School of Rock

Every so often I decide to bring my guitar from the village into town. If Im going to be there for a few days or if other people will be there ready to be impressed with my one-woman act.
This was one of those trips when I was hoping for both.
Sitting on the back of the truck packed full with bags of maize newly harvested and prepped for purchase, I avoided looking at the eyes staring back at me. The bumpy ride provides ample time for me to dull my senses in anticipation of the inevitable "Desperado" calls by the ever present rastas.
So on this day when I dismounted and hurried off to the house with one goal in mind (gotta pee, gotta go, gotta go right now now) I failed to slow or even really notice the man chasing me.
Actually if I didnt have to pee I dont know if I would have slowed, but I would have noticed.
Eventually like all persistent men he caught up to me and as he caught his breath I prepared to deliver a quick and stern reply to whatever impertinent question I was surely about to be asked.
Yes, its a guitar.
No, Im not selling.
No, I wont play for you.
Yes, women can jam.
But instead...
"Will you teach my children to play the guitar?"
jigga what?
It was either my gaping mouth or the twitch in my right eye that led him to explain. He grew up here in Southern Province, studied music in the cities of Ndola and Lusaka and has returned with his family. Although he does advocacy work for World Hope, every afternoon he gives music lessons to 20 children ages 7-15 from the community. Over the years he has collected guitars, a piano, clarinets, flutes, a trombone, trumpets, and recorders. But since he has such difficulty finding musicians he really only teaches the piano and recorders.
So "will you teach my children to play the guitar?"
The fact that I only pursued musicianship after knee surgery ended athletic ambition (but i still needed a skill to make people like me) did not run through my mind.
The fact that I taught myself to play the guitar from watching YouTube did not run through my mind.
Another absent fact was that I only know how to read music because in middle school we were forced to choose between art (my stick figures resemble my 3 yr old nephew's masterpieces), drama (you think im introverted now), choir (my ENTIRE family is tone deaf) and band (i chose the baritone saxophone so I could hit anyone with the big ass case if they looked at me funny).
What did run through my mind?
In my village I have seen only two crudely assembled "guitars" with 2 or 3 strings vigorously plucked by men ignorantly imitating a drunken Marachi band. Schools in the village (and most towns) dont teach music. Or art. No instruments. No materials. No teachers. There are no opportunities to pursue creativity. Which bothers me because what little of it I have, I treasure as unique, as evidence of individuality.
So this man and I spoke of the gift of music. The child labor here that steals learning opportunities out of the spongy minds of youth because the family often needs everyone working to acquire enough food to survive. The goal of these music lessons is to create concerts for the community: stripped of entertainment. To create cultural activities for the community: confined of creativity. To create opportunities for children to express individuality; to express the stories ingrained in their souls.
So "will you teach my children to play the guitar?"
Brother I learned to play so I could teach.
Enter my School of Rock.
Prince is a plump kid with toothy grin.
Day is a consistent strummer with large eyes.
Larry is a nervous pipsqueak adherent to detail.
And then there is the weird kid that has yet to touch the guitar because he cant break his trance of staring at me.
What can I say? It happens.
On the first day when I paused to clarify and asked "are you getting me?" And their affirmative answer reminded me that town kids speak English, I almost called a time out so we could hug it out. Do you know how its been since Ive been able to communicate well with kids?
All the girls play the piano.
And the young ones putter politely on the recorders.
But these are my rockers.
Even though I barely remember how I learned.
Even though I've never taught.
You can find me reading "Guitar for Dummies" remembering the basics. Remembering the first feeling of creating.
Enter my School of Rock.