What A Lionel Richie Concert Taught Me About Black History

The Torch That Outshines The Trauma

Through the ear of memory I can travel back in time to 1977 and still hear every beat, note, and lyric of the R & B hit, “Brick House”, play in my mind. It was released that year by The Commodores, the R&B funk band through which I was first introduced to the musical talents of Lionel Richie. 

The soulful sounds of ‘70’s R & B music comprise much of the soundtrack of my youth. It’s the sound of humid south Georgia summers spent at the home of my Grandmother, Olivia, for whom I’m named.

It’s the sound of her front porch swing, noisily gliding back and forth, powered by the push of my 11 year old feet. It’s the sound of nuts from her pecan tree being cracked, green beans from her garden being snapped, and sweet tea from her pitcher being poured — causing ice cubes to crackle and pop.  It’s the sound of nostalgia!

When Lionel Richie left The Commodores to pursue a solo career, my admiration for his talent grew exponentially. His solo hits were a welcome addition to the soundtrack of my childhood— a new collection of songs that became the soundtrack of my adolescence.

As a lifelong fan, I was thrilled to see him perform live in my home city — just before he turned 70.

Time has been GOOD to him! 

He radiated an “on stage” energy that belied his age, and showed he is still a skillful master of the piano keyboard, and still able to hit every high and low note within his vocal range.

Fans were treated to a delightful blend of song, dance, and piano — which was expected. But between songs, he told stories; sharing verbal vignettes from memorable experiences, which was NOT expected.

One heart rending recollection was about the confusion experienced by his childhood self as he accompanied his father on an afternoon errand in his hometown of Tuskegee, Alabama.

Lionel witnessed a perplexing verbal exchange between a teenaged white male and his father—taking note of several behavioral anomalies.

• His father looked down the entire time rather than making direct eye contact. 

• His father addressed the young man as “sir” despite being many decades his senior. 

• His father did not correct the young man on the degrading language used to address him nor the disrespectful manner in which it was done.

Lionel had been taught that respect for elders by children was non-negotiable, and seen it swiftly corrected and punished if it happened.

“Why didn’t you say something daddy?”, he recalled asking when they returned home. “Why did you let him talk to you that way?”

His father’s response was Lionel’s introduction to systemic racism and initiation into the harsh reality of life as a black man, in the racially volatile Jim Crow south.

“Because I want to live to see you graduate from high school!" was his father’s somber and straightforward reply.

When Lionel shared his father’s “why”, a silence descended over the arena; a palpable stillness that transcended the absence of noise.

A realization dawned on me as I reflected on this memory through the clarifying lens of hindsight. The story Lionel shared was not an antiquated tale from the distant past. The described event happened NOT that long ago, in Tuskeegee, Alabama -- which geographically, is NOT that far away.

Generational trauma is real. Racial trauma is real. But generational STRENGTH and RESILIENCE are also real!

Lionel’s point in sharing this story was NOT to lament his father’s humiliation. It was to celebrate the wisdom, self-control, and love his father demonstrated in setting pride and ego aside for the greater purpose of living to raise his son to adulthood.

The question of how my forebears endured the crushing racial oppression under which they lived and labored, has frequently risen in my mind. Strength and resilience are a big part of the answer. My experience living life in America, in a body sheathed in Black skin, pales in comparison to that of the courageous souls who preceded me in my family’s lineage.

I never had to drink from a “Coloreds” water fountain. 

I never had to relinquish my seat to a white person on a bus or train.

I never had to consider death a potential consequence of exercising my right to vote.

I never had police dogs and fire hoses loosed on me while peacefully protesting.

I  never lived in fear of finding a loved one strung up on a tree, their limp, lifeless body dangling like strange fruit, a hangman’s noose having extinguished their precious life force.

Centuries of ancestral racial trauma of this nature are an unfortunate part of my familial inheritance. But my forebears passed on more than trauma. Ancestral STRENGTH and RESILIENCE are also part of that inheritance. They illuminate the path of healing and beckon me to follow it. That is the torch that outshines the trauma!