Little Drummer Boy
It's beautifully symptomatic"
- Human, by Brooke Fraser
On Sundays I attend a large, charismatic church with the Casa Gabriel boys. Each of the three services packs in about 500 people: I've arrived late before and had to stand against the wall, the services are that full. Worship is a forty-five minute celebration. On stage, there always at least two dancers, twirling with flags or scarves. There can be as many as ten singers, several guitarists, a drummer, pianist, and one-to-three saxophonists. My favorite part? The pastor is one of the saxophonists. He wears a hat when he plays, then takes it off when he stands up to preach. I love it. Makes me happy every single Sunday.
Last Sunday I was standing with two of the Casa G boys, singing, when I noticed the flash of drumsticks three rows ahead of me. A teenage boy was sitting and drumming in the air along with the music. The drummer on stage was enjoying a particularly enthusiastic part of the song, and the boy in front of me was just as excited, if not more so. When he turned his head, I noticed the almond eyes of Down Syndrome. As the drummer on stage faded into the music, solo over, the boy continued to tap his sticks into the air, quietly entertaining himself. He glanced around the room, one of the few sitting down amidst a sea of people standing, singing, and clapping. The drumming seemed to be the only thing which truly interested him. I wished for another drum solo. I wanted to see him light up again, grinning widely as he abandoned himself to drumming the air with a purity of joy rarely expressed so openly in public. Instead, the music ended and everyone sat down. I lost sight of him among the crowd, and in trying to concentrate on the Spanish sermon.
Not long after the sermon started, there was a loud, high laugh from the back of the church, followed by several other outbursts. People around me looked back, muttering about the interruption. Soon after, a teenage girl was escorted outside. She was giggling, and as she was led out it was obvious that her gait was stilted, uneven, something effecting the muscle control in her legs and arms. She too, it seemed, had some sort of mental challenge. For the boy, his drumsticks were enough to keep him occupied, at least that morning. The girl however wasn't so easily distracted.
I wish it didn't matter. I wish that, just as I loved to see the boy with his drumsticks, we all could just smile with understanding when a girl in the back breaks out in a high laugh, however ill-timed. Yet I too was looking around, thinking, "Who is laughing and why? Can you calm down and let people focus?" Instead we have our social norms and expectations. Anything outside of that, it seems, needs to be taken quietly outside.
I love that the boy's parents let him bring his drumsticks to church. I love that he sat and drummed the air, so happy. I even love that the girl in the back was laughing, of all things. It had a happy sound to it, those high outbursts. Whatever was going on in her head was amusing, and she couldn't help but express it. I hope to hear her laugh again, and as I'm standing in church singing along with the large band on stage, watching the dancers twirl up front, I hope to see the flash of drumsticks, and the smile of a boy who drums the air with contagious enthusiasm.
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