She sits at the corner of Elmwood and Marion, low-slung and unassuming, a stone’s throw from the red dome marking the old lunatic asylum on Bull Street (not to be confused with the other domed asylum, on Gervais). Unless you’re looking for her, she’s easy to miss. The hand-painted sign out front is dimly lit and reads simply GROW — Grass Roots Organizing Workshop.
It’s Thursday evening, and traffic is thinning on Elmwood Avenue. The setting sun is reflected in the building’s front window, streaking it copper and gold. The door is propped open, letting in a blessed breeze and a slow trickle of musicians setting up for the night’s show.
Chris trundles in with his upright, fires up the sound system, adjusts mics, turns on some background music, classic jazz. Antron and Ken come in, carrying music stands and their saxophones, followed by Dionne, who sets up her keyboard under the unblinking gaze of a pensive MLK. Joe makes several trips to his car to set up his drum kit. Geoff unpacks his guitar and settles onto a stool in the corner. Seitu makes the rounds, dispensing hugs, and pleasantries. Sara wanders in with a bag of tangerines and fresh outrage about the day’s news.
My husband, Brett Bursey, stocks the bar and preps the cash drawer. I rearrange the tables that were moved when the peace group met here two days ago, and plug in the sound-activated disco lights. I set out fresh water and ice. Wash grapes, slice pound cake, arrange cookies on a platter.
I never tire of the ritual, or the people. By now, they feel like family, and this corner of Columbia feels like home. For three years, we have gathered here twice a month for jazz workshops. In August, we added blues to the menu, so we now offer live music every Thursday night. It is a joyful noise — loud enough to mute, if only for a few hours, the freak show raging outside.
The free jam sessions have cultivated a loyal following, with seasoned professionals sharing the stage with young talent. There is a generosity of spirit on stage and in the audience that favors participation over flawless performance. Because you never know who is going to show up, the shows are always fresh. Sometimes, they are pure magic.
A friend calls it therapy. She is not alone. So many of us are craving connection in these socially fractured and politically dangerous times. Gathering like this feels like resistance.
The regulars begin to arrive. Patricia and William secure their favorite table in back. The single ladies gravitate to the stuffed chairs by the window. There’s lovely Toni, and radiant Maris, and sweet Fran with her street-wise Pomeranian, Tito. There’s Nancy and Curt, who plays a mean sax. Our former neighbor, Stan, has brought with him a visiting relative. Femi stops by the bar to donate two bottles of Cabernet. Others leave offerings on the food table. The snacks and beverages are free, but an old-school piggy bank welcomes donations.
By now, most visitors know that GROW is meat-free, for reasons listed on a sign next to the kitchen (in short because we care about the planet, animals, and public health). To help drive the point home, there is a picture of a pig wearing a flower crown that reads, ransom-note style, KiLL the PAtriaRchy, NoT PiGs.
First-timers are as easy to spot as tourists in Rome. They stand in the back or perch on the settee in the hall, taking it all in. The variegated crowd. The raft of musicians up front. The handouts by the door promote meetings and events. The shelves stuffed with history books and biographies. The walls are papered with flyers, postcards, and old posters — No Nukes, ERA YES, Save the Whales, Bob Dylan, Bob Marley, Jimi Hendrix — and portraits of Che, Robert Smalls, Frederick Douglass, Sarah and Angelina Grimké.
A large chart illustrates the state’s gerrymandered legislature, a grim pictograph of our rigged system.
