[Jonathan Fagan]: 看看他们昨晚为我们的学生之夜做了什么。 看起来不可思议。 我的父亲，阿维·费根。 我开玩笑说他为此复出，所以我们真的很感激。 感谢我们的志愿者和工作人员 Reese 和 Eli。 他们已经在卖一些书了。
[SPEAKER_00]: 当然还有我的搭档 Shayla，没有她我就无法完成这一切。
[Jonathan Fagan]: 加勒尔坐在楼梯上帮忙调节声音，就在这里。 当然，还有特里·卡特，他才是这一切发生在西梅德福社区中心的真正原因。 他是社区中的常客，是一位令人难以置信的诗人。 一切都好。 哦，我还忘记了谁？ 吉姆和布鲁斯整个周末还帮忙做一些摄影工作。 因此，即使有这么多人，仍然需要大量不同的财务贡献才能实现这一切。 如果你看一下我们的横幅，我们应该有大部分赞助商。 梅德福社区媒体，当然还有西梅德福社区中心、梅德福艺术委员会和大众文化委员会，以及艺术活力梅德福基金会。 这也是我们与食品供应商合作的第一年。
[SPEAKER_00]: 里面的丹麦糕点屋。
[Jonathan Fagan]: 他们创造了令人难以置信的布局，完全超出了所有人的预期。 在旋律之间，在乐队之间，去看看他们。 还有内部浴室供需要使用的人使用。 是的，还有 Triangle Manor（一家当地 T 恤公司，为每个人制作精美的 T 恤）和 EXP Realty。 还有一些个人赞助商，包括注册了我们 Patreon 页面的人。 这是按月订阅的，对于全年的即兴演奏和其他演出来说，它真的很重要。 到处都有二维码，供那些有灵感捐款的人使用，无论是我们的 Venmo（刚刚抵达梅德福爵士音乐节），还是特定的 Patreon 页面，该页面都给予了大力支持。 好吧，我想就这些了。 我总觉得我忘记了一个这样的人，但是，是的，稍后回来，特里卡特会告诉你一些关于第一组和空间的信息。
[Terry Carter]: 很好，谢谢，谢谢。 乔纳森·费根 (Jonathan Fagan) 是梅德福爵士音乐节的组织者和创始人，也是音乐各个领域令人难以置信的作曲家和钢琴家，因此您很快就会收到他的消息。 这是西梅德福社区中心。 我们进入市场已经 90 年了。 我们是 梅德福历史悠久的非裔美国人社区，您知道，我们就在神秘河旁边。 我们在这条河和三条街上有着悠久的历史，所有这些事情你稍后都会听到。 但我们希望直奔主题，并确保不占用我们的时间。 我们第二天的第一幕。 对于昨晚和我们在一起的所有人来说，我们与昨晚演奏的两个乐队一起度过了一段美好的时光，其中包括来自晨兴音乐学校的晨兴爵士全明星队，他们非常棒。 然后与 Anita Wood 和她的团队、AJ 和团队一起，我的意思是，我们玩得很开心。 他们让我在晚上结束前跳舞，所以没关系。 所以谢谢你。 黛比昨晚与晨兴爵士全明星一起演唱，非常棒。 周六我们的第一幕表演是桑巴朗诵，取自雅各布·德·班多利姆 (Jacob de Bandolim) 的同名合唱团。 它在葡萄牙语中的意思是，我刚刚发现，你知道，从源头来看， Recipe from Samba，这是一个以一个团体命名的应用程序，其目标是以最纯粹的形式展示巴西音乐的不同风味，没有人工添加剂，我喜欢这一点，比如电子鼓或电子样本。 厨师、他们的厨房、丈夫和妻子安娜·博尔赫斯和比尔·沃德，以及他们利用波士顿充满活力的巴西音乐场景，只烹饪最好的菜品，
[Unidentified]: 只有最好的。
[Terry Carter]: 最好的巴萨诺瓦和桑巴舞，以及当地特色菜，如福特、伊赫查和可可。
[Clayton]: 我希望我做得很好。
[Terry Carter]: 我的巴西人不是，你知道吗？ 安娜·博尔赫斯出生于伯南布哥州累西腓，在巴西利亚开始了她的职业生涯，在当地的俱乐部和剧院唱歌。
[Unidentified]: 随着时间的推移，他学会了弹吉他，并进入巴西利亚的一所音乐学校学习歌唱。 Jane DuBose Shinseng 在合唱团中学习古典和流行技巧。
[Terry Carter]: 在与巴西吉他手阿尔乔森·阿尔坎塔拉 (Aljoson Alcántara) 密切合作多年后，他搬到了波士顿，并在那里开始了与他的音乐合作 比尔·沃德，比尔·沃德，比尔·沃德。 他是一位钢琴家、吉他手和歌手，深入探索了不同的音乐宇宙。 我喜欢那个。 这是诗意的。 他最初是一名爵士钢琴家，高中时接受了悲观的调查，后来在奥柏林音乐学院跟随丹·沃尔和萨姆·德·马戈利斯学习。 13 岁时，他与乔治·贝尔托 (Giorgio Berto) 录制了第一张唱片，但直到大学时期才分手。 越来越深，这是真正的诗意，在巴西音乐的漩涡中。 最近，他沉浸在古典钢琴的世界中，在波士顿大学获得了钢琴演奏硕士学位，师从戈雅·卡隆（Goya Charon）和吉尔达·戈尔茨坦（Gilda Goldstein）。 女士们先生们，闲话少说，桑巴朗诵。
[Clayton]: 我到达了我的阿姨，我到达了我的阿姨，我一无所获已经很晚了，我迷失了很多很多的爱黎明时分已经很晚了，我迷失了我只是在跳舞 城市，请原谅我。 我不知道你懂得如此美好的生活。 城市，请原谅我。 我以为我要离开，我以为我要死了。 城市，请原谅我。 外国人 原谅我，但我不知道你知道没有我生活如此美好。 我们爱你！ 祝你好运！
[SPEAKER_02]: 非常感谢。 第一首歌是卡洛斯·维拉（Carlos Vira）创作的，你知道，他是巴萨诺瓦之神之一。 所以，如果为时已晚，请原谅我。 这就是标题。 我会尝试翻译一下。
[Clayton]: 我不太擅长，但我想你会对我唱的内容有所了解。
[SPEAKER_02]: 所以下一首作品就像是爵士乐的影响。 然后是爵士乐的影响。 所以我也读过这首歌，就像爵士乐的影响和独奏者一样。 所以就像当你谈论独奏时有这个，但爵士乐有那个。 你知道，你会看到事情进展如何。
[Clayton]: 外国人 外国人 走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走快走走吧， 走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走
[Unidentified]: 一一
[Clayton]: 外国人 外国人 走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走快走走吧， 走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走走 谢谢。 我认为下一件作品，你可能知道，是一波浪潮。 但我认为这只是您可以采取的一项行动。 当你恋爱的时候，一个人是不可能幸福的。 我无法习惯，因为我不知道该怎么说。 这些都是来来去去的小事。 祝福，冥想，独自快乐是不可能的。 这是一座城市。 这是一座城市。 这是一座城市。 这是一座城市。 只能看到的东西是看不到的。 我要回海滩了。 独自一人在这里是不可能的。 我不知道如何使用的是我不需要的平安之物。 绿色和蓝色，绿色和蓝色。 独自一人在这里是不可能的。
[Unidentified]: 我不知道歌词。 音乐 。
[Clayton]: 和 谢谢。
[SPEAKER_02]: 我想转到下一个。
[Clayton]: 有时我们会争论“我想唱这首歌”。 我想，我不想播放这首歌。 我当时想，什么？ 但没关系。 我们总是。 我要去耶稣的土地上跳桑巴舞，喝着灯光，看网球比赛。 魔法诱惑着我。 我的心溢满了。 我在巴伊亚，街头派对。 Cantina da Lua 有桑巴舞。 喝着灯光，再次看到运动鞋，一种魔力诱惑着我。 我的心溢满了。 我在巴伊亚，我在。 月亮派对我来了 在月亮小酒馆你必须下楼。 你可以确定这张桌子是白色的。 我会怀着心中的信念鼓掌。 我来自健康，我来自那里。 哦，哦，哦。 和 好的。 我来自埃斯科雷加尔，我来自伊豆德诺埃，我有番石榴酱和香蕉皮。 我来自健康，我来自那里。 我来自甘博阿，来自 Praça Mauá，我是桑巴舞者。 我是，我是，我来自健康，我来自那里。 从波波还是曼巴·班巴的时候开始。 ♪ 我来自埃斯塔西奥，我来自那里 ♪ ♪ 帽子，巴拿马，脚上双色，白色亚麻布 ♪ ♪ 我，我，我来自特尔，我来自那里，我怀念在那里的白色 ♪ ♪ 第二天，12 月 2 日，我要去巴伊亚省钱，我要去那里 ♪ ♪ 第二天，12 月 2 日，我要去巴伊亚省钱，我要去那儿♪ 谢谢。 João Bosco 的歌曲总是很疯狂。 这就是耶稣的土地，他来自那里。
[SPEAKER_02]: 这是巴伊亚的一个地方，巴伊亚有很多，我们有很多非洲的贡献。 就像他在描述他来自哪里，这是一首非常有力而美丽的歌曲。 周六早上唱歌很难。 歌手喜欢在晚上唱歌。 哦，我累了。 那么让我们回到另一个，那就是桑巴。 桑帕就像圣保罗的缩写。 这是 Caetano Veloso 的作品，他也首次描述了成为一名桑巴人的感受。 作为一座城市，圣保罗就像纽约一样。 所以他谈到了圣保罗美丽而富有诗意的事情。 这样比较安静。
[Clayton]: 我心里发生了一些事情，只有当我穿过Avenida Epiranga和São João，当我到达这里时，我什么都不懂。 Natura，其歌曲的具体诗意，两个女孩的谨慎不优雅。 他最完整的翻译还没有可以用来报复我。 我的心里发生了一些事情。 ♪ 只有当你穿过 Ipiranga 和 Avenida São João ♪ ♪ 当我面对面面对你时，我没有看到我的脸 ♪ ♪ 我称之为低俗品味，而我看到的是低俗品味，一张糟糕的脸 ♪ ♪ 只是你生来很弱，但事实并非如此 ♪ 它还不是很老还没有以前没有的东西当我们不是变种人这是一个艰难的开始把我不知道的东西抛在一边这来自另一个梦想和快乐的城市快速学会称自己现实因为你是里面外面里面外面里面外面里面外面 队列中、贫民窟队列中的受压迫者。 来自金钱的力量，它可以建造和摧毁美丽的事物。 因为听起来难听的烟雾。 我看到你们的诗人，你们的林业工作室，你们的雨神来自田野和空间。 泛美、非洲、乌托邦、桑巴、最有可能的新僵尸 quilombo 和新巴伊亚人 新的波雅尔将能够玩得开心。 ♪ 我看到你们的诗人从田野和空间中出现 ♪ ♪ 你们的森林工坊，你们的雨神，走吧！ ♪ ♪ 乌托邦非洲的泛美人，最有可能的桑巴之墓，僵尸的新 quilombo ♪ ♪ 新巴伊亚人在细雨中行走 ♪ ♪ 新巴伊亚斯可以给你... ♪ 谢谢。 我想如果你想跳舞的话你应该了解这一点并且感到舒服。
[SPEAKER_02]: 我不会说什么。
[Clayton]: 桑巴。 和 但这种与马拉卡纳舞混合的桑巴舞， 和 最重要的是，它妨碍了我想要经历的事情 因为桑巴很活泼，我想要的是桑巴 但这是与马拉卡图混合的桑巴 老黑桑巴，你的黑桑巴 最重要的是，这样的桑巴太酷了 你不会想要它 非常感谢。
[SPEAKER_02]: 一切都好。 更多可供跳舞的歌曲。 这是 Chico Buarque 的作品，我最喜欢的作品之一。 太不可思议了。 所以翻译过来就是，让女孩跳舞。 任何时候都不要阻止她。 他不是一个好丈夫，不是。 所以就让她去跳舞吧。
[Clayton]: 有你在身边是安全的，我亲爱的孩子，但是你正在犯错误，但是你正在犯很多错误。 十点了，桑巴舞很热，它让黑发女郎开心，它让女孩平静地跳舞。 我并不是故意扔五彩纸屑，但我不得不说。 你已经把自己累坏了。 你正在受苦。 如果你像那个丈夫一样到处跑，女孩可能会感到无聊。 ♪ 在一个悲伤的男人背后总有一个幸福的女人 ♪ ♪ 在那个女人的背后有一千个总是那么善良的男人 ♪ ♪ 所以为了你，哦，把她从你的脑海中除掉 ♪ ♪ 哦，她值得你拥有这个女孩 ♪ ♪ 我不知道你是否应该感到高兴，我亲爱的男孩 ♪ ♪ 再等等 ♪ 十点了，桑巴舞很热 ♪ 让黑发女郎开心 ♪ 别管桑巴舞 ♪ 在一个悲伤的男人背后总有一个幸福的女人 ♪ ♪ 在那个女人背后有一千个总是那么善良的男人 ♪ ♪ 所以为了你，哦，把她从你的脑海中赶走 ♪ ♪ 哦，她值得你拥有这个女孩 ♪ ♪ 如果是因为我在你面前，我亲爱的孩子，但你做错了 ♪ ♪ 但情况真的很糟糕 ♪ ♪ 现在十点了，桑巴舞很热 ♪ ♪ 让黑发快乐 ♪ ♪ 别管桑巴 ♪ ♪ 我不想扔五彩纸屑，但我不得不说 ♪ ♪ 很痛，很痛 ♪ 三点钟了，桑巴舞很热，让黑发女郎开心，别打扰桑巴歌手。 悲伤的男人背后，永远有一个幸福的女人。 而这个女人的背后，永远都有一个男人。 ♪ 所以看在你的份上，哦，把她从你的脑海中赶走 ♪ ♪ 哦，他值得拥有你的女孩 ♪ ♪ 我不知道你是否应该感到高兴，我亲爱的孩子 ♪ ♪ 但没人能再忍受了 ♪ ♪ 现在是三点了，你要做的就是睡觉 ♪ 谢谢。 我只想再次感谢大家邀请我和格雷格一起担心。
[SPEAKER_02]: 这是我们第一次。 很高兴来到这里。 雷纳托·马拉瓦蒂。 我的名字是安娜·博尔赫斯。 请随时加入我们的 Samba Recipe 邮件列表中的 Medford 邮件列表。 我宣传活动。 我也是演唱会的发起人。 我们在梅德福也是如此。 而且在家玩也很棒。 非常可爱，非常可爱。 好吧，那我们走吧…… 你可能也知道这个。
