The Beat of My Own Drum by Sheila E. Read Free Book Online Page B

locked my secret deep away inside me for so long, never realizing what damage it was doing.
    In my thirties, after decades of venting my emotions through hitting a drum, I rediscovered that sweet little girl inside me. I now know in my heart that she was never to blame.
    Music helped me to move beyond the events of that night and to no longer allow them to define who I am.

6 . Rest
    An interval of silence of a specified duration
Sometimes raging wild
Sometimes swollen high
Never once I’ve known this river dry
“RIVER GOD”
SHEILA E (WRITTEN BY NICHOLE NORDEMAN)
    A fter a short stay in our next home, which we always refer to as the White House (and which we left after Juan and Peter Michael started a fire in the bedroom that burned half of it down), we moved to my favorite home—a house on East Twenty-first Street in East Oakland.
    Our new address was right across the street from my uncle Coke, who was a loving and fun presence in our lives. Coke’s real name was Thomas, but he was given the nickname after a winning horse called Coco Mo Joe for some reason no one can recall. Later, when he became a party animal and known for his love of alcohol and recreational drugs, his name suited him more and more. Everybody loved Coke—he was a sweetheartand, although he ended up a substance abuser, we always think of him fondly.
    Although I was still haunted by the Bad Thing and scared of the dark, I longed to put the memories behind me and start afresh. All I needed to heal was right there within our four new walls, and it felt to me like a place where I could learn to smile again.
    Pops was always looking for work and we weren’t much better off financially, but we did have some of our happiest times there. We’d belly-laugh together at our favorite TV shows, we played with the neighborhood kids, and we devoured Moms’s special-recipe meals, including her famous chili beans and rice, potato salad, or tortilla creations dressed with mayonnaise.
    As soon as anyone walked in the door, Moms would ask, “Are you hungry?” We never knew how she whipped up a full meal in ten minutes when there never seemed to be enough in the fridge. And, of course, there was always music, which continued to provide a constant source of pleasure and—for me—salvation.
    Just as before, our home was rarely empty, and the door stayed open, especially in the summer. Almost every night there were parties and jam sessions whenever friends and family dropped in to eat, drink, and play.
    Pops’s fellow band musicians continued to rehearse with him in our tiny front room, but his bands grew bigger and bigger as more people wanted to join. One night they had timbales, congas, bongos, singers, dancers, horn players, guitar, bass, and piano all squeezed into one room.
    My brothers and I would peek out from our bedroom door to watch them play, or—if it was especially good—we’d wander out in our pajamas.
    “Why aren’t you in bed?” the adults would ask.
    “Can’t sleep.” (What child could when there was a live band in the front room?)
    Giving in to our pleading, the grown-ups would often let us stay. There wasn’t exactly a lot of structure in our house—even on school nights—although we must have got used to late-night jamming as lullabies or we’d never have slept.
    On the rare occasions that we had the place to ourselves, Juan, Peter Michael, and I would put on our favorite records. The very first 45 single I bought was Edwin Starr’s “25 Miles” from the little record store on East Twenty-first Street. Sometimes we even played our own discs when Pops was home, so at any one time there might be his Latin music blaring in the front room while my brothers and I were in our room trying to drown him out with the Temptations or James Brown.
    We must have driven the neighbors crazy with the sounds of overlapping musical genres—a strong mix of clave and congas and a hearty bass line blasting out of the open windows. In other words,