The Name Game
Mykala Patel
The sun burns hot on our backs, sweat dripping into our eyes like warm sum - mer rain. Dust coats our hands as we dig deep in the earth for growing notes of music, their thorns digging into our flesh. The cuts on our hands are deep, so deep, that if we look hard enough, we can see the faint white of our bones. Like flower petals peeled back just far enough to see the white. We are numb to the pain, our aches have become part of us, we feel when we ache.
We work harder when the white suits pass by, turning our gazes to the earth where notes hide from us. The steel shackles around my wrists are heavy, steel mixes with gold. Our steel bands are steadfast, forever, while their gold breaks away after three years. That’s our deal. The suits, however, do not care what color your band is, as long as your notes are beautiful. It’s what happens when you can’t dig enough that scares us. When we are weak or can’t find notes, they kill us. We have seen the blood of our own spilled across the grass, and we have ignored their cries like the cowards we have become. We have forgotten our names, our life sentence to slavery doesn’t merit a proper name. But we have nicknames, names that define the notes we provide. The others started calling me “Blue” a long time ago, and my notes are beautiful. My notes are distinct, somber, and melodic. This range of twelve bars with chord progres - sion, walking bass, dissonant harmonies, syncopation, melisma and flattened blue notes. Our nicknames are the music we provide to the world; yes they repeat, but so do songs. This is our burden. We can never be free. The man who digs about five feet away from me is an old, gold-banded called “Classic.” He has about 2 weeks left on his chains, we can tell because they have been
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