School Marm's Lament
July 9, 1999

My Uncle Sam Quentin Starke had an odd saying: He would say, "We ain't white, we ain't black, we are Starke." As a child I just accepted that we Starkes were a different breed..

Anytime I drifted too far from the Starke family way, I would pay the price. Daddy would beat the black out of me for playing rhythm and blues around the house. When I tried Beach Boys music, I would be sent to my room until I could "get the white out," as Uncle Sam Q would say.

Uncle Sam Q. would grab me by the short hairs and shine a Q-beam in my face: "In the beginning there was nothing but Starke! Long before Noah's Ark. Don't let anyone put you down. Remember, you are Starke!"

I still don't know what my Uncle was trying to tell me, but it was a lesson I never forgot.

I think of those days whenever I venture into foreign lands. Like the White Strings area of Oklawaha County, on the shores of the Sing Sing River. If Florida was a giant strip mall, White Strings would be the Gator Bait Saloon. If Florida were a big classroom, White Strings would be the kid in the back of the room drooling milk out his nose. So, you can imagine how I felt, recently, when I attended the Florida Folk Festival here.

This was like the Deep South. Sweet potato pie and a-shut my mouth. Pete from Sunset Beach was with me. He could sense my nervousness: "Man, what is your problem? You're actin' like a longtailed rat in a roomfull of Orkin cans."

"I can't help it," I said, "Back growin' up in Starkansaw, Daddy used to tell me some stark stories about the Deep South . . .

"You are paranoid, my friend," Pete looked worried. "You're taking this Raiford Starke thing a little too far. Dr. Pat Wickman's been asking questions about your DNA. People are starting to get suspicious . . ."

We were hustling to the Folk Festival Songwriter's Workshop - a bunch of dudes in a big circle, playing and talking about their songs. I wasn't invited, but Pete said I could crash the show with no problem. Heck, I'm the only songwriter among them with an actual record on a juke box. (Nancy Motlow put "Girl From Immokalee" on the Miner's Market jukebox a couple of weeks ago.)

The workshop was already under way. One woman shot us over a helluva dirty look. "Something wrong?" I asked Pete.

He shushed me: "That's Wendy Persimmons. We call her the School Marm.

"She's a folkie control freak. You have to do it her way." Pete's eyes became emboldened with steely determination, "But this time it's gonna be different. Raiford you are going to stand up to that battle axe . . . "

"Mr. Beach!" The School Marm's voice bellowed. "Mr. Sunset Beach!"

Pete was trembling: "Uh y-y-yes ma'am,"

"You are 15 minutes and 37 seconds late. Already five panelists have performed their pieces."

Pete's nose started turning brown. "Ah, I'm sorry N-N-Nurse Ratchet - I mean Miss Persimmons. Ah-I promise it'll never happen again." Pete strummed a B-minor. "I'd like to do my song called . . ."

"Mr. Beach," School Marm said tersely, " Aren't you forgetting something?"

Pete looked all confused. He began digging in his pocket for bribery money.

"No, you idiot!," She roared. "You have to wait until I say it is your turn."Pete froze.

She looked at her watch, and then looked back. "Okay Mr. Beach what have you got?"

Pete went into an epic called "The Vietnam Whale." I am the man . . . who delivers the krill. . . along the Tamiami Trail. . . to the Vietnam Whale . . . The song was three minutes long, but he spent 25 minutes explaining it. I noticed the School Marm was staring at her watch the whole time.

To my surprise, the crowd went wild over "The Vietnam Whale." Long applause. School Marm, however, was not happy. Her face was the sort of red your white tee shirts get when you wash 'em in hot water with brand new red handkerchiefs.

Her composure weakened, I made my move just as the applause died down. I nervously shaped my fingers into an E-chord, ready to bust into "Gator Wrestling Nun."

The Marm saw me. But she had other ideas. "We've got time for just one more and I have a little two-chorder that I wrote just last night . . ."

I started wincing when I heard Pete interrupt: "Hey wait a minute, Marm" Pete said, " what about Raiford Starke? Can't he do a song?"

School Marm peered over her spectacles and cold sores broke out all over Pete's face: " Mr. Starke's name was not listed in the program. He shall not sing his song."

A nervous perspiration came over me. I grabbed Pete's arm, but he shook it off. He dared talk back to the Marm: "Raiford is a real songwriter, he's got a song on a jukebox, next to the penny weigh machine and the free shopper rack, in a small out-of-the-way grocery store on one of the side roads in Immokalee, outside Fort Myers.

"Furthermore," Pete retorted, "What if Eric Clapton or Tom T. Hall or Otis Talor showed up? Are you gonna kick them out because they're not on your stupid list?!"

School Marm rose to her feet and declared the workshop ended. "By the way," she sneered. "Eric Clapton will never play here because he is not folk! And neither is Tom T. Hall or Otis Taylor."

Then she turned to innocent ol' me and let go a high-pitched screed that caused an ingrown toenail to snap off in my brain.: "And you, Starke, you ain't folk either."

It was the biggest insult there could ever be at a folk festival. Saying someone wasn't folk was worse than badmouthing your mama. Silence fell hard over the scene. Pete had taken off in disgust. The game warden came running over to make sure the sound of the School Marm's voice wasn't a duck being tortured. All eyes were on Raiford Starke.

Starkness filled the air. I was no longer afraid. Maybe it was the mist from the Sing Sing River. I stood up to the School Marm, eye to eye. "All I got to say to you, School Marm," I reached high into the air and pulled down an imaginary light cord, "is folk off . . ."

I pulled the cord again "And Starke on!"

The crowd roared. The Marm had fallen. I began strumming my newest hit: "I Am Starke, Hear Me Roar." Uncle Sam Q would have been proud.

© July 9, 1999, The Seminole Tribune