnt understand love. I didnt understand human connection. I only understood the weather: constantly changing. I understood change. I didnt understand safety, or any emotion, be it love, or hate, that could be unconditional.
I was at my second year of college. I was striving to be a writer. I didnt trust the crowds. I would go to my apartment, sit at my small desk I had gotten at a garage sale, and stay there for hours with my books, my papers, and a bottle of brandy.
Then the day would end, and Id get ready for the next. I slept with the lights on. I didnt want many things, but every once in a while, I hate to admit, I would want to feel that popular emotion I had read about in so many books: love. I was scared to administer it myself. I was scared to feel for another person. So things happened.
On the walk to my apartment I saw a girl in a red sweater. I pardoned her and asked her if she knew were Rebecca street was. She looked at me in a funny way, paused, and turned her back to me. My hands ran to her shoulders, my lips to her neck.
Hard fingers, hard hands. I had been born of glass but now I only felt apathy. No regrets, but still, that hard human pain that is there when you know you have done a terrible trespass.
I went back to my apartment. I turned all the lights on and opened the window.
The night was calm and beautiful. The wind brought in glow flies by the dozen. In a big room there were about 20 fancy TV screens. It was dark in the room, with strange purple laser lighting. I think there was fog involved. What I remember clearly, though, is one of the videos Grayballz had chosen. I saw it without knowing the name of the band or anything about them, not what country they were from, nothing. The video showed a kid who looked either European or Southern Ohioan.
He was wearing a tracksuit and had a sort of severe thuggish haircut, bangs chopped straight across his forehead. And running. Just running down a road. At a certain point he stopped and performed a remarkable improvised-looking dance. But the music is the reason I remember. The music was pulsing and upbeat, possibly electronica or some kind of dance music, but soulful and kind of rocking. Falsetto notes skipped above an urgent melody line.
It sounded so personal. He was born in Liberia and has memories from there but moved to Edinburgh, Scotland, when he was 4. We were in the basement of the building a former brothel where Young Fathers record in Leith, which used to be a little town outside of Edinburgh but is now essentially a neighborhood, a minute bus ride from the city.
Two black guys from African immigrant families, a white guy from Scotland, all of them Scots: Young Fathers. By one account, they called themselves that because when they were very young — the three founding members got together when they were only about 14 — people told them they were too serious.
The name was meant to make fun of that quality in themselves while at the same time embracing and declaring it. More frequently they say it comes from the coincidence that they are named after their fathers.
Earlier that morning, G.
It was council-estates, working-class housing. He took me back to the bedroom where Young Fathers were born: inside a cabinet, or a sort of wardrobe thing. They would actually climb into it Narnia-style, to cut tracks, doing vocals over beats that G. They all danced in sync.
When they performed at hip-hop nights, people had no idea what they were doing. Yet strangely, given their youth, Young Fathers knew. I asked what it meant to them, being from Edinburgh. They said yes but in a no sort of way.
They explained that Edinburgh essentially has no popular-music scene. Then somebody complains about the noise, and they shut it down. That gave them a bubble to work in, to be themselves in, so they just kept doing that.
When I asked G. What was the white guy doing with those two black guys? Were they from Africa or something? What kind of music was it?