"Porto gent dins meu". Això cantava el desaparegut Abbey Lincoln. Em prenc aquesta lletra com un mantra. "Porto gent dins meu." La Jomama Jones és una d'aquestes persones que tinc com a guia. És el meu alter ego. L'he encarnat en diferents actuacions des del 1995, i s'apareix quan té alguna idea important a oferir. En aquests moments de canvi radical, estic content de ser el seu missatger.
"I've got people in me." So sang the late Abbey Lincoln. I take that lyric as mantra. "I've got people in me." Jomama Jones is the person in me I turn to as a guide. She's my alter ego. I've been embodying her in performance since 1995, and she comes around when she has some insight to offer folks. At this time of radical change, I'm glad to be the vessel for her message to you.
Jomama Jones: I si us digués que tot anirà bé... però us digués que encara no? I si us digués que encara ens queden tràngols que van més enllà del que podríem esperar? I si us digués que caureu... avall, avall, avall? Però i si us digués que us sorprendreu de vosaltres mateixos? I si us digués que sereu prou valents? I si us digués... que no tots ho aconseguirem? Però i si us digués que això és com ha de ser? I si us digués que he vist el futur?
Jomama Jones: What if I told you it's going to be alright ... but what if I told you not yet? What if I told you there are trials ahead beyond your deepest fears? What if I told you will you fall ... down, down, down? But what if I told you you will surprise yourself? What if I told you will be brave enough? What if I told you we won't all make it through? But what if I told you that is as it must be? What if I told you I've seen the future?
Us agraden les meves mans? Són expressives, oi? Mireu-vos les mans... va. Hi ha tanta història gravada en el seu tacte i marques del futur dibuixades als palmells. De vegades, les mans premen fermament, de vegades deixen anar. I si us digués que tot se'ns n'anirà de les mans? Mmmm...
Do you like my hands? They're expressive, yeah? Now look at your hands -- now go on. There's so much history recorded through their touches and marks of the future sketched on their palms. Sometimes hands grip tight, sometimes hands let go. What if I told you it's all going to come undone? Hm.
Senyores i senyors i altres gèneres, sóc la Jomama Jones. Alguns m'anomenen una superestrella del soul sònic, i hi estic d'acord, però fins i tot en el meu passat això va arribar del futur.
Ladies and gentlemen and otherwise described, I am Jomama Jones. Some call me a soul sonic superstar, and I agree, though even in my past that was from the future.
Deixeu-me que us torni a la infantesa. Imagineu-vos: Era el Dia de la Sembra, que era un dia festiu que m'havia inventat per al grup de joves negres que havia fundat. Vaig córrer cap a casa per posar-me l'equip de jardineria, quan vaig agafar in fraganti el meu oncle Freeman. Estava dret al costat de la meva guardiola amb el martell alçat. Em volia robar les monedes.
Let me take you back to girlhood. Picture this: it was Planting Day, which was a holiday I invented for the Black youth community group I founded. I dashed home to put on my gardening ensemble when I caught my uncle Freeman red-handed. He was standing over my piggy bank with his hammer raised high. He was fixing to steal my coins.
I heu de saber que el meu oncle Freeman era un manetes. Sabia arreglar qualsevol cosa... una cadira trencada, un test esmicolat... fins i tot fer reviure les plantes de l'àvia. Tenia un toc màgic amb les coses trencades i amb la gent trencada. Se m'enportava amb ell i em deia "Vinga, Jo, mirem de fer alguna cosa perquè aquest sigui un món millor". Tenia les mans grosses i plenes de durícies, i sempre em recordaven arrels d'arbres arrencades.
And you see, my uncle Freeman was a handyman. He could fix anything -- a broken chair, a shattered pot -- even bring grandmother's plants back to life. He had that magic touch with broken things ... and broken people. He would take me with him on his jobs and say, "C'mon Jo, let's go do something to make this world a better place." His hands were wide and calloused, and they always reminded me of displaced tree roots.
Mentre treballàvem parlava amb la gent sobre el canvi que estava segur que era a la cantonada. El vaig veure reparar esperances que defallien i deixar la gent amb el cap ben dret. Les seves mans atreien la claror del sol.
