Jazz

by Sofi M. Weston, MA



The first time I heard jazz I was three years old. Every other weekend, my mother took me to a jazz club in New York City. She would dress me in a GAP dress, french-braid my hair, and take me on the long car ride into the big city. While stopped at traffic lights, my mother would teach me which hand to shake with, and remind me to use "please" and "thank you" when I met her old friends. At the age of three, I was pretty bad at learning all those grown-up things. Instead of being in a club learning how to be older, I would have rather been at home playing with Barbie and Ken.

My mother would often take me to a diner halfway into the city because she knew I didn't like the food at the clubs. I would always get the same thing: a glass of chocolate milk and a grilled cheese. The man behind the counter would say "Hi" to us as we walked in.

When we arrived at the club, people would be waiting outside. My mom and I would walk to the front of the line where the man would nod his head, as if to say, "Go ahead." I always thought this was cutting the line (something that my mother always said was wrong), but she explained that she knew these people and it was okay.

A table in the front would have a little card on top that said "Reserved for MIKELA." First the saxophone would play, then the piano, followed by a trumpet.

Being with my mother was and still is one of the most important things in the world to me. She means so much, and I wouldn't be able to live without her. Now, whenever I hear jazz, I think of the priceless times my mother and I have spent together.