[Clayton]: ♪ 你看到了那种爱，我从来没有见过这样的东西 ♪ ♪ 它发生了，它并没有停止 但是看着我 ♪ ♪ 如果它回来了 我会追寻它 我会问，我会说话 ♪ ♪ 我会告诉你爱是为了给予 ♪ ♪ 看，这就像夏天 它温暖了心 ♪ ♪ 当他看到女孩来时，他突然站起来 ♪ ♪ 她来了，她总是有那张丑陋的脸 ♪ ♪ 你看，它必须是，你永远不需要爱 ♪ ♪ 今天没有，说是的，我厌倦了等待 ♪ ♪ 我没有停下来，我什至没有睡觉，我只是想把它给我 ♪ ♪ 卡索，但你不来，你来了 ♪ ♪ 那就随它去，只是说话，我要对着天空说话，但你却来了 ♪ [♪ 用葡萄牙语唱歌 ♪♪ ♪♪♪ 我问你，你却不来 ♪ 你看到了什么是爱，我从来没有见过这样的东西 ♪ ♪ 他路过，他甚至没有停下来，但他只是看着我 ♪ ♪ 如果他回来我会追上他，我会问，我会说话 ♪ ♪ 我会告诉你，爱是为了给予 ♪ ♪ 看，就像夏天，心是温暖的 ♪ ♪ 当他看到女孩到来时，他突然站起来 ♪ ♪ 她来了，她的眼里总是有那个兄弟 ♪ ♪ 你看，一定是，从来没有我爱的人 ♪ ♪ 今天没有，她说是的，我厌倦了等待 ♪ ♪ 我什至没有停下来，我什至没有睡觉，只是想着把它给我，我问。 ♪ ♪ 但你不会来，你会来 ♪ ♪ 那我就不说了，我只是说说而已，我说亲爱的，但你会来的 ♪ 谢谢。
[SPEAKER_02]: 我们来制作波莱罗舞曲吧。 是的，他喜欢波莱罗舞曲。 让我们这样做吧。 这是多里瓦尔·卡米 (Dorival Caymmi) 发来的。 这是另一首关于爱情的歌曲。 我们来制作波莱罗舞曲吧。
[Clayton]: ♪ 喜欢某人对你自己没有任何好处 ♪ ♪ 这不是我，这不是我，这不是我 ♪ ♪ 爱情不是我发明的 ♪ ♪ 不是我，不是我 ♪ 爱情发生在生活中。 你措手不及。 碰巧我也是。 就像我们生命中重要而心爱的家一样，生命也制造了它的玩具。 如果你喜欢一个人，你就没有给自己带来任何好处。 这不是我，也不是其他任何人。 爱情发生在生活中。 你不知道。 亲爱的，制作你的玩具在我们的生活中也是多么重要。 ♪ 你不会因为喜欢某人而给自己带来任何好处 ♪ ♪ 这不是我，这不是我，这不是我 ♪ ♪ 我没有发明爱，这不是我 ♪ 当爱情发生在生活中时，你没有准备好，我也没有准备好。亲爱的，从我们的生活到生活，这是多么重要， 喜欢一个人没有任何好处这不是我，这不是我，这不是我这不是我发明了爱情这不是我，这不是我 谢谢。 这是我们可以唱一整天的歌，同一首歌，对吗？ 太好了。 我喜欢那个。 再次？ 一切都好。
[SPEAKER_02]: 很高兴再次来到梅德福。 和你在一起的还有大量特殊的观众。 非常感谢所有邀请我们的人。 抱歉，我不记得每个人的名字。
[Clayton]: 还太早了。 但再次感谢您邀请我们。 我们来唱最后一首歌吧。 最后一首歌有什么更好听的？
[SPEAKER_02]: 醉？ 是的，我们就这么做吧。 你知道这个吗？ 喝醉了，平衡吗？ 一切都好。 这是另一首若昂·博斯科的歌曲。 那么我们开始吧。 能量充沛，音符高亢。
[Clayton]: 脸 并赋予每颗冰冷的星星明亮的光芒。 而天上的云朵则吸着折磨点。 苏 外国外国人 这条线的每一步你都可能受伤平衡的希望你知道每个艺术家的表演 谢谢。 非常感谢。 比尔·沃德、格雷格·托罗和雷娜塔·马拉瓦扎。 我的名字是安娜·博尔赫斯。 下周我们将在哈佛广场演出。 如果你问我，我可以告诉你更多。 谢谢。 一切都好。
[Terry Carter]: 好吧，这是西梅德福。 别小气。 雷谢塔·德·桑巴 (Resheta De Samba)、比尔·沃德 (Bill Ward) 弹奏钢琴。 安娜·博尔赫斯配音。 格雷格·托罗（Greg Toro）担任贝斯手。 然后再告诉我一次。 还有鼓手雷纳托。 一切都好。 非常非常好。 好吧，那么我们将暂时休息一下，为第二幕做准备。 我强烈建议您光顾丹麦糕点店，因为他们做得很时尚。 里面有很多不错的美食。 所有的糖，面团部分的所有黄油以及咸味部分的很多味道。 所以，你知道的，你自己去做吧。 他们有柠檬水和冷水。 所以，一切都很好。 一切都好。 几分钟后见。
[SPEAKER_03]: 我从来不知道他们能做什么。 我不敢相信你爱上了我。 你告诉我认识的每个人，无论你走到哪里，我都在你的脑海里。 我不敢相信你是 到最后，我觉得我是幸运的。 我简直不敢相信他们能做到什么。 我不敢相信你爱上了我。 你告诉我认识的每个人，无论你走到哪里，我都在你的脑海里。 言归正传，我认为我是幸运的。
[Terry Carter]: All right. All right. Hello everybody. All right. So we had a beautiful first set. They said that they samba was marvelous. Really really good. And hopefully we will at least meet if not exceed your expectations for the second part of our program today. For those of you who don't know me or who I haven't had a chance to meet yet, my name is Terry Carter, Terry E. My mother says use the initial, that's why I gave it to you. So it's Terry E. Carter, E stands for Eugene. And I direct elder services here at the community center. I'm not going to talk a lot, but I do want you to know just a little bit about We've been in business for 90 years representing the historic African American community of West Medford and this is the second building on the site. The first building was little more than an old army Quonset hut that was brought here from the defunct army base in East Boston going way back, World War II. And it was set on the site and it remained our home from like 1945 to the early 2000s. And then it basically collapsed under its own weight. And we were fortunate enough over the next several years thereafter to build this building. And this is the current home of an organization that really, really is very near and dear to my heart. I grew up in West Medford. I'm born and raised on Jerome and Monument Streets, not too far from here. And so the community center, Duggar Park, where all the basketball players are, well, you know, another story for another day. And, let's see, Duggar Park. the Hervey School, Shiloh Baptist Church, a couple other places. If our parents didn't know where we were, they knew where to find us, okay? Because we were at one of those three or four places. But in any case, Jonathan and I, Jonathan Fagan here, who convened and founded the Jazz Fest, yeah, absolutely. We got together, it's going on six years ago, we decided that we wanted to do something project-wise, him as a musician, me as a poet, that would bring those two worlds together under the banner of jazz, because he's a splendid jazz composer, arranger, and poetry, and I'm turning into more of a lyricist as time goes by. I just started out as a garden variety poet, but now I can add lyricist and poet laureate to my name. Okay, so we're gonna start off with where we think, as a community, we start off. So we're gonna do a tune called Hired by the Mystic, okay? All right, now, everything that we do is this intersection of jazz and social justice, okay? Some of it might not fit your ears real easily, but I ask you to open your hearts because I speak the truth in love. Is that cool? All right, all right, very good. All right, let's do this. They gave my people the lowlands, and not much of it. Just a few streets high by the river. Banks turned to fly and die behind the red lines, and it wasn't about the money. Class was an irresistible force. Race was an immovable object. Perhaps it wasn't the written rule, but white folks knew the legal tool to keep us in our place in this mystic valley space, where slaves and rum and chips had built some mansions, made some millionaires, and hid some old money. So it was hard by the mystic we went, muddy and a bit turned down, the only place where one could be brown in this ancient Middlesex County town. But we named it and claimed it and made it our own. Even in the heat of summer, when the shores were parched and the soil was rank, with the decay of aquatic alchemy, we were one with the river. We followed its flow to the lakes and the