The Ally Project, featuring poet Terry E. Carter, pianist Jonathan Fagan, bassist Greg Toro, and drummer Gordon Engelgau, performed a set of jazz and spoken-word poetry at the 2026 Medford Jazz Festival. The performance focused on themes of community, West Medford history, gentrification, social justice, and tributes to legendary jazz figures.
[Terry Carter]: So we are ready to go once again. All right, so this is where I get to shift from what I've been doing most of the day, which is talking about the other groups. And I get to shift and talk about the group that I get to play with. And it's a real joy of my life. So welcome to the Ally Project. OK, so I'm going to give the caveat. It's going to get serious. There'll be some light moments, but there'll be some heavy moments, too, OK? Just want to make sure you know.
So I'm the voice. I don't know if I'm the voice of reason, but I'm the voice. My name is Terry E. Carter on piano. The eminent one, Jonathan Fagan. Jonathan, also the director and the innovator and the founder of the Medford Jazz Festival. So he deserves a substantial round of applause. OK. And then maximum padding will come from my man on the drums, on the traps, keeping the order, Gordon Anglegal. And then this will be the third bassist that you've heard from today whose name is Greg.
So the big man on the big sessy, Greg Toro. All right, OK, so let's get at it. Let's get at it. OK. They gave my people the lowlands, and not much of it, just a few streets hard by the river. Banks turned a blind eye 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 a 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 ships 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, we claimed it, we 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 go with our loaves of bread and became the teeming 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 tide will 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, hard by the mystic shore.
♪ Now the worm has surely turned ♪ ♪ And folks who left have surely learned ♪ ♪ Things couldn't stay the same ♪ ♪ The 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. And yet the river still turns and bends from where it begins to where it ends. The only place where one could be brown in this ancient Middlesex County town where we named it and claimed it and made it our own. All right. Okay, okay, so let's make it sweet for a minute. Folks who grew up in West Medford, particularly folks who grew up at the same time that I did, know about a couple of institutions of the community. One of those institutions was the Shiloh Baptist Church. Another of those institutions, you're sitting in the patio right now, and that's the West Medford Community Center, 90 years plus of history.
Yes, absolutely. And another one of those institutions, not so well known by everybody, but definitely known by a few folks, well, let me just get into it, 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 rim glasses and tell us he didn't have all day. Then he'd blow open one of those small brown kraft paper bags and get to stuffing while we were oohing and aahing and huffing and puffing. 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 bubble gum and a tiny sucker called the Dum Dum, jawbreakers and Tootsie Rolls, sugary love for little kids' souls. many necklaces to wear and fight, and waxy red lips were such a sight. Fat gum cigars and kid cigarettes, right beside the crunchy six-lets. Mary Jane chewies and BB bats, hot fireballs and Mexican hats, just the genuine Hershey's Kisses, all the hits and none of the misses. Like kid taffy squares and Necco wafers, liquor made in Boston baked beans, gold rocks gum in a bag, a kid's idea of sweet to 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 had a creamy filling, but sugar babies had top billing. Reese's peanut butter cups had us squealing like newborn pups. Mike and Ike's and orange slices, saltwater taffy and tiny prices, lifesavers and charms and fruity flavors, we grabbed those bags like party favors. Juckles were a favorite choice and milk dust made us all rejoice. Jolly Ranchers and bitter honey, we always got a lot more
Talk about kids getting excited. You can't imagine the flame he ignited. Our greedy fingers could barely wait to take that candy like fish take bait. From cold January to chilly December. More kinds of candy than I can remember at the Ville storefront on Upper Jerome. I knew I had to write this poem. See, Mr. Henry had all the treats. All of our favorites. 100 great sweets. All right. Thank you. All right. All right. OK. OK. I talk a lot, and my guys, by extension, talk a lot about this neighborhood. Because when Jonathan and I got together, what are we talking, seven, eight years ago? About seven years ago, he kind of came into the conversation based on stuff that he had heard I was doing, talking about our community.
So we based what we do on the premise that community is really, really important, and then the next premise is that we met at the intersection of jazz and social justice. So we're all about that life, as the kids like to say. We're all about the music, obviously, but also the message. So this is about community and about the way that community changes over time, and it's called Corner Lot. 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 dozen times since then. Current owner's been there for a minute. He's good with his hands, knows his way around wood and tools. Place has been gussied up quite a bit. Picket fence is off-white, but if you know, you know.
