The Kid Inside

I’m singing. 

In my head I am the headliner and playing behind me is Miami Sound Machine circa 1976. 

I’m more in a Renacer type mood than the future Dr. Beat,  but the rhythms of my city have captured my heart. 

I’m eleven years old and the battered ’45 single keeps skipping on the line that says:

‘Live again, live again, live again…’

Gloria Fajardo keeps reminding me to come back to life,  but I haven’t really had a life yet – I am eleven. 

I’m listening to music in the room to the left of the front door where we have placed the console turntable where we play our records. 

It is early morning and I’m home by myself, everyone is out of the house for some reason or another. 

On Saturday mornings I should be watching Big Blue Marble, but instead I’m giving an impromptu concert to my imaginary audience and I’m singing in both Spanish and English. 

The volume is on full blast. 

I am the first truly crossover artist. 

I am not a teenager, I am not a kid, my life having given me lessons in hurryupedness to embrace adulthood in the short span of time I’ve been alive. 

I have big dreams and every day the dream changes, but I know I will reach masses and I know I will not be afraid to use my voice. 

Today, I sing. Tomorrow, who knows?

Cut to today and I’m listening to Gloria Estefan in my car telling me how she’s going to turn that beat around and I am immediately taken back to that speck of time that clouds my memory. 

There is so much I could tell that eleven year old kid and yet I know he’s heard it all from me already. 

Her’s been with me forever. 

He’s still here. 

Interestingly enough, at fifty or at eleven, I’m still looking for my voice and I’m still singing. 

Except now, that kid inside, he’s singing for you. 


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