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Paz
Finally at home, I lie on my bed blankly. I feel smaller, lighter; or rather the bed feels
enormous around me. Theres no motivation inside me to eat or sleep, and not even Paz can alleviate
the spell Im in.
Waitnot even Paz can help?
My iPod is connected to a speaker next to me and I cut it on. Self-Portrait in Four Colors
shows on the screen. I love this song. It moves beautifully like a painter, brush in hand, capturing a
most fascinating face. The face is unique with dimples, asymmetries and other imperfections. It
reminds me of my ownfreckled although black and completely unlike my mothers. Even my
lighter skin tone has always created an unspoken stratification between her and me. Pazs song is
dissonant as if to keep that particular face aloofas if it held a story that could never be truly
expressed.
As Im listening, a huge discrepancy arises between my memory of this song and what Im
actually hearing. Im taken aback by the noise thats protruding from the speakers. Its cacophonous
and lacks any of the rhythm or beauty I remember from before. I turn it up. I skip to the middle. It
sounds worse.
Its almost as if the instruments are arguing. The drums have no real intention of keeping
timeinstead resorting to sporadic bursts of angry percussive force. The horns do not travel in line
as they usually do. Saxophones, clarinets and trumpets heave in ways that are neither melodious nor
harmonious. Its a bastardization of the song I once lovedI cannot make out any skeleton of its old
self, and eventually I cannot even remember what its old beauty sounded like. The thin strands of
wire holding note to note are being snapped with large clippers right before me.
I become frightened. My heart falls low in my chest and Im nauseated. I feel a lump in my
throat and big hot tears behind my eyes. I throw the iPod with its speakers across the room where I
hear it and the music shatter.
Mom rushes in wondering what the commotion is. Seeing the immense pain on my face, she
takes me right back to the hospital.
* * *
Paz Randolph Nollan. Even his name acted as a sort of endorphinmachine that made me
flushed, full and relieved. His musics effect on me was not something that could be described with
ease. His was a jazz musicians jazz. I had listened to him for as long as I could rememberMom
would cook and clean while dancing to the frivolous syncopations and crescendos. And when a sad
song worked though our withering speakers, Mom would grab me and wed do a sort of lilting waltz
where wed always hit the two and four.
It was just the two of us, me and Mom, but with Paz it made three. The musics constant
presence made our small apartment less barren. The brown cabinets suddenly became a cherry wood
and the floors seemed polished anew. The cold dissipated and warmth traveled around each room
like a welcomed guest.
But Mom didnt see it exactly the same as I didshe liked his music for the fun of it and
nothing else. It almost seemed like I was the only one who could really appreciate Paz for who he
wasa true genius. His image permeated my binder covers, phone screen and bedroom wall. The
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clothing I chose was always inspired by him; if not it was always something I thought he would like.
To top it off, my hair was natural like Pazs, and I was constantly trying to ignore Moms very
obvious glances toward the hot comb in the house. There were always more important things Mom
would rather have me obsessed with: cooking, cleaning, Jesus or schoolwork. Even so, I was too
busy learning everything I could that had to do with Paz. As a kid, I knew he would always be my
favorite and I still havent gotten off that, it was just a matter of Mom getting accustomed to my
fascination for Paz.
I really didnt ask her for much. She was a nanny and I was a high school senior. She was
probably used to mouthy kids and unmotivated teens but that doesnt mean she tolerated it. There
was this weird tension between us every time we talkeda little like she was holding a grudge
against me. It was probably because Id grown up on my own and she had so little to do with it. My
grades were good and I took care of myself. She never really had the time to come to the parent-
teacher nights or any of the various soccer games or choir performances Id had throughout the years.
I doubt shed met any of my friendsor cared. She never wondered what classes I was taking so I
never told her. She never asked if I needed any advice so I never needed any. Mom had a lot on her
plate and I on mine so it was probably for the best. Id bet she just felt an inescapable obligation to
see me through until the end.
I didnt look like her much either. She was short and dark-skinned with a tired square face
and rough hands. Her hair was straightened, which I saw as a sort of cop out on her part. I was almost
the opposite with my fair skin and bright face. I kept my hair big and free. But if there was one thing
Mom and I did have in common it was our gaitalways confident and with a purpose. In other
words, both of us were hard-headed.
Recently, it seemed that the tension between us had escalated. All of a sudden, she felt like
she needed to be involved in my life. It felt fake. Shed probably caught on to the fact that she hadnt
really been there and wanted to make up for it before I left for college. On top of that, I could tell she
just wanted credit for all the hard work Id been through. I get that its tough to be a single mother
but what about being the child of a single mother? I never complained and I learned from other
peoples mistakes on top of my own. It had gotten bad, though. She would say one thing and I would
go off on her even if she didnt mean it that way. I would say one thing and shed go off on me the
same way I did. Wed have straight-up yelling matches at this point and more and more did I want to
move out and just fill my whole life with Paz. That way I wouldnt have to hear her run her mouth
over the tiniest things.
Her car broke down. She wanted to use the one I worked to get after all my time cashiering at
McDonalds. We got into a fight again and eventually reached a compromise. Id drive her to work
and then go to school. Id pick her up later at night when she got off. Shed text me. Id text back. It
was a solution we could have come up with without fighting. The fighting was exhausting and
terrifying and it never ended well. It exacerbated even the smallest wounds and showed the ugliest
parts of both of us. The next day Id be up earlier than usual. I slept.
* * *
I turned up the music. It always felt good to drive my own car and listen to the songs I
wanted. As the music surrounded me I was reminded again of why driving was one of my favorite
past-times. I was driving Mom to the house she worked at, and even though I was ensconced in my
favorite sounds, the air also carried a different sort of feeling.