Asian kid in a Tufts hoodie just whipped by in a helmet and rollerblades. Didn't see much of that back in the day. The university sort of, sort of hid on the hillside trying its best to be a baby Ivy. But the co-eds come here all the time now. Basketballs, tennis rackets, and pickleball paddles in tow on bikes, benzos, and rollerblades. We used to bust ourselves up pretty good on rickety metal skates with clunky keys and leather straps. Nothing a little Vaseline and Mercuricone 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 down here back then. It was as if the invisible lines drawn to keep us in sometimes kept other folks out too. Now they pretty much taken over. Dugger 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 at 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 cornelot, too, and bring back the black and the brown and the tan.
Across the street is a river. It's low tide, but the smell is gone, and the grass is greener than I recall. That was our little park, away from Duggar 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 wade 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 a lot of dogs frolicking off leash.
Gaggles of fat geese daring pitties and pugs and poodles to chase them off. I can't imagine my childhood without losing a few softballs there. I cannot imagine Mrs. Allen calling James Michael to come and eat or little Charlie watching 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. And Ronnie and Otis, Darryl King, Frankie French, Aaron McDaniel, Maki Davis are all gone.
Everyone had a nickname back then. Darryl was super fast, so we called him Road Runner and Jack Rabbit. Mark was as thick as a big tree trunk, so we came up with Oak for him. Aaron was Fudd, Frankie was Fruit Man, and I was Top Cat. Too cool, ran the 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, Berry, Coco, Keith Wing, and Kenny Byfield.
It certainly meant something to the white folks looking to displace, transplant, and uproot the local color. Black folks built homes here, only place they were allowed to be, where they could color inside the lines Mefford 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. 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. The corner lot still has a corner stone. And Nelson couldn't do a thing 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. Okay, we're gonna shift it a little bit. Jonathan and I are gonna do a duo. Hopefully I'll be able to find it in here. Oh my gosh.
You gotta have friends. All right. Allies even more so. Okay, so. Probably everybody in here knows at least a little bit about Duke Ellington, Edward Kennedy Ellington, all right, the maestro, the conductor, et cetera, and so forth. Well, I'm often moved to write about jazz in general and jazz greats in particular, written about Miles, I've written about Thelonious Monk, I've written about, well, we'll get into a little bit more of that later. But this piece is called Beyond Category, The Life and Times of Duke Ellington.
The phrasing of the accolade proclaimed the genius that God had made. Here begins the marvelous story of a musical force beyond category. The regal one hailed as the noble duke, his style and talent beyond rebuke. Composer, arranger, musician supreme, the lyrical titan of a Harlem dream. Cut from cloth that is smooth and refined like silk brocade on which notes are entwined. Elegance personified, unmistakably dignified, a symphony in black and tan, a jazz colossus baton in hand. The maestro at a fine Steinway created standards
Sophisticated ladies waiting for their cue to join the band and sing the lyrics as he plays. Fancy dances strutted in step to rhythms he adroitly prepped. Often was he imitated, never was he duplicated. Exceeding every expectation of music's new interpretation, Edward Kennedy Ellington led like Arthur of Wellington, commanding an army of seasoned musicians, assuming their proper orchestral position. From the Chitlin circuit to the Cotton Club, Manhattan skyline to Brownstone stoop, in the hip dock tower they always knew the scoop. Stomping down beats at the Harlem Savoy, nocturnal habits, juke joints and joy. Tucks and tails for the Manhattan set, as white and elite as a crowd could get, where his band could only, could not even dine and drink. Oh, to what lows the privilege would sink. But the Duke said the music mattered most, and thus became the idiom's toast.
Crafting a soundtrack for the nation despite the sting of segregation. Elegance personified. Singularly dignified. A symphony in black and tan. A jazz colossus established a brand. He knew what sound the people craved. A wondrous sonic road he paved. Lenox Avenue, Basin Street, diverse crowds where legends meet, the Duke connected pillar to post, the lyrical canon to which we toast. The coming age of syncopation, 50 pieces in formation, generals and jazz battalions, rhythm struts like lippers in stallions, collecting the maestro's sonic medallions like gold doubloons from pilot galleries. Renaissance-born to the chocolate city, conquered New York in the real nitty-gritty. Assembling the cream of the tri-state crop, he took the groove from Broadway to Bach. The music he played was better than good, a lively sensation, the pride of the hood. His equal, not found in any chapters of Denson books by choral captors.
