Space Between the Stars (34 page)

We arrived at sound check on July 4, entering the familiar world of concerts. Izmajlovo Stadium was a football field surrounded by a track. The bleachers had
MIRA
(the Russian word for “peace”) spelled out in orange sheeting, and the backstage area was filled with the buzz of activity that precedes every concert. Carlos nearly ran to his guitar, so happy to be performing in Russia.

Army vehicles drove into the stadium and lined up behind the stage. I counted thirty-nine trucks as soldiers jumped out and ran to the front of the stage, to the bleachers, and around the perimeter of the stadium. The walkers gathered at the gates of the arena as though they had just arrived from Leningrad, and Bill signaled for the release of two hundred doves that soared into the sky above us. Bonnie, James, the Doobie Broth-
ers, and Santana Band members walked onto the stage carrying dozens of red and pink carnations and roses in their arms. Standing shoulder to shoulder, we heard the leader of the Soviet Peace Committee implore each of us to carry the message of peace to our cities and homes. In the audience, people clapped and raised their hands, gesturing the peace sign. James Taylor came on with his mellow sounds, and a Russian rock band, Au-tograf, performed after Bonnie Raitt. Santana finished the show, flashing musical rhythms of the world. At the finale, more than one hundred walkers, friends, and music lovers danced with the audience. Bill spun on the stage with his arms around a voluptuous folk dancer and stayed through the encore, a medley of “In the Midnight Hour,” “Johnny B Goode,” and “Give Peace a Chance.”

By the time we left the dressing rooms, the stadium floor was cleared except for twenty sweepers moving rubbish fiercely across to the track. It seemed like magic that thousands had stood as one and now were all gone. A smoky orange moon hung in a circle of clouds. We loaded onto the buses, the musicians riding their after-show high, trying to come down by talking. Lights in Moscow shone like Fourth of July sparklers, and dark trees swayed in the breeze.

In our bungalow, Carlos and I packed for our 5:30
A.M.
wake-up. I wrote in my journal about the stark, simple ways of this foreign culture and what I had learned about peace during my six-day sojourn. War's destruction is a possibility foremost in the minds of the Soviets, and as a result, the country has an active movement for peace. I realized that each day I take for granted the joy of living with birds that fly in a clear sky, with-
out nuclear reactors in my backyard or memories of the slow whistle and explosion of bombs in my town. I read a letter printed in a book by the Soviet Peace Fund:

After our travel to the Soviet Union, the length of a day and the darkness of night caused me to assess if I was living consciously. Was I appreciating the opportunities in my life? The precious existence of my own family—tender and young, healthy and blessed—brought prayers of gratitude to my lips.
Feeling the clasp of Salvador's hand or hearing Stella's gleeful giggle made me catch my breath. Faces of strangers on city streets, lonely and hungry, clutched my heart. Tenderness for all people was born from my realization that we are all one. I did not understand how people could hate others merely because they lived in a different country, and I believed governments committed a travesty by making enemies of whole populations who had never met as individuals, never had an opportunity to connect. On any level, we can address the division and separation of nations, if only by illumining ourselves. The circumstances I sought to change were symptoms of my soul's longing to find peace and be safe and whole in the world. To this end, I invited friends—Holly, Lynn, Liz, Stefani, Chris, Ayn, and Hilly—to meet once a month to explore our global divinity through meditation, art, cultural exchange, and talking. Each one of us came from a different religious background, and we shared personal traditions when we met. Stefani set out pillows and we drummed; Holly gave us watercolor pens and assigned us to draw a prayer wheel for our lives; Chris gave us guidance to write a letter expressing regrets, grief, and love, ending with imagined forgiveness from the person we held in our minds. Every meeting became a healing, an expansion of our hearts and spirits.

My soul is a world soul. Would I have been different had I not been born biracial and multiethnic? The blend of my lineage certainly afforded me opportunities that a person of one heritage does not have—openness to more than one country and history, relatives with different life experiences who shared sim-
ilar chromosomes, and attended separate churches, one whose congregation shouts “Hallelujah” by the prompting of the Holy Spirit, and another whose congregation prays silently and whispers “Amen.” It is much more than DNA that allows one to embrace difference; it is an alignment with the universe of consciousness and a desire to accept all human beings as smaller images of an omniscient Divine Presence (anthropomorphic God). To identify with the outer characteristics of humans as who they are is too limited for me, yet every day I am aware that my skin is brown. It is indeed a paradox to have this awareness, yet seek to transcend the borders of outer identification.

Four months pregnant with our third child, I went with the children, Mom, Dad, and Kitsaun to Italy and England, where the band was touring. We taxied to Regents Park at the London Zoo, which had a two-year-old gorilla born the same day as Stella. Salvador slinked along next to his favorites, the wolves. In Rome, the children swam in the Cavalieri Hilton pool. We traveled by train from Modena to Florence, where we saw the magnificent Duomo. We toured the Accademia (the Academy Gallery) and, staring up at Michelangelo's anatomically perfect marble statue
David
, Salvador stood with hands clasped behind his back and mouth wide open. We shuffled through the museum with hundreds of others, sharing European history and soaking up art and culture. I will always remember that trip because it was the last time we traveled as a complete, physically healthy family.
One Sunday morning in November, Mom called our house. “Something is wrong with your dad's arm. He says it's tingling.”

“Did you call the doctor?”

“I called Kit. She said to call 911.”

