The Judge

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4FBOhws4BJQ

Last week, while the kids sipped their tea and me, my coffee, I asked a simple favor: Play me your favorite song?
Markolee shared first then the girls followed, and one after the other I got a glimpse into their hearts – music has a way of doing just that. I swayed to a Christmas song from Pentatonix in August, nodded my head to a rap song from NF, and did a full-body dance to a reggae song from Chronixx. With our bodies loosened, and the fields of our minds light from music, Zuri offered to share another song.

The judges from the show, The Voice, entered our living room via the computer screen, and the voice of a powerful singer surged through the air and penetrated my core.
The voice had no face yet, but the vibrations lifted words out from the valley of my body and carried them over the mountains of my mind. I listened – my ears searching for that which I can not explain, but feel.
One judge felt IT before the others and he slammed his buzzer. His chair lit up with red lights and spun him around to see the person with the VOICE.
His face gasped. I, in utter shock, echoed his face with a sound.

The judge (pun intended) and I had assumptions about who this person, with soul-stirring voice, was supposed to be. Who I thought was a middle-aged black woman, was a young white male. I cried. Tears slid down my face silently at first, then sounds escaped my mouth. I ugly cried. It was as though the socially constructed box I had placed the voice had shattered inside of me. It ached to recognize my biases and blindspot. It grieved me to know that as I judge, I am being judged – and the cycle of not seeing each other’s humanity first continues.

I cried because of the pain, but I also cry because of the beauty of his voice. I often find my self astounded and giddy with JOY when I meet people and find out their hidden talents/gifts. Some people think they don’t have a gift, but they warm you up with a conversation at a party of strangers. Others bake a pie that makes you cry ( This happened to me before). Then there are the gifts we know well. The gift of filling a blank canvas with shapes and colors, to mold clay into pottery, to add sound and melody to songs and soul to words. Our voices differ, but they are all a welcomed mystery.