His winning smile and attitude filled his folks with gratitude. The writers would later advance the story. The Duke was genius beyond category. They'd shake and shudder to capture the glow of the fiery arrows that came from his bow, of the compositions adroitly achieved, of the lyrical conquests his mind conceived. Elegance personified, singularly dignified, a symphony black and tan, a jazz colossus across the land. No true equal would lead a band. Sir Duke created melodic glory, leading this poet to tell this story. Here endeth the lyrical allegory of the man we deemed beyond category.
That's it. That's it. All right. All right. All right. OK. beyond the attachment to technical difficulties. All right, so we're going to finish up this jazzier part of the set with, I don't know what is going on with my book. All right. Okay, all right, so. Okay, so as I said, I like to write about the giants of jazz, and so we talked about Duke a little bit. We're gonna talk next about John Coltrane. So this piece is called Reprise for Naima, and Naima was one of John Coltrane's great loves.
So we're gonna. We're going to deal with that. He would blow this note in the midnight air. Aloft in the ether, it floats out there. Melodic cadence sets the mood of bluesy lyrical attitude. improvisational mystery like Monk's piano epistrophe or Miles' tone poem in a silent way and Flanagan's piece at the end of the day. Syncopated and 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 heartman crooning or bags on vibes, trios, duets, quartets and tribes. The blues, the ballads, the avant-garde, incredibly gorgeous, impossibly hard.
Those giant steps move us miles ahead. Cooking up bar 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 taxophone bred. Rhythm heard what the master said. How could he make the bitter taste sweeter? How could a tortured mind delete her? How could the mellowed scotch be neater? How could the smitten love entreat her?
How could the smoke from each cigarette create blue notes that cast a net, create blue beads of pooling sweat, create blue haze that clouds regret, create blue nights one can't forget? 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 cadence cut by the artist's knife. Coltrane's notes are a standard refine, like gold in a pan or gemstones mine, 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 kick drum resounds with a sonic boom as genius is birthed in a soul-filled womb.
Musical mythology mocks, a twisted path the hero walks. With shield and sword the hero stalks. The temptress shakes her twisted locks. Medusa's snakes, reflection shocks, pulls up the mirror to stony blocks. The harp and the horn melt icy rocks. Serpents retreat as symphony talks. Love's door opens as lyric knocks. 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. PC, the coolest round midnight will ever be.
Coltrane's notes are a standard refine, like gold in a pan or a gemstone mine, 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. All right. All right. All right. Very good. Good, good. I'll be faking the man, the myth, the legend. All right. Okay. Yeah.
If Barbie had a choice, I believe that from day one, she would have made it a black thing. She would have ditched that creamsicle skin and gone with a lustrous ebony you. She would have spoken in the Igbo dialect with a true queen's attitude and said, to hell with you colonizers. Package me up in a pink box with white lettering and a bunch of beachy palms and sand in the background. I think not. You can't get these ample breasts and these curvaceous hips into that Goldie Hawn psychedelic mini. I'ma need a little something a little bit more substantial. I'ma need copious yards of Senegalese cotton with shiny batik totems and all the colors of the motherland. I'ma need a Wakanda seamstress straight out of the Ruth Carter school to hook the thing up right and show the world what I'm working with. I'ma need made in Dahomey, not by Mattel and Disney.
If Bobby had a choice, Ken would have looked more like Ali or Denzel or that fine ass dark chocolate British cat Idris Elba. He would have been melanated, not barely suntanned, and by no means would he have seemed more like holiday tissue wrap than 150 grit sandpaper. He would have been swashbuckling like Marvel's T'Challa, woke like Tupac, and standing on business like Brother Malcolm. She would have kissed that man with unretouched, un-Botoxed black girl lips, lush and full as a tropic rainforest. She would have engulfed her man in every quaking inch of the last poet's black thighs. If you don't know, YouTube it. She wouldn't have no need of a Brazilian butt lip, or a Beverly Hills boob job, or an Adobe photo job session. Mother Africa and a generous genome took care of all of that. You feel me?
If Barbie had a choice, you would never have been able to buy her at Toys R Us, F.A.O. Schwartz, or Mary Arnold's. She wouldn't have been a fake trophy bride, a chick on the side, or a Bonnie for Clyde. She wouldn't have been an American Girl Addie, a hot Lana Batty, or a Dance Moms Maddie. She wouldn't have been It Girl Mongo Robbie, and Cherry Pies Barbie, or a P. Diddy Harby. I'ma close the flow with a bit more rhyme, just a few bronze bars to end this time. A new newbie and Bobby wouldn't stand for nonsense. A brother's pursuit couldn't sit on the fence. Her womanly wiles would be truly immense. A player would just find her game too intense, with never a true shot at love's recompense. Though he might pull up in a Bentley or Rolls, he'd lose by a landslide at a real Queens pole. A new Nubian Barbie would demand respect. She wouldn't suffer abuse or neglect. She'd fight for her own like the Agoge elite. She wouldn't be tamed, demure, or petite.