sandy beachfront. Like our own Jordan Shore, we baptized and blessed our brothers and sisters in Christ. We caught the little fishes to and became the TV multitude who our Lord Jesus fed, hired by the mystic. We became community. We commanded unity. We embraced the village and raised up our children in the way they should go. As the river ebbs and flows, the tides would turn and our fortune grows. A few more streets become our home. Houses on Sharon join Kin on Jerome. From Duggar Park to the railroad tracks, the landed folk make more room for blacks. The color line recedes a bit. Church and school and center sit. The ville becomes the heart of it, hired by the mystic shore. Now the worm has surely turned, and folks who left have surely learned things couldn't stay the same. That muddy mystic most days is clean. The banks are freshly cut and green. Faces once distinctly brown are not the only ones in town. These streets that once were our confines must now embrace what gentry defines, condominium culture, bedroom convenience, university sprawl, access, egress, excess, and largesse. Now those lowlands have become the highlights of a trending city. And sometimes that success isn't pretty when it's at the expense of your black and brown and tan family. And yet the river still turns and bends. from where it begins to where it ends. The only place where one could be ground in this ancient Middlesex County town where we named it and claimed it and made it our own. All right. All right, okay, now, okay, we're into it now, okay? We're into it. So this is a cool segue because... There were, in that ancient Middlesex County town where we named it and claimed it and made it our own, there were a few institutions, especially for us kids. There was, of course, Duggar Park. There was the Hervey Schoolyard where we grew up and played on that side of town. There was the West Medford Community Center where all of us kids came for Cub Scouts and Girl Scouts. playing pool and bumper pool and ping pong and so on and so forth. And one of the other institutions that was particularly near and dear to our heart was right around the corner, a few streets down on Jerome Street, and it was called The Little Store. It was a tiny red hovel on Upper Jerome. a bit run down and rough around the edges. And Mr. Henry seemed so old to us even then, with a lot of whiskers, impatient, and a little scary. One would suspect that he didn't even like kids, but he really must have loved us. Or else, where did all that penny candy come from? He had all of it, no, seriously. We'd bust in there with a few nickels or a handful of pennies, all loud and unruly. He'd hush us up while he finished with grown folks' business. Then he'd be back, like a black Willy Wonka up in that old shack. He'd peer over those old horn-rimmed glasses and tell us he didn't have all day. Then he'd blow open one of those small brown craft paper bags. and get to stuffin' while we were oohin' and ahin' and huffin' and puffin'. See, Mr. Henry had all the treats, all of our favorites, a hundred great sweets. Root beer barrels and pixie sticks, squirrel nut zippers and banana splits, green mint juleps and button strips, red licorice ropes and bottle nips, He had bazooka Joe bubblegum and a tiny sucker called a dum-dum. Jawbreakers and Tootsie Rolls, sugary love for little kids souls. Candy necklaces to wear and bite, and waxy red lips was such a sight. Fat gum cigars and kid cigarettes, right beside the crunchy six legs. Mary Jane chewies and BB bats, hot fireballs and Mexican hats. Just the genuine Hershey's Kisses, all of the hits and none of the misses. Like kid taffy squares and Necco wafers, liquor made in Boston baked beans. Gold rocks, nuggets of gum in a bag, a kid's idea, sweet tooth swag. Before the days of Laffy Taffys, we would gobble up peppermint patties. Before we knew about gummy bears, Twizzlers always came in pairs. Chewy cow tails with creamy filling, but sugar babies had top filling. Reese's peanut butter cups had us squealing like newborn pups. mica nights and orange slices, salt water taffy and tiny prices. Lifesavers and charms and fruity flavors. We grab those bags like potty favors. Uncles were a favorite choice, and milk duds made us all rejoice. Jolly ranchers and bitter honey, we always got a lot for our money. Talk about kids getting excited. Our greedy fingers could barely wait. You can't imagine the flame he ignited to take that candy like fish take bait. from cold January to chilly December. More kinds of candy than I can remember at the Phil storefront on Upper Jerome. I knew I had to write this poem. See, Mr. Henry had all the treats, all of our favorites, a hundred great sweets. All right. All right, all right. Yeah, yeah. We love it. Okay, so here's the band. Jonathan Fagan on the keys. All right. Greg Toro on the little sexy. This is not the big sexy. The big sexy is the really big bass. This is the little sexy. It's still very sexy, but it's a smaller bass. And my man, Gordon Engelgau on the traps here. Okay, we are the Ally Project. We're going to move this thing along. Boy, where am I? Yeah. OK, here we go. So I'm not going to lie or front as we say in the hood. The neighborhood has changed pretty dramatically, all right? So I'm gonna talk a little bit about how I remember it and what it's become, okay? So this piece is called Corner Lot. All right. standing at the apex of Arlington and Jerome, trying to remember the black and the brown