As we worked he would talk with folks about the change he was sure was just around the corner. I saw him mend flagging hopes and leave folks with their heads held high. His hands stirred the sunshine.
I en aquell moment estava a punt de trencar la meva guardiola. Li vaig dir: "Aparta't i ensenya'm les mans". Era irònic perquè sempre em donava les monedes velles que trobava feinejant. Jo les posava a la guardiola amb els diners que guanyava fent petites feines.
And now he was about to break my piggy bank. I said "Step back, man, and show me your hands." You know the irony was he used to give me all the old coins he'd find under floorboards while working. And I put them in the piggy bank along with the money I earned through my childhood side hustles.
Però cap a la primavera del 1970, l'oncle Freeman havia perdut el seu toc... i també havia perdut la major part de feines. Veia als seus palmells un futur molt dur d'injustícies i retallades dels drets dels negres. La gota que feia vessar el got havia arribat l'hivern anterior quan van assassinar en Fred Hampton. Aclaparat per la por, la ràbia i el dolor, l'oncle Freeman estava disposat a jugar-se el futur. Va perdre el nord, i va començar a fer apostes.
But by the spring of 1970, Uncle Freeman had lost his touch ... along with most of his jobs. He saw a heavy future of civil wrongs and Black power outages in his palms. The last straw had come the previous winter when they had gunned down Fred Hampton. Overwhelmed with fear and rage and grief, Uncle Freeman tried to game his future. He gripped too tight, and he started playing the numbers.
"Nena, un d'aquests números traurà la grossa. Tens vint cèntims per l'oncle Freeman..." Potser teniu algun parent així. Però jo vaig saber immediatament que havia de fer alguna cosa. Vaig saltar, li vaig agafar el martell i vaig estavellar la guardiola. L'oncle Freeman plorava mentre jo anava recollint les monedes. "No comprarem cap bitllet de loteria, oncle Freeman, Vinga."
"Well, one of these numbers is gonna hit, little girl. You got a quarter for your uncle Free -- " Now some of y'all have that relative. But I knew right then and there I had to do something. I jumped up and I grabbed that hammer and I brought it crashing down on that pig. And Uncle Freeman started to weep as I gathered up all the coins. "We're not buying no lottery ticket, Uncle Freeman. C'mon."
Ens vam gastar fins a l'últim cèntim comprant llavors. I els nens del meu grup de jardineria? No es van ni immutar quan vaig fer agenollar l'oncle, posar les mans a la terra, i desfer-la per posar-hi les llavors. La meva amiga Taesha s'hi va apropar i li va donar uns copets a l'esquena tot dient, "Desfoga't, oncle Freeman, desfoga't".
We spent every last cent at the seed store. You know, the kids in my gardening group? They didn't bat an eye when I had Uncle Freeman get down and put his hands in the earth again and start breaking up that soil for our seeds. And my little friend Taesha even came over and started slapping him on the back saying, "Cry it out, Uncle Freeman. Cry it out."
"No ho puc arreglar", va somicar. És un tòpic de sempre, això. No era el primer a sentir-se així, i tampoc no seria el darrer. Ara mateix, tot sembla que estigui a punt d'ensorrar-se. I és així. Però aquest ensorrament pot arribar a ser una renovació, encara que sembli violent, incert, i aterrador. El que passa és que... no ho podem fer sols.
"I can't fix this," he sobbed. It's an ancient-future truism, that. He wasn't the first to feel that way, and he wouldn't be the last. Right now, it feels as though everything is breaking beyond repair. It is. But that breaking apart can be a breaking open, no matter how violent and uncertain and fearsome it seems. The thing is ... we can't do it alone.
L'oncle Freeman va plorar tant aquell dia mentre plantàvem les llavors, que ens va servir de sistema de rec. "Ja no sé ni qui sóc, nena!" em va dir al capvespre. "Això està bé, oncle Freeman. Això està bé. T'has renovat, i així és precisament com et necessitem."
Uncle Freeman cried so much that day as we planted our seeds, he was our very own irrigation system. "I don't know who I am anymore, little girl," he said to me at sundown. "Good, Uncle Freeman. Good. You're new again, and that's just how we need you."