No, things would be different on this I make bet. A pimp or a hustler would not be a threat. As fine as the print on the national debt, her beauty and wisdom would not break a sweat. That glitzy white Barbie might have a toy jet, but she hasn't landed a soul plane yet. My African queen makes the real kings forget, though she might want to keep that fly pink Corvette. All right. Okay. All right. All right. All right. All right. All right. All right. All right. Okay. I see you getting with the program. I got you. Okay. I like it. I like it. I like it. Okay. So, so I said like, like everything wasn't going to be necessarily sweet and funny. So, you know, there's going to be some serious stuff happening up in here, up in here. This piece is called Black Seeds.
Oh yeah. That's the trouble with poets is everything's on paper and people gotta fish through it to try and figure out where the heck they're at. I know I do. So. That good? Part of the problem is that many of you can only take this black thing in very small doses. You don't want no protesting, no addressing, and no investing. You need that Aunt Jemima black, that Uncle Ben's black, that Steppen Fetchit black, that Clarence Thomas black, that Booker T black, that In Denial black versus that Unapologetically black.
You kind of thrown by that Nina Simone black, by that James Baldwin black, by that Muhammad Ali black, by that Dubois and Robeson black, by that Toni Morrison black, by that Angela Davis black, that Huey Newton black, that Malcolm X black, that John Carlos Tommy Smith and Colin Kaepernick black, by that straight ghetto black, by that self-loving black, by that slaves that fought back black, by that y'all can kiss my butt black. We not living in the politically correct right now. We not driving on the safe side of diversity, equity, and inclusion. This ain't about humility and assimilation. This ain't about wholesale incarceration. This ain't about making folks feel comfortable. We not claiming that people of color posturing. We're stepping into the dangerous waters. We're talking buy black, for black, be black. Black music, unadulterated. Black literature, unexpurgated. Black art, un-eviscerated. Black love, un-emasculated. Black thought, un-eradicated.
Love me some Diane Carroll, but this ain't the Julia season. Love me some Claire Huxtable, but this ain't the Crosby show season. Love me some Johnny Mathis, but this ain't the wonderful, wonderful season. Love me some Tiger Woods, but this ain't no country club season. Love me some Ray Childs, but this ain't no America the Beautiful season. Love me some Paul Lawrence Dunbar, but this ain't no cabin and field season. See, the worst of your kind has got it in for the best of our kind, for our women, for our children, for our history, for our legacy, for our accomplishments, for our neighborhoods, and our villages, and our faith, and our truth. You can grudgingly admire the superstars, the prize winners, the great entertainers and champions, the high achievers, the big earners, and the brand names, until the unforgivable blackness rears its ugly head. Then hate drowns out the love for Oprah, for LeBron, for Spike, for Denzel, for Jim Brown, for Serena and Venus, for Chuck D and Tupac, for Barack and Michelle, for Marvin Gaye and MLK.
You want to ban real blackness. Real black books, real black heroes, real black role models, real black warriors, real black kings and real black queens trying to bury us without realizing that all you're doing is planting seeds. And like the main ingredient sang back in the day, listen to the stories the drums sell. Black seeds keep on growing. Critical race theory explains it well. Black seeds keep on growing. You shrug your shoulders and scream, what the hell? Black seeds keep on growing. Pavlov would instruct you, just listen to the bell. Black seeds keep on growing.
These my guys, Jonathan Fagan on piano. Our Greg, the real Greg, Greg Toro on the big sexy bass. Go ahead and angle guys, patting them real good right now. Sure you get them up, get them up. And I'm Terry E. Codd, I go by the brown skin poet, okay? I've got books, right? If you're interested in reading a little bit of what I'm saying, they're up on the table there. My people back there, they'll sell them to you. They really, they will, they'll sell them right to you, right? Take your wallet out, whatever, you know, and they'll just take your money. They like that.