and the tan. Ronnie and Otis used to live in the big house on the corner lot. It's probably changed a half a dozen times since then. Current owner's been there for a minute. He's good with his hands and he knows his way around wood and tools. Place has been gussied up quite a bit. Picket fence is not quite white, but if you know, you know. Asian kid in a Tufts hoodie just whipped by in a helmet and roller blades. Didn't see much of that back in the day. The university sort of hit on the hell side, trying its best to be a baby Ivy. But the co-eds come here all the time now. Basketball, tennis rackets, pickleball paddles in tow, on bikes, in Benzos and roller blades. We used to bust ourselves up pretty good on those rickety metal skates with clunky keys and leather straps. Nothing a little Vaseline and Mercurochrome couldn't handle. How did Henley put it in Invictus? Oh yeah, bloody but unbowed. Not too many white and off-white kids hanging out here back there then. It was as if the invisible lines once drawn to keep us in sometimes kept other folks out too. Now they've pretty much taken over. Dug a park, the Rhone tennis courts, the Hervey schoolyard, and a hundred addresses on Arlington, Lincoln, and Jerome. A host of our remembered places, so few of our original faces. Meanwhile, back in Ronnie and Otis' old place, I'm still standing like that centurion, knowing that Jesus doesn't have to go in to heal his servant. He just has to speak a word. I guess I keep hoping that he'll speak a word to the corner lot, too, and bring back the black and the brown and the tan. Across the river, it's low tide. The smell is gone and the grass is greener than I recall. That was our little park, away from dugger and a lot less hectic. We had makeshift bases or discarded cones for football and softball. We lost a few in the river, but nobody was going in that muck to retrieve anything. We'd probably wait in that water today. They planted some trees there many years ago. They're all pretty big now. Maple and ash, I think. Nobody plays baseball or football there anymore. But there are lots of dogs frolicking off leash and gaggles of fat Canadian geese daring pitties, pugs, and poodles to chase them all. I can't imagine my childhood without losing a few softballs there. I can't imagine not hearing Mrs. Allen call little James Michael to come and eat, or little Charlie to watch us play from his folding chair, because his spindly legs were too weak to let him run. I can't imagine that I'm still here. But Ronnie and Otis, Darryl King and Frankie French, Aaron McDaniel and Marky Davis are all gone. Mark was as thick as a big tree trunk, so we came up with Oak for him. Aaron was Spud, Frankie was Fruit Man, and I was Top Cat. Too cool, ran to school. Everyone wants the corner lot now. A little more land and perhaps the new perspectives that angles create. I wonder if that meant anything to Ronnie and Otis, or Jed and Miles and Gib, Barry, Coco, Keith Wing, and Kenny Byfield. Certainly meant something to the white folks looking to displace, transplant, and uproot the local color. Black folks built homes here, only place where they were allowed to be, where they could color inside the lines Medford once drew against the perceived discomforts of darker skin. We were here first. First firefighters, police officers, war heroes, shop owners, tradesmen, postal chiefs, teachers, artists, and preachers. We were the human bedrock of the only neighborhood they'd let us build. The old church is gone now. Nelson even changed the street number as if to erase the fact that the original Shiloh Baptist ever existed. But if you know, you know. That corner still has a cornerstone. 1900, and Nelson couldn't do nothing about it without a more draconian demolition. Two more condos in the house of the Lord. Two more houses that us first folk can't afford. Two more dismissals of the blessings of his word. One more holy stone rejected and ignored. Thank you. Thank you. All right, we're going to switch it up a little bit. You're familiar with the jazz canon. You know a couple of the players. You know Duke Ellington and Miles Davis and maybe Herbie Hancock and a few others. And then maybe you know John Coltrane. All right, so Coltrane, some of the best of the jazz standards were his compositions with that beautiful horn of his. And one of them was about one of his loves. Her name was Naima. And so if you know Coltrane and you know jazz a little bit, you probably have heard Naima before. So this is a riff, a take on Naima. It's called Reprise for Naima. He would blow this note in the midnight air, aloft in the ether it floats out there. Staccato cadence sets a mood of bluesy lyrical attitude. Improvisational mystery like Monk's piano epistrophe or Miles' tone poem in a silent way or Flanagan's peace at the end of the day. Syncopated in sharp, bright tone, a countdown to stardust, a twilight zone, like a blue train running against the night, setting the pace, then out of sight. With heartmen crooning or bags-on vibes, trios, duets, quartets, and tribes, the blues, the ballads, the avant-garde, incredibly gorgeous, impossibly hard. Giant steps move us miles ahead. Cooking up bop for Harlem street cred. Melody's hand to the harmony wed. Piano's lullaby fresh in the bed. Rhythm rocks where the drummer led. Rhythm rolls where the bass man sped. Rhythm birthed what the saxophone bred. Rhythm heard what the master said. How could he make the bitter taste