The steady melody of the flute holds hands and dances with the consistent beat of the bassoon as they traverse across the canvas of several continent
Each note speaks for a different culture
A different people
A different tongue
The clarinet responds with its translation of the flutes call and is joined by the gentle laughter of the French horn
Each instrument’s voice rings true with a different accent
And each one’s chords are a self-contained symphony which speak of its own society
Its own civilization
Its own standards
When they come together they produce a synesthesia of language
Not a spoken language
But a language spoken through touch, taste, sight and scent
Music and language are separated by the chasm called silence
Silence is the absence of music while
language is the presence of silence stuffed between dischords and unharmonies which lay bare the divisions of the human tongue by illustrating the gaps in translation
These divisions
These calls for war
these marks of inequality
they mimic the high-pitched squeal of the piccolo as it announces its presence by its deafening cry
its cry is selfish
self-absorbed
unsymphonic
It distracts the flute and clarinet from their conversation and the French horn from his laughter
the only one who dares to interject is the bassoon whose commanding bellow stands in stark opposition to the piccolo
she decrescendos to a guilty whisper as the flute and clarinet pick up their discourse
they, too, are then engulfed by the bassoon’s loud roar which itself descends into a murmur
silence
The next piece begins with the mournful wailing of the bassoon
He cries out because his village has been plundered
He cries out because his people are being destroyed
He cries out for sympathy
For mercy
For help
The dainty and poised flute responds to his sorrow by grieving with him
She too repents in sackcloth and ashes as the ruins of his village lie before them
A passerby
One too preoccupied by his own worries
Interrupts this scene of mourning with a bright and cheerful song
Stunned, the bassoon and flute maintain their sorrow quietly while listening for the hope the clarinet proclaims
He sings of joy and peace and harmony
He sings of a future in which war no longer ravages humanity
As he spots the bereaved
he too is brought to a stunned quiet
The bassoon and clarinet face each other
Still
Solemn
Curious
As though he were waiting for this very moment
The French horn disrupts the stillness with a declaration
He too has eaten the manna, seen the signs, and believed
He too longs for a future without war
The flute turns to the crowd who at this point is confused
They don’t know that the village is Detroit
That the year is 1967
That the bassoon’s people are African Americans
A barren gasp fills the room
All stare
All are silent
In the last piece
The flute and bassoon have taken off their mourner’s garments
They have been replaced with shouts of joy
Free at last
Free at last
Thank God almighty
We are free at last
By now the white fingers of the flute are interlocked with the brown ones of the bassoon
She teaches him how to be melody
And he teaches her how to be background
the French horn teaches the crowd how to be minority
and the clarinet teaches them all how to be equal
his notes are neither high nor low
neither melody nor bass
but symphony
his notes are different on the outside
but each has the same crimson blood running through its veins
his notes sound different
but with one voice
civil rights they proclaim
his notes don’t agree with each other
but they have respect for one another
they don’t always get along
sometimes there is discord
but irrespective of who is wrong
they always end on this chord
silence.