“Are both of you from across the pond?”
“Yeah, mate,” the guy in the wheelchair croaked.
“Well then, welcome to Day-trois,” I said, affecting what I hoped passed for a French accent and trying to sound as much like an ambassador of goodwill as a Detroiter can.
“Thank you,” they both said, looking past me as some of my students eased up behind me. My students were happy that someone had broken the ice with them. This allowed them to ask the questions that had been on their minds since we walked into the museum, albeit through me.
Who’s this, Mr. Blake? You know them? What’s they name? Why he in that wheelchair? What’re they doin’?
The pair continued to smile, and affected a posture that let me know they were well-acquainted with these questions.
“Being a teacher has somehow liberated me from the name my parents gave me. Now I’m just Mr. Blake, instead of Terrance Blake.” After introducing myself, I introduced my students and explained why we were there.
“’ ello there, glad to meet you all. My name’s Elliot Taylor and this ’ ere’s my daughter, Diana. My wife and I named ’ er after Diana Ross,” the man in the wheelchair rasped out through his face mask proudly. His accent was a lot heavier than hers, yet not the cockney or cartoonish accent that we sometimes hear actors and actresses affect. He straightened up some in his wheelchair and extended his right hand. I took it gently and gave it a shake.
“So where in England are you two from?” I asked, relaxing.
“Spent my ’ole life in London …” He was about to say more but then one of those coughs cut him off.
His daughter rubbed him on his shoulder.
“My father is dying,” she said matter-of-factly, and I did my best not to let my mouth fall open. She said it the same way someone would have said: My father’s name is Elliot, or, I don’t like bananas. I wasn’t surprised. Helen Keller could see that her father was dying. Saying it out loud, however, was like spilling a deep, dark secret that no one wanted to talk about. Psst, hey, I know he’s dying and you know he’s dying, but let’s not talk about it. I wanted to say to her, I know that! You didn’t have to tell me! It seemed that by her saying what we all knew anyway, she somehow betrayed a closeness that we had developed in the short time that we had known each other. I was taken aback, but how does one continue that conversation?
Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that.
Really? Well my father’s still alive and healthy as a bull.
OhmyGod! Whatever he’s dying from isn’t contagious, is it?
I just sat there not saying anything. I looked into both of their faces trying to ascertain whether or not they wanted to continue talking, or was this her way of killing conversation. Her smile was certainly gone. If this was her way of killing a conversation, it sure worked, her pronouncement being right up there behind, I’m sorry to inform you, Mr. Blake, but it’s malignant, on the list of Great Conversation Killers of the twentieth century.
Elliot broke the uncomfortable silence.
“’S okay, mate, I’m living out the rest of my days the way I want to,” he said, producing a genuine half-smile on his face. I looked at him closely, trying to see any sign of a man who was patronizing and didn’t.
“I’m … I’m sorry,” I said, not really knowing what I was saying.
“My father grew up listening to Motown music,” Diana began, thankfully moving the subject in another direction. “I guess I did as well,” she said, lifting the pall out of the air with her smile. “The words, the beats, the singers, and the way they danced, they were all so … so magnificent. I remember ’aving always ’ eard this music when I was young.” Diana looked around lovingly. “’ e and my mum were always singing and dancing to this music.” At this she threw her left hand on her hip and stuck her right arm out with her hand up like a crossing guard. She began shaking her hips to an unheard beat. “Stop! In the name of love, bee-fore you break mah heart,” she sang. She didn’t sound like Diana Ross. She sounded like a British teenager trying to sound like Diana Ross.
Behind me a couple of my students finished the song off for her, doing a pretty fair job of sounding like TLC trying to sound like the Supremes.
“Think it oh-oh-ver. ”
Elliot tilted his head and began nodding to the beat, his eyes glazed in dreamy memories. Looking at his face, I saw in it his love for the music. Elliot looked a lot less sick than he had when I first laid eyes on him. What was he seeing in his mind’s eye — Diana Ross singing on The Ed Sullivan Show? Or was he possibly reminiscing about himself and his wife during a younger, happier time? What was it like to experience the Motown Sound over in merry old England? I wondered. Whatever he was thinking about, it made a difference on his face immediately, and I was thankful for that.
“This was a place my dad always wanted to visit. ’ e always talked about coming ’ ere one day with my mum. When ’ e took ill, our family decided that ’ e’d get to see some a the places ’ e always wanted to,” Diana said proudly as she massaged her father’s shoulders. “We got the money together and flew ’im over. My mum couldn’t make the trip. She’s at ’ome with my sister and brother. I took some time off from school ’cause ’ e needs someone to be with ’im. We decided that this was one of the things that dad would see …” Diana said, trailing off.
My students all sighed.
“That is sooo cool,” I heard a couple of them say.
“This place ’as meant a lot to me. Being ’ ere, in this city, in this ’ouse … I feel like I’m standing in some sacred or ’oly place. Ya know, when I was a young child, I used to look at pictures of this building in old magazines that my parents used to keep back ’ome,” Diana said with a voice that reverberated with real awe.
I was in awe as well, but for different reasons. I was trying to work out in my mind why anyone would want to come to Detroit. I was someone who couldn’t wait to leave and generally dreaded coming back. My mind kept flipping to the question: If I only had a couple of moments left on this earth, where would I go? Detroit was right up there, sandwiched between Bosnia and Haiti on my list of gotta-see destinations! What about the Grand Canyon, Africa, the Alps, or taking a swim in the Caribbean, where the water is turquoise and the temperature of bath water? My God, I could think of so many other things to do and certainly other places to see.
“Hitsville?” I said.
“Ummm-huh, ’itsville, Motown, Dee-troit, Michigan. I know Detroit, Michigan doesn’t show up on a lot of travel brochures, but ya should see ’ow many people travel to Liverpool all the time!” Diana said plainly, as she was obviously picking up on my amazement. “I mean, I know a lot of people who travel from England to Memphis every year, just to visit Graceland!” Now it was her turn to be incredulous.
“Yeah, and that’s just the place where Elvis died,” Elliot said.
“Different stuff means different things to people, don’t it, Mr. Blake?” one of my kids said.
“Some people used to say: Diff’rent strokes for diff’rent folks,” Elliot added, grinning knowingly at me.
“Ya know, for people who cared, for people who loved the artists and the music, there’s bunches to see and do ’ ere. My dad wants to see the places where they grew up — to walk where they walked, eat where they ate. ’ e wants to see and feel what made the music,” she said happily.
What made the music.