sweeter? How could a tortured mind deleter? How could the mellowed scotch be neater? How could the smoke from each cigarette create blue beads that cast a net, create blue beads of cascading sweat, create blue haze that confounds regret, create blue nights that we can't Coltrane's notes are a crystal scale, a velvet scream in the urban travail, the heavenly riff of a love supreme, the pungent riff of a lover's dream. Coltrane's notes are a cozy romance, the breezy bounce of a bop and a dance, the languid lilt of stray's lush life, the cakes cut by the artist's knife. Coltrane's notes are a standard refined, like gold in a pan or gemstones mined, the sparkling glow of a hopeful dream, hot black coffee with a hint of cream. Coltrane's notes are Naima's reprise, like madness that brings a man to his knees, or sadness that comes when lovers part, the gladness removed from the balladeer's heart. A tight arrangement cuts the gloom. The melody says that love's in bloom. The harmony spirit engulfs the room. The bride says yes to her lyrical groom. The groove and the beat then jump the broom. The kip drum resounds with a sonic boom. As genius is birthed in a soul filled room. Musical mythology mocks, a twisted path the hero walks. With shield and sword the hero stalks. The temperance shakes her twisted locks. Medusa's snakes, his vision shocks. Holds up the mirror to stony blocks. The harp and the horn melt icy rocks. Serpents retreat and symphony talks. Coltrane's notes are a roller coaster, a hallelujah and a paternoster, the glorious jolt of the maestro's hand, the saxophone titan is in command. Coltrane's notes are a crazy rhythm, the squawk of chords and playful schism, the frenetic pace of Mr. P.C., the coolest round midnight will ever be. Coltrane's notes are genius refined, like gold in a pan or a gemstone's mine. The sparkling glow of a lover's dream, hot black coffee with a hint of cream. Coltrane's notes are Naima's reprise. Like madness that brings a man to his knees, or sadness that comes when lovers part, then gladness revived in the balladeer's heart. Thank you. Thank you very much. All right, all right. So we're going to stay on the jazz frontier for a minute. Herbie Hancock, and later Quincy Jones, they did a tune, Quincy covered it, Herbie Hancock did it for us, and it's called Tell Me a Bedtime Story. So we do a little riff on Tell Me a Bedtime Story, it's called Tell Me Another Bedtime Story, all right? It's just a sweet little jazz ditty, okay? Cool. Is this where the sandman picks up each grain, restoring the beauty and reducing the pain? Is this where we fly to never never land, like the troop of lost boys with Peter Pan? All of the mystery of hidden dreams. Nothing now is as it seems. Tell a sweet tale that sugars and creams with flashes of sardines and shining moonbeams. As I lay down to my slumber, paint a landscape of ochre and umber. Let there be a hint of romance. Turn up the quiet. Love wants to dance. Tell me a bedtime story, please, of secret gardens and pecan trees, of babbling brooks and waterfalls, of gentle breezes that summer calls, of hidden havens and wondrous spaces, of astral planes and mystical places. Let it be a melody that sings in four-part harmony. Let it resound in symphony that folds into dreamland's reverie. Tell me a fable of Arabian nights spread on a table of earthly delights, free from the label of anger and fights, willing and able to scale higher heights. Tell me a bedtime story now, as the baby rocks in the maple bough, as the blue ox puts his nose to the plow, and the sweaty farmer wipes his brow, as each green seedling happily vows to yield each fruit the ground allows, and seven dwarfs whistle a happy tune, and sleeping beauty awakens soon. Let there be a melody that sings in four-part harmony. Let it resound in symphony, then fold into dreamland's reverie. This is the time when the sandman whispers and seven grooms meet seven sisters. And the prairie sings an ode to love as the angels release the turtle dove. For now, I lay me down to sleep and pray to God, my soul to keep. All right. Jonathan Fagan on the keys. Greg Toro on the bass. Did you hear that? You heard that, right? All right, that's Gordon Yango, guy on the drums. All right. All right, so listen, we're going to the intersection of jazz and social justice, all right? All right, and when I say we ain't playing, we ain't playing, but we're playing. Is that okay? All right, all right. So we ain't playing, but we're playing. Okay, this is called alienation. Good? Okay. All right. Here is a fence without a gate. You can't get in, you have to wait. You can't be foreign or somehow strange. This isn't your home, home on the range. You can't arrive in a rickety boat. Our castle has a treacherous moat. We won't host refugees at our door. You're not the sort we're looking for. Take good note, we stay on guard. We don't want you in our backyard. Despite the danger you seek to avoid, our best deterrents have been deployed. You say our country's full of peril. But like stray cats, we think you're feral. We think you're prone to filth and crime. We don't want either at this time. We don't care what the nations say. They won't do more than hope and pray. Our stance is clear on human rights. Lock the door. Turn off the lights. You saw that statue in the bay. It stood for liberty until today. It welcomed tired and huddled masses, not criminals from your underclasses. We've got militias on the border. They own big