You know what’s sad, before I even read this article I was ready to refute this because I grew up believing Chuck Berry created Rock and roll. It’s said how so many knew of this great woman yet none spoke on her greatness.
I also discovered Big Mama Thornton, who’s another hugely influential early inventor of rock and roll — I’m pretty sure Hound Dog was originally popularized by her, before Elvis stole it.
“I was working as a prep cook at a BBQ joint in Harlem. I got off work early one day, and I discovered my wife with another man. That was the beginning of all this. I’d been with her for twenty-one years. I was devastated. I got right back on the bus and headed back to the city. I went straight to the bars on 42nd Street. I got wasted every day. I lost my wallet, my phone, my contacts. I didn’t want to do nothing. I just said ‘F it.’ I’ve been out on the streets for eight months. When it’s time to rest, I find a place to sleep. But I spend most of my time here on this block. These are the best people on this block. I’ve never experienced so many good people in my life. Some of them help me out every single day. They say: ‘What are you doing out here? We’ve never met anyone like you.’ Lily and her daughter brought the whole family to meet me on Thanksgiving. I felt like a celebrity. Then there’s Cheryl with the glasses who just walked by a couple minutes ago. Love her. John and his wife, love them too. David and Michael are the best. And what’s up to my man Sean from the beauty parlor. Shout out to T and Marianne. So many good friends on this block. But they aren’t going to see me much longer because I found a program that’s going to give me a place to stay, and a job cleaning the streets. I’m done with this life. I don’t belong here. And I know my grandkids miss Grandpa. So if you don’t see me here soon, you can say: ‘He’s done it! He’s gone!’ But I’m going to shock everybody. Cause I’m coming back with Christmas cards.”
(8/9) “There were twelve people in my family before the genocide. I’m the only one who survived. We recovered eight of the bodies. And we buried the bones we were able to find. I didn’t trust anyone after the genocide. Even when I was rescued by the Rwandan Patriotic Front, I wouldn’t take the food I was given. I thought it might be poisoned. So I’d eat raw food from the fields. I was losing so much weight but I didn’t care. People looked at me like I was a statue. They assumed my emotions were frozen. They knew my family was dead, and didn’t want to ask me questions. So I held it all in for decades. Who could I talk to anyway? In a nation of one million victims, how do I begin to tell my story? There’s been too much tragedy for everyone. Some people lost their arms and legs. Other people were raped and given HIV. What makes my story worth telling? Who am I? Why should I ask for sympathy? And who would I even ask? So I never asked anyone. I’ve never asked anyone for a thing. I don’t want anyone to take care of me. I don’t want people to celebrate my birthday. Or cook for me. Or tell me sweet words. I’m fine with giving love. But I can’t accept it. Because I don’t want anything that can ever be taken away.” (Butare, Rwanda)
“My father was a talented engineer. He could fix any type of truck, and he used his income to help the poor. Our neighbors’ school fees and hospital bills were always paid. My mother would bring needy people to our table, and order us to give them the best portions of meat. She’d explain that these people rarely had the chance to eat well. Both my parents were very religious. But they always taught us: ‘Humanity first. Everything else comes after.’ When the genocide began, they invited our Tutsi neighbors to hide in our house. There were seven of them. Some lived under the beds. Others lived in the cupboards. I was a teenager back then and my job was to change the waste buckets. It was a miserable existence, and it went on for months. But we prayed with them. We tried to give them hope. We told them that God was in control. At night we’d give them Muslim dress so they could go in the backyard and get fresh air. Our neighbors suspected us because our curtains were always closed. We never slept because we knew the penalty for hiding Tutsis was death. But all seven people in our house survived. Unfortunately my mother and father died a few years ago, so I must tell their story for them. Their names were Mukamunosi Adha and Gasano Juma. They saved seven lives. And they valued love and humanity more than anything.” (Kigali, Rwanda)
