Sweet Luke

It was the sound that attracted me, that drew me closer. My parents and I had just left a play that I would soon forget, but what happened next would be something I would remember forever. There in the middle of Times Square, we heard the sweet sound of the saxaphone and I was drawn closer. After he finished playing Coltrane, we began to talk. He didn’t tell me his name but when later asked he told me that his friends called him Sweet Luke. With this simple gesture, I felt like I’d known him for years. Like he was a family friend, like he was my friend. He told us his favorite song and he may have told us something else but all I could remember was the name Sweet Luke. I was mystified. I was around nine and I had just started to play the saxaphone. I tried to tell everyone about Sweet Luke, my saxaphone teacher and my grandfather. If my life was a book this would be a most resonating moment. Seven years later, on a long car ride my mom and I were having a discussion about people who have innately influenced us, people who are a part of our Karass. Surprising both of us, I said Sweet Luke, someone who shared this unique connection with me. I couldn’t explain to her what it was about him. Something about him had subconsciously influenced me for all these years and now, for the first time, I was beginning to understand how. Not the fact that he inspired the way I played saxaphone, but it was the way he had spoken to me. Like I was a fellow musician, a fellow human being. His benevolence was contagious. I felt admiration, admiration for this mysterious person who I had only met once and would probably never met again. Despite accepting that this would be an isolated incident, I had always believed it to be my destiny to meet him again. In some setting we would meet and be able to talk. I would have many more questions for him and hopefully we would become friends. Even though I knew this fate was implausible, I still had hope. Before writing this, I googled Sweet Luke just to see what I would get. One of the top hits was the MySpace page of a musician, called Sweet Luke. My hopes rose and the suspense built up when it was blocked on the school computer and I had to google it on my phone. Maybe I had found him. This extraordinary encounter, that had strangely helped define who I was. Maybe my ridiculous suspicion had come true. I could contact him, most likely he wouldn’t remember me but I would find solace knowing that we were connected. Moving across the room to find service to load this page, to find out if my ridiculous fantasy would somehow be answered. And then it turned out to be some white kid in high school from Illinois. But maybe that’s how it should be. It was just the idea of Sweet Luke, not the whole of him, that was a part of me. Maybe it was best I only knew Sweet Luke, the intriguing musician who treated nine-year olds as one in the same, than Lucas, who plays saxaphone only to get away from it all. To quote When Harry Met Sally (this is actually relevant), when Sally talks about breaking up with her boyfriend Joe she says, “you know what I miss, I miss the idea of him.” I only knew the idea of Sweet Like, but that’s what I missed, his essence and how he made me feel as a kid. How this incredible musician treated me as his equal. Even though I may not have fully understood his affect on me during this car ride, I now know that his reverence and genuine interest has innately influenced me and molded my young, evolving mind.

Why We Weed

The first experience I had with reading was when I was five years old. At this time, my reading ability was behind everyone else in my kindergarten class. I had not watched Sesame Street, and consequently I wasn't familiar with Big Bird nor the lower case letters. Despite not knowing how to read, I was still in love with books; being read them or just looking at their pictures. My favorite book was Owl at Home by Arnold Lobel. I enjoyed his stories about Owl's nighttime adventures, discovering the bumps under his blankets or trying to be both upstairs and downstairs. Not knowing how to read, I liked being read the stories. I would eventually memorize them and then tell them to my mom, trying to convince her that I had learned to read. After taking AP Lit I am now able to fully understand how Owl's troubling tone is supported by his terrified diction and how the Owl's adventures were in fact symbols of present day America. But back then was my first experience enjoying books, without reading.