guns to keep the order. Law enforcement lets them stay to help them keep your kind at bay. Why do we feel that this is good? Why can't we share the neighborhood? Is it because you're black and brown? No, we just choose to stand our ground. Stay in your place. Deal with your issues. We'll send lots of coal and tissues. Don't form caravans and run. You'll find yourselves in the sight of a gun. There are no streets here lined with gold. Our eyes are closed, our hearts are cold. There is no flowing milk and honey. American skies are not that sunny. The fences we build keep aliens out. They serve to keep our faith devout. This land we scheme to make our own is ours, you see, and ours alone. As long as you stay on the other side, we can maintain our national pride. Please don't show us your anguished faces. We're cutting back on other races. We've had enough of global inclusion. We're ridding this country of race confusion. We know how to win these fights and limit all these civil rights. safety nets and the welfare state will have to stop for the lost and late a rising tide that favors the rich that's our famous favorite campaign pitch me too movements and black lives matter in all due time your ranks will scatter you think that you shall overcome just cross this line we'll give you some We'll give you a taste of burning churches and black boys hung from oaks and birches. We'll give you a taste of incarceration in prisons.com, the corporate plantation. We're taking this country back to the time when a brown life wasn't worth a dime, except for the way it worked in the field, except for a bushel of crops to yield. We're taking this country back to the day when white meant right in every way, when men of privilege could rape and beat and kill for spite, then lie and cheat. We're taking this homeland back to the season when hooded marauders needed no reason to hunt folks down with rifles and dogs through the lonely woods, the swamps, and bogs. When confederate flags were boldly raised, and crosses in the darkness blazed, and the land was full of racial hate, served with grits on a breakfast plate. You thought this worm had surely turned, and young black bodies no longer burned. Yet here you are again today, with the specter of prejudice winning the day. The MAGA caps you wear with pride, they let us know who's on your side. The pointed hood and long white robe, fine clothes for the xenophobe. Perhaps this place that immigrants covet can somehow heal and rise above it. Until that day, our best advice to call this home, you'll pay a price. You'll pay a price as many misguided embrace the hate their voice provided. His Twitter rants and sound bites full of ethnocentric cock and bull. You'll pay a price as higher walls lead great climbers to greater falls, where fences are the new condition announcing the refugees' abolition. This isn't our nation's greatest hour, this flexing of white supremacist power. And yet the season is fully revealing the stain of hatred we've been concealing. So take good note and be on guard of deadly traps around the yard. Our agents are on high alert to keep you foreigners off this dirt. Tolerance is in short supply. We won't let your kind occupy this sacred land our forebears built. We don't subscribe to Anglo guilt. This fence was built without a gate to keep out all who come here late. To all you aliens, we don't like strange. No room at the inn in our home on the range. All right. Hard troops, admittedly, but troops nonetheless. All right, so we're gonna stay there for a minute, and then we'll try and ease up off of your feelings. This piece is called The Ally, and it's actually kind of the eponym for our project. So we're gonna do Ally for you. Friends become distant and strange as if you have some creeping mange. Family wonders why and rings their hands. How could you choose them over us? We're your blood, bone of your bone, and flesh of your flesh. They're not like us. They're so different, less than, not equal to, beneath. Declarations have been made. Arrangements are in place. These are matters of our kin. Signs have been painted. You're going to be cast out. You're going to be shunned. You need to stick with your own kind. An ally? Is that what they're calling you? Well, it's a hard road to hoe. You're making strange bedfellows. You're casting your white pearls before swine. You weren't raised to behave like this. Our family is a proud and honored clan. We'll never be lower than any black man. There's no room for them at this table. There's always been two sides of the track, a right and wrong side of town, our kind and their kind, your people and those folks. It's going to kill your mother and your daddy's turning over in his grave. You want to shout out, Black Lives Matter. But the master plan is to make them scatter, to serve them pain on a silver platter. Our people own them. They worked this land for 200 years. They were our property, our Negroes. Hell, our Negroes to make it plain. You can't be out there with them. You can't be shoulder to shoulder with the ones we need to dominate, relegate, subjugate, eliminate. They want reparations. Well, we're making preparations to give them 40 acres of hell and a mule kit to the gut. You don't seem to get it, son. This is the way the races run. There's not enough room for everyone. The time for black and brown is done. Show your pride and pick up your gun. Pick the side that has always won. You can't be out there with them. You