Winter in America

Over the weekend, Gil Scott Heron died.  I planned to publish a post on Sunday but I could not access my blog. While Gil Scott was the voice of a generation of black speaking out against racism in the late 1960s and early 1970s, my post will focus on a singular event.  It was February 15 1985 perhaps 1986, when I was living in Maryland.  My brother was visiting and saw that Gil Scott Heron was playing at Tacoma Station.  I was not familiar with his work but I agreed to go.  We set off for the concert, I had an address but no directions.  I knew D.C.  was laid out on a grid and was confident we could find it.  We drove around the nation's capitol witnessing the plight of the unemployed and homeless.  They were burning the wood at a construction site to keep warm. It was not an area that two white men would feel comfortable.  We found the address on the flier but there was no club there.  Finally after an hour, I went into to a convenience store to ask directions.  I left my brother to watch for the car.  Tacoma Station was in Maryland, not D.C. as the flier stated.

We entered the club and looked around.  We were the only white people in the place. Gil Scott did have a white guitarist. I admit to being a little nervous.  We were treated very well.  The people we spoke with were pleased that we had come to hear his music, that he reached a white audience.  I wonder what it would have been like if the roles were reversed and two black entered an all white club to listen to music.  I know that Gil Scott appreciated our presence.