My heart was fluttering, and I cradled my large stomach in my left arm. “Call 911, Mom. I'll be right over.” We lived only ten minutes from Mom and Dad. I went upstairs and told Carlos.

“I'll go. You stay here with the kids,” he said.

I was so nervous that I thought I would deliver right then. In October, the Loma Prieta earthquake had rocked through San Francisco Bay, shaking our house and most of Northern California. I had been sure at that time that I would have the baby in the devastating excitement. But
something wrong with Dad?—
I sat down and prayed, waiting for Carlos to call me.

When the phone rang, I jumped. On the other end of the line, Carlos said, “The paramedics are here. They're giving Dad oxygen and taking him to the hospital. Don't worry, I'm going with Mom.”

I called our sitter to come stay with the children, and drove to Marin General Hospital. Dad's mud-colored right hand lay limp on the sheet alongside his body, covered by a thin hospital blanket. The knuckle of the index finger lay swollen, making his hand seem five times larger than his wrist. It looked twisted, gnarled, and unusable there on the bed. His eyes were closed.

“He's had a stroke,” Mom said, her eyes cloudy. Dad looked up at me and smiled weakly. His eyes darted from the doctors to us. For the first time in my life, Dad looked confused. I leaned my head close to his square face and kissed his charcoal
skin. The words that passed through his pink lips were unintelligible, and my throat closed up.

I looked up as Kitsaun came through the door, her face bunched into a worried cry. She wiped her eyes. “The nurses keep saying they can't believe Dad's eighty.”

His skin was smooth, and his eyes so bright. “He thought Roosevelt was president when the paramedics asked him,” Mom said.

She stood unfaltering through the first few days of Dad's medical tests and physical therapy, but when Dad was moved into a nursing home to regain his strength and mental capacity, her heart began to break. Mom had always been able to look at the positive side of situations and pray her way through every dilemma. She dug into her inner resolve and declared that Dad was going to be fine and that she could take care of him until he would be his old self.

A month later, on a sunny afternoon, our second daughter was born. We named her Angelica Faith, her middle name chosen for the quality I cherished most in the world and what I believed she would stand for: faith in God, the good of humankind, faith in herself.

After one night, she and I came home from the hospital because the showers were not hot enough and I wanted to be with my family. A wise soul looked out at us from Angelica's brown eyes. She brought joy and peace and lifted us above the worry about Dad. As I took care of three children, I also looked in on Mom and Dad, trying to be a bridge to the care Dad needed with physical therapy and outpatient services, now that he was
back home. We treasured our history more than ever, since we had almost lost our fortress. I asked Dad about his early years playing music in San Francisco at the Savoy and the Blackhawk. Mom reminded him he had been rejected by the armed services in World War II because his answers to the questions about war had been contrary to that of a model American citizen's. Dad's face broke into a mischievous smile. “I picked up my shoes and was glad to go,” he said in a halting voice. For a black man who was persecuted in daily American life, it must have been ludicrous to be asked to kill for a country that did not treat him as a citizen.

The bleeding in Dad's brain from the stroke had erased some of his memories. The stroke made his right foot drag, and he often tripped because his brain could not signal him to raise his toes just an eighth of an inch higher. But it had not taken his charm or clever wit away.

I have a photograph of Dad holding Angelica in his arms two weeks after she was born. Jelli is wrapped in her soft, white blanket, her face pink; seven-year-old Salvador leans against Grampy's chair; and Stella, five, her hair flying above her head, smiles at the camera. Dad's tweed beret is on his head, and Mom stands beside him, her hand on his shoulder. A beautiful family: a joyous gift.

We spent time sitting together near Dad, telling stories. Mom said that when she was five and her sisters Aggie and Ginger nine and eleven, they would take her to Saturday matinees. Their family was poor, and the girls were afraid to ask for the nickel or dime it cost to get into the movie. Mom would open the
family Bible and if she found a scripture that said, “And it came to pass,” she knew her dad would give them the money to go.

Dad regained much of his physical and mental capacity, and we resumed our lives. But there is no way to safeguard against the vagaries of life. Another major transition occurred in 1991, when Bill Graham's helicopter crashed returning from the Concord Pavilion. Killer, Santana's road manager throughout the 1970s was the pilot, and Melissa Gold, Bill's companion and a vibrant teacher I had become friends with, was in the helicopter with them. The news shocked Carlos and me, ripping away the lining of our musical world. Bill had been a brother and father to Carlos and a friend to me. He had been by our side at every turning point in our eighteen-year marriage, supportive and passionately close. We were in the midst of planning a concert on Native American land to raise funds for education. I did not know how we would accomplish the project without him. Oren Lyons, chief of the Onondaga Nation in New York, came to speak at the memorial service held in Golden Gate Park. He stood in front of 300,000 people in the polo fields listening to Santana play with Bobby McFerrin and other artists whose lives had been intertwined with Bill's. Oren spoke of Bill's power to create great events in life, his philanthropy through benefit concerts, and Oren said that Bill had made a choice that rainy night of the crash. Against all advice. Beyond all reason. Maybe above his conscious will.

In front of the stage, photos of Bill, Killer, and Melissa rested on a shrine; candles, and thousands of flowers.
Could I really believe it had been their time to depart this earth? That they had chosen to go together?
Bill had taught us to put life on the line
every day—with courage and daring. Whatever the greater plan, we had to carry the dreams of our friends and move forward with our own. On every correspondence, Bill signed, “Cheers, Bill.” I raised my eyes to the sky and sent my cheers to Bill on his way to rest.