can't be shoulder to shoulder with the ones we need to dominate, relegate, subjugate, eliminate. All right. All right, all right. Yeah, yeah. All right, all right. Once again, the Allied Project. Jonathan Fagan, Greg Toro, Gordon Angle Guywin, I'm Terry Carter. Too cool, these bros got me sweating out here. Got me sweating. All right, okay, so we're at a couple of different spots and then we're gonna finish up. But let's do something nice and mellow. This is called Legacy, okay? Everybody enjoying themselves? All right. I know it's warm out there. I know. But you're braving the elements and enjoying the day, hopefully. Very, very good. It's not for you to tell your own story. That is the burden of your children. They must shoulder this yoke with love and loyalty. And yet, you have not gathered them up and bid them sit before the campfires of their elders. You have not seasoned their meals with the spice of their identity and the savor of their names. How will they learn to walk the walk and talk the talk? How will they learn to tell your stories even as they live out their own? Sons and daughters and heirs, if you didn't smell the burning ash or feel the warmth of the flame on your neck, you don't know. If you didn't revel in the growl of the griot's earthy reply or the trill of the mockingbird's cry, you don't know. If mama was too tired and daddy too long gone to carry the wood, light the spark and stoke the flames, you don't know. And until the lion cub knows how to tell the pride stories, the hunters will always tell them first. The good book says train up the child in the way they should go. Will we let them depart from the community of faith and the city on the hill without the master's touch, without the oil of his anointing and his full measure of grace? Will we not show them Anansi's clever ways, Popo and Fafina's journey, Mufaro's beautiful daughters, the people who could fly the wonders of Wakanda, and Songololo's new tacky. The prophet says he will encourage fathers and their children to return. But how will they know the way home if no map charts the seas, measures the roads, cites the peaks and valleys, and names each forest despite the thickening trees? Will the burden of the elder stories be too heavy for the children? Will they care to carry? Will they dare to tarry? Will they linger at the foot of the griot? Will they hunger for the wisdom of the sage? We must put them on this page, where hard work earns a man his wage, where power is measured by God's own gauge, where miracles scarf at the wand of a maid. We must share with them the truth that is loyal and fierce like Naomi and Ruth, that doesn't wait for the confessional booth, that has the bite of the panther's tooth. This is the gift of legacy, where a glorious past sets the captives free, and a candle's light beckons liberty. Sons and daughters and heirs, I bid you sit before the campfires of your elders, hear their stories, gather up their stones, and build up your strength. They will show you Anansi's clever ways, Popo and Fafina's journey, Mufaro's beautiful daughters, the people who could fly the wonders of Wakanda, and Sanga Lolo's new tackies. Soon you will be the herald. Write these things down on the tablets of your spirit. Let them put a running in your feet. With each quickening step, you repel the arrows of the hunter. With the shield of abiding faith, you capture the flags of your enemies and gather up their spoils. You remain the lions of the pride and your tails will always be your children's bread. You will never abandon the community of faith. Though you build a thousand cities on a hill, drawing wondrous strength from the master's touch as the oil of his anointing fills your clay jars with his grace. Thank you. All right. Quite a while ago, it was either my first or my second book. Speaking of first and second books, I've got books up there. There's actually a Ally Project CD, for those of you who still have a CD player. And it's got a lot of our music on it. So if you're interested, it's up there. We also have a book. Jazz Festival t-shirts, which are lovely, and our food venue, the Danish Pastry House, will still be here after we leave. So if you didn't get a snack and you wanna get one, come back and sit out under the tent and talk, or however the move hits you, it's all there, still there for you. All right, okay, so I think we're gonna do two more, and then we're gonna be done. All right, so. I love that, I love that, I love that, I love that. If it's not fake, if you're faking it, don't do it. But if it's, oh, okay, I love it, okay. What are we doing? Oh, we're doing Bobby, okay. All right, so a while back, on one of my early books, I think it was the second one, I have a painting in my house. It's called, what's it called, T? Oh, it's called Bobby Doesn't Live Here. And basically what it is is my attempt, my humble painting attempt, to kind of depict black women in all shapes and sizes, because they come in all shapes and sizes. And there may be one or two of them who are very, very narrow and somewhat Barbie-like, somewhat Angel Reese-like. But for the most part, it runs the gamut. So I wrote this poem called Barbie Doesn't Live Here to go with that. piece of artwork. And every once in a while, you revisit a piece of poetry and you say, well, what could I have done differently? Or what could I have said differently? So I had this notion, and it came out like this. And it's called, If Barbie Had a Choice.
