I was born in Africa. My father is an American, my mother Tanzanian. I grew up in the projects in Kansas City, Missouri, where violence and crime were often present and always boiling under the surface. I remember coming home many times not wanting to be around anyone or go outside, and feeling pressure from all directions, that left me feeling helpless and powerless. There was always some crazy story about someone getting hurt, being strung out on drugs, or getting killed. In school, I remember seeing the piano in the band room and begging the band director to let me play it. I didn’t realize this at the time, but I was desperately looking for a way out.
I became obsessed with the piano. Disappearing into the practice room for hours after school gave me peace of mind. Instead of running from the void of obsession, I dived head first into it, giving me peace. In mid-obsession, I am numb all the way around my body. A world with no beginning or end, no limitations, completely boundless and free with a haze glazed over my eyes. The piano became my passion in life. My ticket out.
I had such a natural aptitude for music that my teachers, supporters, and peers would call me a genius. I was, and still am, to some degree, ambivalent about that term. I relished the attention and dreamed that maybe they were right, that there was something different, something important about me. It also separated me in a number of ways from the people I cared about, limiting the personal connection that I yearned for. I made a choice.
In 1999, I attended Berklee College of Music in Boston; in 2001, I moved to New York to attend the Manhattan School of Music. By 2003, I was touring and recording with acclaimed jazz artists, but still had a difficult time surviving. I was contemplating leaving the city. It felt as if the walls were starting to close in on me. The pressure reminded me of my childhood, triggering my urge to obsess. I thought to myself, “I’ve done this with the piano, but this feeling that I am not in control is still present.”
As if I had summoned it, a gig with a “hip-hop” and “B-Boy” group in the Caribbean for a B-Boy battle appeared. By the end of the event, I had fallen in love with breakin (aka breakdancing). The peace I had felt in dance gave me camaraderie with men who, on the street, I may well have considered dangerous. I was satisfied, and for the time being, the beast from the void of my obsession was as well.
Soon after that, my dad had an accident at work and became ill. He was stepping into a new chapter of his life, and I felt a call to be there with him. I decided to return to Kansas City to find a different path in my life.
Upon my return home, I noticed that while my feelings of anxiety had changed, they had not gone away. This time, martial arts stepped in to fill the void. I had practiced the martial arts since I was a child, but it had always taken the back seat to music. Whenever my practice in music was not enough, I would disappear into the martial arts world. In 2005, I became a full-time martial arts practitioner and instructor, competing and winning first place in many tournaments and fighting as a full-contact kickboxer.
All of this time, I was still touring professionally as a jazz musician on a national and international scale. It felt like I was living multiple lives, and I was convinced that I had to maintain my perpetual juggling act for people to like me — and for me to like myself. I remember having a show in LA, and on one of my off days I went to a dojo and engaged in two private full-contact fights. When I say “private,” I mean it was myself and two other marital artists in the whole building. I beat the first one, but the second one defeated me and busted my nose. He was in his sixties and had been training for years — a beautiful experience, actually.
I was able to maintain this rhythm for a while—feel happy. Whenever a new stress would arise I would find a new passion. I could instantly go to my obsessive hazy-eyed state and hyper-focus. For example, my roommate had a Rubick’s Cube. When I picked it up and started playing with it, he joked, “A friend of mine tried that for years, and there is no way you’re going to just figure that out.” That single shot to my ego was all it took;
To my surprise, there were a few places where the obsession to find a solution did not work. One of those places was in a relationship. In 2006, I was in one that had ended for all of the right reasons, but I couldn’t let it go. The same resource that led me to the cultivation of my interests was now feeding my obsession about how my relationship ended. My teachers suggested that I relocate, and I was so desperate for change I could not help but go for it. By the end of 2006 I had moved to Boulder, Colorado as a pianist, martial arts instructor, magician, kickboxer, b-boy, and Rubik’s Cube expert to explore the path of insight in shiatsu and the healing arts.
After almost two years in Boulder, the time had come for me to move back to New York. It was still the same city, but there was great change within me. The healing work that I pursued in Boulder had an incredible impact on my life. I learned that the meanings that I had made of myself were my creations. When I felt alone, it was because of the choices that I had made and not those made by others.
I’ve found that peace of mind comes with obsession, but I’m not sure which comes first. Does my peace of mind result from being hyper-focused? Or do I gain the ability to be hyper-focused when I’m at peace? Fortunately, my need to obsess, and the peace of mind I found in hyper-focusing, overshadowed my fears. There are clearly drawbacks that come with obsession and compulsion, but for me, for my life, I have come to see them as the resources that allowed me to find peace of mind in a world filled with violence, seething anger, and fear. They were ingredients of my survival. They are ingredients in my pursuit of mastery and growth.
There are few greater feelings for me than being able to spin on my head while being in character thinking of musical shapes while coasting through a form of moving meditation. If I had to do it all over again, I would not change a thing. As any obsessive knows, I couldn’t anyway.
