The Seventh Commandment

Everyone knows Rachmaninoff is my homeboy. I make the most ludicrous statements due to my deep infatuation with him: "Every heart has a language. Mine speaks Rachmaninoff." "Rachmaninoff made Chuck Norris cry." etc.

But, something happened today that challenged my blissful paradigm.

I was doing crossword #37 in Will Shortz's Greatest Hits (awesomeness in paper form) while listening to my classical station on Pandora, which has been tailored to churn out the best Late-Romantic Russian, German, and French music (awesomeness in audio form).

Then, Tchaikovsky's "Waltz of the Flowers" came on.

I should give you some back story before I continue. Growing up in the Caribbean, I was not familiar with the music of dead Russians at all. In fact, I only remember hearing classical music for the first time at age 7 or 8. Which is old in Mozart terms. I got to start piano lessons on my 7th birthday. After begging my parents for 2 years.

I remember distinctly the moment I fell in love with music, though. I was 8. My dad had ordered some Time Life product off the TV: "75 Best Loved Melodies" or something like that. The CD player was Mom and Dad's bedroom. Disc 1 was playing and I just happened to be there. Doing something that 8 year olds do. I forget.

Then, Tchaikovsky's "Waltz of the Flowers" came on.

I jumped up on the bed. I saw an orchestra on the floor. A long skinny white stick appeared in my hand and I was instantly clad in a tux with the flappy things in the back. I started conducting the invisible orchestra.

It was more like interpretive dance. I realized that I knew the piece completely. The CD had been played as I went to sleep every night, so it apparently entered my subconcious. I was cueing clarinets and horns. I was asking for more from the strings.

I was jumping up and down in a state of Pentecostal frenzy by the climax. Singing. Shouting. And with tears streaming down my face, I knocked out that ending. "Dah, dah, dah, dut, DAAAHHH, di DAH, DAH, DAH, DAH!"

I was so happy. I got scared when I felt my cheeks moist with tears, though.

So back to 2009. I bawl almost every time I hear Rachmaninoff's 2nd Symphony. I'm married to his music, but I had a little tryst with my first love a while ago...

I'm such an adulterer.

Rich in Heart and Full of Faith

Jamaica is magnificent. I find the quality of life here much better than life in America for some reason. It's not that Jamaica has fancier houses, faster cars, and bigger wallets. Quite the opposite, in fact. That last sentence was a huge understatement, too.

But, really, Jamaican life is richer. It's vibrant and alive.

Don't get me wrong. I like America. Most of the time. I like Americans. Most of the time. I guess...since I'm naturalized...I am American. But, really, I am Jamaican.

The government is suffering from years of past corruption and current confusion. The streets are riddled with potholes. Major cities are packed with homeless and peddlers and pickpockets. The morning news opens regularly with who got shot the night before. If you think you're suffering from a recession in America... hahaha. You're funny.

BUT, I'd choose to live here and raise my future family here than in America. Why?

I value humility of one's self and pride in one's country. And there's quite a lot of that here.

I value the privilege of growing up without extravagancies.

I value not taking things for granted.

I value culture, vibrant and flawed.

I value people, rich in heart and full of faith.

I value life, raw and uncut.

If a country's unofficial motto can be "No Worries," and that motto is visible on every face that line some of the congested, dirty streets in the middle of a worldwide recession, then there is obviously a lesson to be learned.

I choose Jamaica.