[Unidentified]: 哈哈哈。
[Terry Carter]: 如果芭比可以选择，我想她从第一天起就会把他变成黑人。 我会放弃奶油色皮肤，选择明亮的乌木色。 她会以真正女王的态度用伊博方言说：让殖民者见鬼去吧！ 把我装进一个粉红色的盒子里，盒子上写着白色的字，背景是很多海滩棕榈树和沙子。 我不这么认为。 你无法将那些丰满的乳房和曲线美的臀部装进那件迷幻的 Goldie Hawn 迷你裙中。 我需要一些更实质性的东西。 我需要大码的塞内加尔棉花，上面有明亮的蜡染图腾和祖国的所有颜色。 我需要一位刚从露丝·卡特学校毕业的瓦坎达裁缝来做好准备并向世界展示我正在做的事情。 我需要一件达荷美制造的产品，而不是美泰和迪士尼制造的产品。 说真的，如果鲍比有选择的话，肯会看起来更像阿里或丹泽尔或英国黑巧克力辣妹伊德里斯·艾尔巴。 他会被晒黑，而不仅仅是晒黑，而且没有比 150 目砂纸更多的圣诞薄纸了。 他会像漫威的特查拉一样虚张声势，像图帕克一样起床，像马尔科姆兄弟一样工作。 我会亲吻那个有着黑人女孩嘴唇的男人，没有碰过，没有打过肉毒杆菌，像雨林一样郁郁葱葱。 她会把她的男人吞进已故诗人黑色大腿每一寸颤抖的地方。 如果您不知道，请在 YouTube 上查找。 您不需要巴西式的臀部手术、比佛利山庄的胸部手术或 Adobe Photoshop 课程。 拥有丰富基因组的非洲母亲照顾了这一切，你明白我的意思吗？
[SPEAKER_07]: 如果芭比可以选择，你永远无法在玩具反斗城、FAO 购买她。
[Terry Carter]: 施瓦茨或玛丽·阿诺德。 她不会是一个假女朋友，一个配角，或者克莱德的邦妮。 她不会成为美国女孩艾迪、邪恶直线或舞蹈妈妈麦迪。 她不会是玛格特·罗比女孩、樱桃派芭比娃娃或吹牛老爹哈维。 我会用更多的韵律来结束这个流程，只需几根金属棒就能及时完成。 像鲍比这样的新人不能容忍胡言乱语。 对弟兄的迫害不能再悬而未决。 她的女性奇迹将是真正巨大的。 玩家只会发现他们的游戏太过激烈，永远没有真正的机会获得爱的奖励。 尽管他可以开宾利或劳斯莱斯到达，但在真正的皇后区加油站，他会以压倒性的优势失败。 新的努比亚芭比娃娃应该受到极大的尊重。 她不会感到悲伤或被忽视。 她会像Goji精英一样为她而战。 她不会温顺、端庄或渺小。 那会有所不同。我打赌。 皮条客或骗子不会构成威胁。 如同国债的文字一样美丽，它的美丽和智慧不会让你流汗。 那个漂亮的白色芭比娃娃可能有一架玩具飞机，但她还没有降落灵魂飞机。 我的非洲女王忘记了真正的问题，尽管她可能想保留那辆粉红色的克尔维特。 你可能想保留这个。 是的，您可能想保留它。 一切都好。 好吧，让我们从开始的地方结束吧，那就是和家人在一起，因为这里的每个人，这里的每个人，你知道，我真的很感激，我们真的很感谢每一个冒着酷暑的人，因为我们知道他们会和我们在一起。 所以让我们看看我是否有希望找到他。
[SPEAKER_07]: 想在厨房的桌子上写一首诗吗？ 好的。 好的。 好的。 好的。
[Terry Carter]: 一切都好。 我知道我今天所说的和我们今天讨论的很多事情，你知道，它们会引起不同的共鸣，并与每个人产生不同的共鸣。 但这首特别的诗，也许就像《小商店》一样，确实会带你回想起你的家在某个时刻的样子。 我几乎可以保证，无论你来自哪里，什么种族，什么背景，在某个时候，我祈祷，我希望你的家在某个时候会是这样，我希望现在仍然如此。 这首诗叫做《厨房餐桌诗》。 没有人愿意离开。 它们就像妈妈围裙上的蓝莓渍：平静而满足。 他吃的食物很好，新鲜的玉米和羽衣甘蓝，炸鸡和土豆沙拉。 他们的肚子又肥又饱。 这是那个房间。 天啊，姑娘，你现在是认真的吗？ 这是一次真实的对话。 我们是真实的人。 家人，你知道我在说什么吗？ 我们是一家人。 早在门打开之前你就可以闻到爱的味道。 你知道会有山核桃派。 甜茶会被冰镇。 南方人会放弃北方的生活方式，口音会增加，乡村的影子很快就会感觉更接近城市。 在面包屑被捡起、所有盘子都被清洗、食物被收起来或包装在特百惠和密封袋中之后，它们仍会留在那张桌子上很长时间。 每个人都会有一个狗袋和一个故事要讲。 男人们会玩得很厉害。 ♪ 穿小一点的衣服 ♪ ♪ 说些废话 ♪ ♪ 笑容会灿烂，笑声会传染 ♪ ♪ 女人们会扇扇子并抱怨 ♪ ♪ 天啊，她知道她穿那件衣服太大了 ♪ ♪ 这不是周日的衣服 ♪ ♪ 这是周六晚上的衣服 ♪ ♪ 你知道我是对的，女孩，你知道我是对的 ♪ 没有人想离开。 他们就像那张旧照片中耶稣的黑眼睛，充满爱和坚持。 灵魂食物被刮掉了。 我的基因向天堂祈祷，婴儿唱起了他的歌。 每个人都很快乐和平静。 这是那个房间。 我真的很想念爸爸。 宝宝的癌症已经缓解了吗？ 教会。 这是一次真实的对话。 我们是真实的人。 家庭。 你知道我在说什么吗？ 我们是一家人。 女士们先生们，盟友计划。 乔纳森·费根 (Jonathan Fagan) 演奏琴键。 格雷格·托罗（Greg Toro）担任贝斯手。 他要逃跑了，伙计。 事实上，他马上就要举行婚礼了。 这是我的男人。 一切都好。 看到这个。 他是一名反叛战士。 他要拿起鞭子去康涅狄格州的一场婚礼上表演。 一切都好。 然后是我的男人。 戈登·安格 (Gordon Angle) 是唯一一个，唯一的鼓手。 一切都好。 我们是同盟计划。 明天我们将重返梅德福爵士音乐节，并带来另外两场演出。 我们将有来自以下国家的硕士生 伯克利性别正义爵士乐学院，由梅德福自己的特里-林恩·卡林顿 (Terri-Lynn Carrington) 领导。 她不会在这里，但她的学生会，他们可以走了。 他们的鼓手之一是一位名叫 Ivana Cuesta 的年轻女性，她将领导这项工作，她就像 22 或 23 岁时的 Terri-Lynn Carrington，所以您可能想过来看看。 然后我们就会有 无与伦比的，不知疲倦的。 好吧，还有唐娜·麦克埃尔罗伊，她实际上是伯克利大学声乐系的系主任，然后是伯克利大学和声系的现任主席，她的名字叫小乔治·拉塞尔，键盘上的乔治是《运动中的诗》。 所以说真的，如果可以的话，如果你的周日允许的话，你可能想考虑回去一趟，因为那会 耳环。 好的，我们感谢您与我们在一起并全天陪伴您。 我希望你水分充足。 如果没有，就进去喝点水，喝点冰茶。 如果你有点饿了，就去吃点吧。 他们仍然有很多美味的糕点、三明治、披萨羊角面包以及他们制作的各种不同的东西。 我们爱他们。 这就是丹麦糖果。 他们位于波士顿大道，波士顿和温思罗普的拐角处。