Me and Na-Na are in the art room, we just smoked some Hawaiin, and He has put in some amazing music in the cassette player.

I pick up my pencil, no way I’m gonna mess this up with charcoal. Slowly, I take it to the wall, struggling to keep this snapshot, this essence, in my mind and transfer it to this wall before it fades away, like déjà vu.

Hesitantly, I start putting down the preliminary lines, trying to get the proper shapes, the perspective. I was never great at drawing bodies before, not of this magnitude, this size, anyway. No, I am a face man. It’s daunting. I’m shaky. You know when you instinctively know that you have this really phenomenally great idea, but it’s almost kind of too overwhelming? This is it.  Please God, don’t let me fuck this up!    

So, I’m sketching now, tentatively, delicately. So afraid to blow it, yet so much wanting to express it. I’m in and out of the flow, trying in vain to nail that curve of the shoulder, over and over, but no matter what - it’s just not coming. Now frustrated and feeling thwarted, I’ve been vaguely aware of the music in the background. Until this voice - this AMAZING voice - jolts me out of my self-consciousness, forcing me to put down my pencil. I don’t know if it’s being magnified by the Hawaiian, or what, but her voice just freakin’ BLOWS ME AWAY. It is so real. She practically moans through this whole song, no words, but she puts it over with such a sense of heartbreak, of such genuine conviction and realness – that words just could not portray it. Beautiful. Piercing through some hazy level of my unconscious, the recognition of its truth lodges in my throat, and it is choking me up. I don’t want Na-Na to see me getting all emotional, so I try to hide it, while rhythmically swaying back and forth to the music on the ladder.  

Finally, I can’t repress myself any longer; I have to know who this is!

“Na, man, who is this singing?”

“Etta James, my man, Etta James.”

At that moment, it flashes through me.  Another secret door to black culture has just been opened to me, and that in some way it would change me forever. This transcends just black music! It’s deeper than that. Whatever it is - this is what I want my mural to be about! I know it, without even being able to put it into words.

Infiltrated. Seduced. Inspired. Listening. Listening. Listening. Etta James, man. I’d Rather Go Blind, Almost Persuaded, All I Could Do Was Cry. The songs just go on and on.

 All of a sudden, it just clicks! I’m able to go beyond my perceived limitations, elevate my game – my pencil begins gliding over the wall. Smooth, tranquil. Focused. Catching me by surprise, the morning sun peeking in through the classroom window, snaps me out of this trance.  I look up at the clock - 6:35 in the morning! Six hours had passed! We quickly pack up and I scamper home before my parents awaken.