What the hell, Mom said as she glared at the stereo.
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Whats wrong? My blood pressure rose and I could already feel my heart beating faster. It
was early in the morning but I was always ready for an argument.
Why cant we listen to anything else? Why cant you listen to anything else?
Of course I could listen to other songs, but why would I? Especially when I was the one
driving. I gripped the steering wheel, a hard plastic, and sang along a little bit. Just because I could
fight didnt mean I wanted toitd ruin my whole day. I jumped into the song mid phrase and ended
on my favorite line: I know I hold you too tight, but I just cant seem to get close enough.
She wasnt as excited as I was. She looked out the window. A smirk spread on her face, wide
enough that I could see it out the corner of my eye.
What if there were no more songs?
I adjusted in my seat. What do you mean? Like if he stopped making music? He hasnt
made a new song in years, you know.
No, what if all of his songs were erased and no one had them? What would you do?
That wouldnt happen! I was already defensive and she was getting more and more
annoying.
Of course I know it wouldnt! But what if it did? Answer my question.
After more protests, I knew she wasnt going let me avoid the issue. I began my spiel on how
he was the greatest musician to ever walk the earth, how he revolutionized music as we know it and
how he managed to be a proponent of the civil rights movement all at the same time. She, on the
other hand, remarked that shed heard it all and that he didnt really matter, he was old and irrelevant
and would probably die soon. Our voices got louder and louder. Spit flew from our mouths; she
started doing that thing where she claps while talking. I was scowling at her and she was scowling at
me and then I felt my seat belt become infinitely tighter.
I saw Moms face contort in a way Id never seen. I heard the screech of tires and the crash of
metallic bodies. Before I realized what had happened I saw every single piece of shattered glass
suspend in the air and then darkness.
* * *
I awoke to see Mom, with only a few scratches, hovering over me. Her face held another
expression Id never seen. It was a picture that switched from immense worry to focus and then to
relief. She looked in the nurses direction and said something, the nurse exited the room and a doctor
walked in to peer into my face himself. Energy rushed into me and I began to rouse. I sat up and was
fussed over; people left and entered the room with papers and chatter and finally a cup of water.
Dr. Shah introduced himself to me. He talked to me slowly, rightly so, and I took in each
word the same way a small child might. I was still in a daze but his words seemed reassuring from
what I could see on Moms face. Later, when I was fully to, I learned of a serious concussion, a
broken tibia, a rib fracture and a probable lawsuit. I ran a red light without even knowing it and got t-
boned pretty hard.
After some tests and a few nights sleep, maybe one or two I wasnt sure, a nurse discharged
me from the hospital. It seemed Mom had borrowed a car from a friend for the day. She turned on the
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radio and I cut it off immediately. Unless it was Paz, I wasnt in any kind of mood for music. I was
listless and dazed and stressed. It was all very exciting but I couldnt help but see it as a burden. Now
there were two broken cars and worst of all two ladies, a mother and a daughter, with a lot of time to
spend together in an effort of rehabilitation.
Returning to the quiet apartment, I was relieved to find my own bed. In the silent air, without
a voice of any kind, I made my way to my room knowing that something was off.
* * *
I look at Dr. Shah. My reflection in his thick glasses is ghastly. My eyes are sunken and red.
My hair looks as if it was clawed at. Im thinner than I remember, and sadder.
He takes a bunch more tests, probing me here and there and taking my blood some.
Eventually, he asks me what the problem is. Paz isnt working, thats the problem. Dr. Shah takes me
to a room with a monitor in it and I drop into a chair. The task is simple: two tones will play. Decide
whether the second tone is at a higher or lower pitch than the first. It sounds so basicDr. Shah
begins.
Two tones play. They end before I realize theyve begun. I squint some and I ask for them to
be repeated, where Im met with the very proper answer of Do your best.
H-higher, I hesitate, knowing that lower was just as good an answer.
He plays two more tones. They sound alike and different all the sameas if my ears become
numb just as soon as they begin to play.
Higher again.
I guess on each one of the ten pairs of tones. I look at my feet and know that something is
very wrong with my brainsomething is very wrong with me. We do another test after that. Two
rhythms play side by side and I must decide whether they are the same or not. I perform just as well
as the last. My heart enters a chasm as the truth begins to reveal itself.
Dr. Shah begins to explain amusia. Its a neurological disorder that affects musical
recognition. Most people who have it are born with it, but in a few cases, its acquired after a brain
injury. I guess Im the lucky one. Amusia encompasses various forms of tone deafness and rhythm
deafness. It rarely comes in the form of total amusia: the complete lack of ability to recognize music
as music. Again, Im the lucky one.
We run more tests but Im deflated. Dr. Shah must have seen it on my face, so he cuts the
visit short and allows me to head home with Mom. In the silent car Im still in shock. Ive never
imagined my life without musicwithout Paz.
Were home. Mom and I walk into the reticent apartment, going through familiar motions,
and stop in the foyer. Mom turns to look at me with her tired square face and sad eyes. She holds on
to me as I begin to cry. Her rough hands are familiar. I remember her holding me when I was
youngerwhen we danced and laughed together. I cant help but reciprocate the embrace. Holding
her there, I realize how small she isor rather how big Ive gotten. I feel her warmth like a small
bird in my hands, and soon I feel soft quivers as she joins me in tears. I grab her hands and smile a
sad smile. I lead her in a sort of lilting waltz and I do my best to hit the two and four, but I dont
know what Im doing. She smiles back and takes the lead; the sounds of a trumpet or a saxophone,
coupled with a drum and the plucks of a deep sonorous upright bass are lost to me.