when: Erykah Badu entangled me
I grew up in Dallas, Tx. I went to a performing arts high school— Booker T. Washington High School. It was an epic place and was probably the happiest time in my life as a student. BTW laid serious framework for my future as an extroverted opera singer and all around people person. Everyday, I was surrounded by art. It was incredible. The high school was broken into 4 main clusters: Dance, Theater, Music, or Visual Art. We students were either dancers, actors, musicians, or a burgeoning Picasso or Kahlo. The only way to become a student was to have a successful audition, or, successfully audition but be wait listed, crossing fingers that the student body opened up.
High school was paradise, and I don’t exaggerate. Looking back, I am incredibly lucky that those years were so great. Lots of people have horror stories about that academic and social period of life and end up covered in pig’s blood on prom night— but not the BTW crowd. Besides, we didn’t have “prom,” or sports teams, or homecoming. In fact, I still don’t know what homecoming really is. Overall we were well-mannered, disciplined, racially mixed, and hardly a privileged bunch. BTW was a public school, supported by district and city funds. There was nothing private or high-brow about this magic society of teachers, students, and administrators. In fact, we were a pretty gritty and passionate bunch. Highlights include an intentional car fire set by a jealous ex girlfriend; a sudden locker raid exposing the sloppy Narcos network of our senior class; the wildly celebrated affair between a department head and the director of student conduct (umm, ironic); an office clerk, charged and prosecuted for lifting over $100K; and Officer Howard, the part-time parking lot guard who would let us get away with anything in exchange for either cigarettes or straight up cash. High school was par-a-dise.
Aside from the artsy bohemian class that was the school’s primary output, BTW has produced very heavy hitting alumni— 9 time Grammy singer/songstress Norah Jones; 2 time Grammy trumpeter Roy Hargrove; and of course the well-known, 4 time Grammy holder Erykah Badu. And one day the grapevine leaked that Badu was popping into her old stomping ground, just after my evening voice lesson. She needed to pay quick tribute to a few mentors, just after her dual 1998 wins; but understandably, she also needed to dodge an enthusiastic student body.
Some how I learned she was arriving at the front entrance. Duh. A side entry, or cafeteria delivery ramp just wasn’t fitting for such a celebratory homecoming. Security at the school was lacking. I’ve already mentioned car bombs, drug busts, and a part time officer who literally berated me once for not being high, so, close contact with Badu would not be difficult. I didn’t know exactly when she’d arrive but If I am either a famous performer or a happy mentor she’s coming to meet, I know that I want to likely get all this wrapped up before dinner time. I was right and luck was on my side.
It was the largest, sleekest Lexus SUV I had ever seen. I saw every detail of the vehicle from the surreptitious nook I found myself peering. Fully engaged, the break lights cast thick shadows and red highlights across the evening scene. I knew it was her. Strange, where was everyone else? No greeting committee, no escort? Nope— just me and Erykah Badu about fifty feet away. I supposed the school hadn’t changed much since she was there. She had a slight figure, petite, but with really impressive forearms and biceps. She climbed out of the passenger seat, made a few circular motions to whomever was driving and then looked in her purse. She looked so… ordinary, like the kind of chic that would knock on your door and ask if you need anything from the corner store because she was about to walk over. She closed the car door and started towards the entrance.
Shit! She started towards the entrance, and by association—towards me. I was so concerned with being at the right place at the right time, I hadn’t thought of the right thing to do, or say, or whatever… She was getting close, real close. In fact she scurried a bit and skipped a few steps. Before I could think, she mounted the landing to the main doors. I had to think fast. I headed for the entrance. As she reached for the handle I abruptly flung open the door pretending to be on a cell phone, pretending to talk to someone picking me up, pretending all the while that I didn’t recognize Erykah Badu standing right. in. front. of. me. An expert improvisationalist, I just kept yelling into my imaginary Samsung, “No. In front of the building,” all while making the same air circles I saw her perform a few moments earlier. I glanced. She gave a warm smile and shuffled across. Yet, in my boisterous coup, my casually flung Jansport strap loosely entangled itself around Eryka Badu’s forearm as she reached to prop the door open and let herself in. “Oh, I’m so sorry. Excuse me.” I muttered with an Academy Award-winning delivery. “Excuse me,” she countered and passed inside. The door shut, we both now on opposite sides. I stayed outside a few moments longer still playing up the entire no-my-ride-is-just-lost act. Coast clear, I returned back inside, completely unaware of where she had gone or what direction she had taken. There was still no one around, except me, my air phone, and somewhere reminiscing her own student days, Ms. Erykah Badu.
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[ photo, originally color: Ethan Haddox ]
