ST. ELIZABETH S OUND DANIELLE NEIL
T
he spicy fragrance of curry goat wafted from the stove, my father watching it with generous intent. The sounds of “Buffalo Soldier,” “Is This Love,” then “Hilly and Gully Ride” played from the speakers next to him as he swayed his hips in the same fashion that he stirred his wooden spoon. Sundays were for gospel, but this was Saturday, reggae day: I would spend my day surrounded by the steady beat of island drum and the all-too-familiar rasp of Bob Marley’s voice. “Jamaicans must kno’ how fi’ hold wa’ riddim,” my father always told me. And maybe it was because of him, because Jamaican sounds are rooted in inhumane journeys across the Atlantic, singing to endure hard days of toiling under the blistering heat of sun, that my days became rhythms, that my world is filled with sounds. It’s why I dream of the sound of breeze whisking across my grandmother’s tin roof, the tempo of waves crashing against my uncle’s fishing boat.
My world of sound has taught me that every parents’ favorite phrase might be true, with a bit of slight modification: what goes in one ear may go out the other, but it then travels into the ears of another waiting to listen. It has rooted in me a love for listening, a love for words, things people can move to, connect with. It’s embedded within me a passion to use my voice, and to make others’ voices heard: to create things that others can listen to and learn from. With sound—Jamaican sound— the framework of my mind, memories of listening follow me from the delightful jingle of an approaching Korean subway, to the sound of the first G-chord I played on my guitar. Because of Jamaican sounds, I hope to show others the power of that which is heard. Then, along with Bob Marley’s classics, I will be able to listen to new sounds, the powerful sounds of adversity and triumph. Ardent, I can then help others cultivate their own voices, to make noise in the settings they wish, whether this be in politics or their own lyrics. 57