We left later church service – where this Hawaiian-born, Irvine-raised mulatto knew the more of the Negro spirituals being sung than his ATL-bred partner – for lunch with my Filipina ex-stepmother. She is the head of what I call my extended Southern California family; especially now that no close relatives of my nuclear family are on this coast.

At Full House Seafood in Chinatown, we celebrated the 71^st birthday of the 12^th of 13 children with at least four generations present. I get a little confused, but I know my four-year-old step-nephew is the uncle of the five-year-old son of my ex-stepmom’s niece’s daughter. The eldest present were the 6^th child of the 13 and her white ex-military husband. The youngest was the wisest-looking one-year-old I’ve ever seen who had clear designs on my woman.

My Italian/Filipino-American step nephew chased me around with poppers for a few minutes before we shopped in Chinatown for a bamboo steamer for my mother to take back to her small town in New Hampshire. Leaving Chinatown we saw the stirrings of a potential fight between a middle-aged Latino homeless-looking man and a young tattooed Aryan-looking man. After some face-on-face hateful speech, they both eventually walked away. I don’t advise getting into the face of an angry Aryan on a Sunday in Chinatown.

We drove back to our place on the busy road in a beautiful canyon for a short break.

A couple hours later we headed down to the Leimert Park area to Bryant Temple AME Church to hear the wonderful singer, Dwight Trible do a Martin Luther King celebration concert. We arrived late, so I listened behind the window while my girlfriend went to the restroom. From where I stood I could see my reflection in the pane and a woman who would not look away from me. I don’t know if she was mentally disturbed or just disturbed by me, but looking at her face and my pale reflection made me feel extremely white even as I listened to a dreadlocked woman quote and discuss my favorite speech – the “Mountain Top” speech.

We finally took our seats.

The crowd and the band were diverse, though I often find myself scanning for cultural tourists when I’m in a majority black setting, especially a church where so many members are dressed formally. I wonder if I am with my multi-culti hippie crew when I roll in and play music or support my friends onstage.

So to bring it back to the unsuspected start: this is the radical welcome and its partner, the radical seeker. As a biracial person in an era when claiming both is an option, you have no choice but to participate in a dynamic where your existence makes some uncomfortable. If you choose to claim your whole self and ancestry, you necessarily have to put yourself in positions where you will feel uncomfortable, perhaps a cultural tourist.

The woman may have stared at me, but the community embraced me at Bryant Temple AME.

I awkwardly sit in my extended Southern California family; I even remember horrible things being said in the home my father shared with my stepmother when they were together. But we continue to show up for each other, welcoming each other into our lives easing awkwardness with familiarity and love.

I know there’s a special excitement when I show up at All Saints because I’m young and darker than a lot of the congregation. But we’re getting to know each other better all the time.

My girlfriend and I were back home by eight. We had dinner with leftovers from the crazy chicken en Español. We watched a British sci-fi television series and danced around the living room to music from a melancholy Scottish band. I felt myself radically welcoming her.  It’s in relationships, political, community, and personal that we create community from chaos.

From “All/Us/We: a Tribute to Gil Scott-Heron” curated by Kevin Spicer at Highways Performance Space, Santa Monica.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=3neFn2kQPsc

Buddy was my friend.  My last words to him were “I love you.”  And his to me were “I love you, too.”

It was just a random meeting at Ralph’s market across the street from where I’m sitting right now, at the Farmers Market.  I was in the produce section, squeezing oranges and this handsome elder gentleman came over to me and said, I bet you’re a musician.  I was in my early 20s, with a little buzz around me, ready to take the rock ‘n’ roll world on, so I was a little used to this sort of thing happening.  But this man had spark in his eyes. We spoke for a few minutes.  I felt very encouraged by him.  It felt sweet to be recognized by an elder.  I imagined myself in his place someday, encouraging another kid.  I wanted to be part of the tradition.  I’d always felt such a gratitude when older black men, who’d had to struggle so much, stopped to give me encouragement — a post civil-rights kid, half white and quite privileged.  It made me feel a little guilty.  Yet it inspired me to be part of the tradition of giving back, of encouraging young people to be the best they could possibly be, and to affirm that you, as an elder, recognize the value in their expression.

After the man moved on, a younger white couple approached me and asked if I knew who he was.

“He said his name was Buddy,” I said.

“That’s Buddy Collette!  He’s a jazz legend!  You’re a very lucky guy.”

A few weeks later I was in the Bob’s Big Boy near my apartment on Wilshire Blvd, and there was Buddy at the counter.  We said hello again and a friendship was born.

We never got to play together, but over the years I’d go to see him play or tell stories of the old days on Central Avenue, stories of him and young Mingus breaking bottles and stuff to give to Simon Rodia for the Watts Towers that were being built, or how he convinced Charles to give up the cello for the bass, and join his band.  They’d jump on the red line and play in the train cars for fun.  I loved hearing how he got the unions together, first through jam sessions and musical exchanges with the white classical musicians of Local 47, then the true amalgamation of the Unions.  It’s amazing how different the world seems now.  It’s hard to imagine my friend, in my city, not being able to join a group with other musicians simply because of his skin color.  But that’s what Buddy and this community of artists had to deal with and, mischievously at times, navigate.

Then later, after his stroke, Buddy started to show up at my events a little more.  It thrilled me when he came to the opening of a film I scored, or when I’d hear him talk up my talents and versatility to other people.  When he came to see me at Kenny Burrell’s birthday performance at Royce Hall, he told me I had what Nat Cole had with my ability to sing.  I should take that to heart more than I have.

One of my favorite conversations with Buddy was at a memorial for a dear friend of ours, Geri Branton.  He told me that he was playing piano with his right hand.  He was so excited by the voicings he was discovering.  He had the passion of student just getting the concepts that would open the entire world to him.

That delight in discovery along with his deep memory was what made Buddy so special.  His stories and music were so good because he was always attentive and curious.  My sister and I took him to dinner one night at Versailles’ Cuban restaurant after seeing a play by Roger Smith about Watts.  Again, he had a pouring out of memories and a delight in going to theater and us hanging out together.  He just brought so much joy to my life!  And he reminded me that there were always new discoveries to be had in our city and in our lives.

I’m also remembering the time sitting with him and Brock Peters at Geri and Leo’s 50^th Anniversary party.  Seeing these two men meet for the first time showed me the humbleness and excitement the greats have.  They were passionate about each other’s talents and the growing each of them was still doing.

That spirit endures beyond the body, the spirit of affirmation, encouragement, aspiration and the desire to connect with other beings.  Buddy connected me to the past, present and a vision of a beautiful future of respect, love and possibilities.