Mingling With Spirits

She paused. She peered at the audience over the podium at Columbia University’s Earl Hall Auditorium. The last speaker on the panel, Sonia Sanchez was taking her sweet time.

Her poem, a tribute to Malcolm X on the 40th anniversary of his assassination, was a listing of the most influential people of color that had ever lived.

Tupac Shakur, Ossie Davis, Malcolm X; their names were followed by a series of clicks and moans, Sonia’s way of calling to the spirits? At the time I thought I’d discovered the pattern. Today, I’m not quite sure if, in fact, I had.

She proceeded to talk about Brother Malcolm’s legacy, the state of African Americans today and gave us a glance at what we’ve become.

“Sucka,” she yelled. “Who cares about Sex and the City or Desperate House Wives?” Laughter erupted throughout the audience as we all nervously shifted in our seats, guilty of actually caring.

I thought I’d had my fix. Sonia Sanchez, two poems, one speech on a Monday night during Black History month. What else could I ask for? I was thanking God for this blessing.

But nothing could have prepared me four days later, as Sonia’s tiny hands grasped mine in the lobby of The Hotel Edison, less than an hour after the last taping of HBO’s Def Poetry.

She looked up at me and said, “Greetings.” I knew that my time was limited so I let the words spill from my mouth quickly. Ya’ll know how I do.

“I just want to say that I enjoyed your speech at Columbia University on Monday. You were very inspiring.”

“Thank you,” she responded.

“I want to also give you my mother’s blessings,” I added quickly. “She use to baby sit your children, when she was a graduate student at U. Mass at Amherst.”

There was a look of confusion on Sonia’s face, as she searched through her memory of world leaders, presidents and ex presidents, revolutionaries, dead and living to find the image of my mother, the young student who helped her prepare meals for Minister Farrakhan when he came to town.

“Oh,” she said, then heisted. “In Massachusetts? What was her name?”

“She was Margie X then,” I replied.

“Margie,” she repeated, her eyes widening, a smile spreading across her face.

“Well yes, Margie,” she said. “Oh that was so long ago. Yes, I remember,” she said loudly this time, studying my face for some resemblance of the Margie she use to know.

“Please give her my greetings. How is she now?”

As I gave Sonia the edited version of my mother life over the past thirty years, the events of my night seemed miniscule and unimportant.

Just six hours earlier, I was searching the third floor of The Hotel Edison, for my girl Novera, an HBO producer. She had arraigned for me to pick up an all access pass, allowing me to shadow Def Poet Amir Suliman. He’d invited me to observe his performance in preparation for an upcoming article I was writing.

Consumed with finding a signal on my cell phone, I hardly noticed when Mos Def stepped off the elevator with an entourage of producers. Our eyes met for a second and we simultaneously gave a respectful nod. I could have said a lot at that moment but I thought, God willing, this time will come again.

Later on that night, when he shook my hand, backstage and with a smile said As-salaam-alaikum, I realized that I was right.

After my chance encounter with Mos at the elevator, I found Novera who quickly provided me with my pass, escorted me to the VIP lounge and went searching frantically for Amir. A half hour later she returned with Amir at her side. We gave Salaams and then he was whisked away by producers, leaving me to watch the rehearsal for the 9pm taping; Sonia Sanchez, Sista Queen, and Common. A good way to start the night so far.

The crowds soon flooded the theatre and the show began with Kanye West; Louie Vuton set and all.

Very Kanye. Watch the show this season. I’ll say no more.

Two hours later, I found my self again in the VIP lounge with Amir and company, as the next show was about to begin. Mos Def was mingling in the lounge, while the theatre was being filled and at the entrance, on the right, was Russell Simmons in quite conversation, scanning the crowd.

And then Common walked in. He appeared to be floating through the tiny crowd like a God. My eyes followed him as did everyone else’s.

Again, I wanted to speak but I relied on my faith and thought, the right time has yet to come. And it did come, just before midnight, as I tried to catch a cab in the second big snow storm of the week. Standing outside of the hotel, on 47th St., I caught Common’s attention. He shook my hand, but moved quickly expecting the usual fan rhetoric, “I love your music,” or “Can I get an autograph?”

“I know the photographer who just shot your album cover,” I yelled over cab horns and vehicles trying maneuvering their way through wet snow.

“She said you were amazing to work with.”

He had already passed me and was looking over his shoulder smiling, when suddenly he slowed down.

“She’s great,” he said, as he finally came to a complete stop. “I loved working with her. She was really great. Amazing."

"Well, she spoke highly of you," I added.

He then completely turned around, as if remembering his manners, and walked towards me. He grabbed both of my hands and with a bow said, “Peace sister. Peace.”

I must say that not a heart felt greeting from Common, or an As-salaam-alaikum from Mos Def; a live poetry performance from Kanye, observing Russell perched on the throne of his empire, or simply eating free cheese and crackers in the VIP lounge, while chatting with a Howard University grad about our memories of D.C., compared to speaking with the woman herself, Sonia Sanchez.

In The Hotel Edison lobby, I noticed that the deep purple scarf draped over her salt and pepper locks, matched her purple top, worn at the podium on Monday. And as she grasped my hand I couldn’t help but notice how different she looked in person.

"She seems so much bigger on TV," I thought to my self.

But in actuality, she was no different.

Still blessed. Still Sonia. She hadn’t changed at all.

It was me. I’d finally grown up.

I was now old enough to mingle with spirits.