All right, so Jonathan and I are gonna do another duet, okay? And this one is called Blended, and you'll see what I'm talking about. Okay. Am I a chocolate mousse beaten too soundly, or a vanilla souffle that rises profoundly? In utero, in vitro, in the middleness, what came first, the chicken or the egg? In which part, in whose basket, this constant tug of race, culture, language, this socioeconomic soup, this border wall of race, identity, culture, and language, this clamor for identity and certainty in a place to be? me what blood runs in my vein where is the dignity of my name what of pride and honor and shame what euro what afro what gives buy everything try anything why nothing feels quite right Caught between a Plymouth rock and a Harlem hard place, between the Cape Cottage community and the teeming brownstone ghetto. The bone-straight blondness of my hair, the olive eyes and skin so fair, a tragic beauty to compare to what lineage, to which heritage, to whose parentage? Privileged or pariah, I am neither. I feel both. African, American, born again, I am none of these. I am all of these.
The single malt Glenmorangie or the blended Irish whiskey. The Kentucky bourbon or the Mississippi moonshine. Distilled or disdained or dispossessed. Proud papa, two moms, Rolling Stone, or first family. Interracial, integrated, insulated, interesting, isolated, like everyone, unlike anyone. Single mother, strange looks and double takes. Is that your baby? She has your smile, though certainly not your skin. Your kin? Is she really your kin? I hear it again and again. I am blended, simple and complex. I'm Cajun conscript and strangely Tex-Mex. No easy entry in the Rolodex. An axon grave in a circumflex. If the Duke told the story, He'd say, beyond category. A symphony in black and tan with a hiccup of ethnic makeup. Paradoxically power-boiled and child-royal by the red, white, and blue, and the red, black, and green. I'm the American beauty and the African queen. So messy to be caught in between a Plymouth rock and a Harlem hard place. Does anybody really care for the tragic beauty residing there? To what lineage? To which heritage? To whose parentage, privilege, or pariah? I am neither. I feel both. African, American, born again. I am none of these. I am all of these. I am blended. complicated, soul surrendered, impregnated, and upended by the red, white, and blue, and the red, black, and green.
Thank you. Thank you. OK, so we're going to kind of close pretty much where we began, talking about the good aspects of being in covenant, of being in community, and of being in neighborhood. So this piece that we end with is called Neighborhood. Neighborhood is a place where mothers buy extra food for kids that aren't even their own on the premise that they will eventually show up at the door hungry. Neighborhood is grandmas and grandpas that raise their children's children long after they've raised their own. Lovingly, carefully, happily, long after they've raised their own.
Neighborhood is a corner bodega where that nice Spanish man always gave you 10 cents worth of penny candy when all you ever had was a nickel. Neighborhood is a homeowner that doesn't look down his nose at the frazzled renter with the Section 8 and a few kids without a daddy. Neighborhood is the block party that everyone comes to. And nobody calls the cops. No drugs, no guns, no drama. Cooling the gang, earth, wind, and fire, Rick James, Tina Marie, and Chaka Khan, Chaka Khan, Chaka Khan.
Neighborhood knows everybody's name, but isn't collecting big data on anyone. Keeps tabs on strangers, but doesn't discriminate or judge folk by color, or caste, or custom. Neighborhood keeps pies and cookies ready to welcome newcomers, and always has something to invite folk to, and always has something good to eat when you get there. Neighborhood loves all of its children, watches out for all the babies, disciplines fairly, drops dimes liberally, daps up consistently, and marches for justice dutifully.
Neighborhood cares for its sick with homemade chicken soup, ginger tea, flowers, cards, and pastoral visits. never lets you feel lonely, never leaves you alone. Neighborhood laments the loss of its kings and queens reverently, even while it celebrates their lives jubilantly and recollects their ways permanently. Neighborhood has well-worn welcome mats and four-way stop signs, and a community gathering place as the hub of the wheel, and nicknames like The Port, The Coast, and The Ville. Neighborhood says yes more than it says no, chooses love more over hate, never cries when it could laugh, and never laughs when it should cry.
Neighborhood understands the importance of respect, covers everyone with an umbrella, shovels snow for its elders, pronounces your name right, and picks up the poop left by its dogs, small, medium, and large. And no matter where you go, Neighborhood is always the place you call home. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you very much. We are the Ally Project, Gordon Engelgau on drums, Greg Toro on bass, Jonathan Fagan on keys, and me, the brown-skinned poet Terry E. Carter on the word you heard. We thank you for being here at the Medford Jazz Festival today. Couple things, go in and see the folks at the Danish Pastry House. There's still food left and snacks and good stuff to eat. There's still an opportunity for you to donate. As Jonathan said early on, and I repeat, we're free, but we ain't cheap. Okay, take some coin to put this thing on. So if you want to throw a little folded money in the big red box on the stage, that'd be fantastic. Jonathan is here to give some thanks and acknowledgements. Thank you very much. This is my time.