After an uneventful train ride, a good night’s sleep and a thorough workout, I found myself sitting in the hotel lobby at checkout time with my father, listening to the strains of a Duke Ellington song called Come Sunday. We followed the sounds to a meeting area that had been sectioned off for the “All Stars” of the The National Jazz Museum in Harlem, a 10 piece biggish band conducted by Loren Schoenberg. I had no idea that we didn’t have a national jazz museum. It’s one of those things that’s so necessary and basic, like a national blues museum or a national African-American museum. If we had a museum that explained slavery, The Middle Passage and The Black Holocaust, it would probably help a lot of people understand some fundamental issues about this country and exactly why it is that we can’t all get along.

The band sounded dreamy. Herb Jeffries was there, waiting to sing Jump For Joy.  As he moved about, smiling and pleased, he would carefully lean onto a three wheeled rolling contraption, with help from an aide. He’s 84, someone said confidentially.  I didn’t have the heart to tell them that my father—who was walking around unencumbered and fancy-free, looking rather dapper in his suit, making conversation with John Schreiber and generally enjoying himself—was two years older than Mr. Jeffries.

We were taken to The White House through the Northeast Gate, whisked and frisked through security and led into our dressing rooms, which were located on the ground floor and filled with basic snacks and amenities. White House has six floors. Technically, we were on the third one. (Unlike us, the guys had a tv/vcr in their dressing area and a fairly healthy selection of videos.) Of course, I wanted a tour. The White House is basically a walk through our nation’s history, a huge museum/art gallery and a mansion that houses The First Family. A bigger part of the thrill of being there for me was the fine art. It overwhelmed me at every turn. Each room had it’s own past, with unique themes, color schemes and artwork. In a way, it was like several mini-museums in one. While preparations for soundcheck were being made, we were able to wander in and out of The Vermeil Room and The Library. When I asked why there were no books by African American poets, writers or historians, I was told that The Smithsonian choose the material. “I know it’s called The White House but this is an American house and that means it should embrace everyone, least of all, me and mine,” I countered nonchalantly as I perused the bookshelves. “My African ancestors built this country. They built this house. Why am I not included?” It was a rhetorical question, one that needed to be asked. I couldn’t help it.

Eventually, we were led up a wide curved marble staircase and into The East Room where we would perform. The staff moved as one in constant motion in order to finish by an appointed time. Every minute of the President’s day is accounted for with an exactness that was unnerving. This meant that everything was timed with military precision, including us. yes"> There was no room for even so much as a few minutes of lateness. The entire program was only 30 minutes long. There was very little time to soundcheck and rehearse, but it felt as though there was plenty of it. I spent quite some time unaccompanied by security, wandering back and forth through The Blue Room, The Red Room, The Green Room and The Entrance Hall.

After listening to an impromptu mini lecture in The Cross Hall from one of the guides about the various rooms and their historical purposes, I asked him if there was any bust or a plaque of some sort on the premises that honors Benjamin Banneker and his contribution to not only The White House but to the city of Washington, DC. He was baffled. The guide, a good-natured late thirty-something white guy from the region, had never heard of Benjamin Banneker. I looked at him flatly as he sputtered well-rehearsed stats. Until (White) history tells the whole American story, Black History Month ought to last all year long, I thought to myself. After I carefully explained who Benjamin Banneker was, I told him that. He quietly agreed.

There would be full press for this event: local, national and international. They were situated on risers against the wall in the back of the room, their cameras looming over us ominously as we finalized our preparations. As the social secretary placed notes on each seat, I followed her. The President and the First Lady were to sit on the front row, about three feet away from where I’d sing. Next to the First Lady would be the Prime Minister of Panama and next to her would be Condoleeza Rice. Colin Powell would sit over there. I quickly scanned the seats for any other names I recognized. Lynn Swann?! Ken Burns?! The Funk Brothers?! Okay, okay. Now I was getting excited…