How to save the world and rock out at the same time

Plastic buttons could only click monotonously in flimsy “guitars”, and the rubbery cables were silent, yet the normally apathetic television emitted all the passionate rock ballad wails and foot-twitching beats of as many songs as we could download. It seemed a bizarre creation, but I understood the appeal of Rock Band immediately. This was good, since I played two songs in 2008, then put the thing down and haven't picked it up since.*

*Not technically true, but I'll save the story of our universally agonizing Thanksgiving 2009 sibling performance of “My Sharona” in front of our parents for another time. Though if you know the words, you already get the gist.

Princess Cleavage hath no need for backstory!

Video games grew up alongside me, my digital brother Mario and my digital sister Barbarian-princess-from-Golden-Axe (who didn't get a name as far as I knew, nor was specifically a princess now that I think about it, but deeply rooted sexism meant she didn't need such things, her tiny red scraps of bikini were character enough) and we were one happy 8-bit family. We graduated together to 16-bit, and I was a regional king of NHL 95, armed with the knowledge that the only way to score a goal was the end-around, using mindless defenders to block the goalie. Yzerman scores again!

Oh man, how much would THAT suck? Poor bastard.

But then something went calmly wrong in my video game family, and we grew estranged, only communicating through Aunt Freecell and Uncle Minesweeper. We had a reunion on the estate of the Playstation 2, but it was temporary, and it was only through social media that I learned of newborn buttons and acronyms. Who is MMORPG? Third cousin, twice removed and once upgraded? Is there such a thing as a step-TBSFPS?

Meanwhile, in the massively multi-player world called “reality”, which was too mundane to inspire video games anymore, things seemed to be falling apart for Level 1 humanity. I felt a tender kinship with the man who sobbed “Can't we all just get along?” even as I scoffed at his naivete, newly armed with adolescent cynicism.

But walking home last night through the enemy-less landscape of Oakland, I heard something that formed a mental meme, promising to bring together my long-lost digital sibling and my semi-functional IRL multiverse. It was, naturally, a TED talk.

Plunge people's hands into cold water and have them self-report the pain, first alone then with a friend and finally with a stranger, and you will find that we don't give a single XP/rat's ass about people we don’t know. Basically, we feel threatened by strangers, so can't relax around them, which inhibits our compassion, so screw 'em. BUT! Unite people through a bonding activity and all that falls away. What bonding activity, you ask?

Fifteen minutes of Rock Band will do the trick.

See, even Mortal enemies can be brought together

Something in the cooperative creation of music we know and love creates instant kinship. Primal bonding through rhythm and melody. So all we need to solve the world's belligerence is send Rock Band kits to Gaza, airdrop plastic guitars into the Sudan, and pause hostilities in Syria long enough for a few tracks of Michael Jackson, and voila! World peace!

I'm so proud of my digital sibling. I always knew it would grow up to do great things someday.

A home for Alvaro

Alvaro and his daughter

“My daughter is a musician,” were Alvaro’s proud words as we shared a taxi into Caracas. He was the program coordinator for the Witness for Peace delegation that I had come to Venezuela to attend.

“Oh?” I asked, “What does she play?”

“Drums, mostly.” I nodded politely, but I confess, my inner cynic was sniping: Yeah, sure. Everyone’s kid is a brilliant drummer, just like everyone’s kid is a young Picasso. But a few days later, during which Alvaro manouvered, facilitated, and orchestrated our Venezuelan experience with virtuoso skill, something happened that made me question my snark.

We were in his hometown of Barquisimeto, so his wife and daughter had joined us for dinner. While we waited for the pollo to become asado, Alvaro thumped out a rhythm on the table top with fingers and palms.

His daughter, a five year old cherub with more than a sliver of impishness in her smile, looked at his hands for a moment. Maybe a moment and a half. Then her tiny hands were thumping the tabletop too, in perfect sync with her father. I was impressed; maybe she was a musician after all.

Sanare, "The Garden of Lara" (province)

The delegation proceeded to the hill town of Sanare, where Alvaro wrangled meetings with women’s co-operatives, community organizers, and the local radio station. One afternoon I rode with him to run a couple errands, and he pointed out the chaotic scribble of thick black wire that hung on the electrical poles.

“People connect their own wires to steal electricity. Then the power company comes by, installs meters on the lines, and starts charging them. It works, because they don’t have to do all the wiring themselves, saving everyone money and time.”

How’s that for a capsule of Venezuela: people doing what they can to get by, using their own wiles and agency, and a pragmatic government that works with things the way they are to bring everyone into the system. I was marveling at that when we stopped so Alvaro could go run a mysterious errand. “Eh...wait here, okay?” was all he said.

Wheelies for Bolivar

The next day was Simon Bolivar’s birthday, and you’d better believe Venezuela takes notice of The Liberator’s cumpleaños. I sat down to dinner after watching the town celebrate in the tidy plaza, and Alvaro’s secret errand was revealed when he carried out a massive birthday cake. It was birthday season, I guess, since in our five person delegation, two of us had birthdays that week as well. Kathy and I shared space among strawberries with Simon. Birthday solidarity; how wonderfully Venezuelan.

Alvaro and company drumming it out

Stuffed with information, experience, and frosting, we made our way back to Barquisimeto the next day, and Alvaro informed us that his community center had prepared “a little presentation” for us.

Every coastal province in Venezuela has its own Afro-Venezuelan traditions and heritage, with particular rhythms, songs, and drums. This community center performed them all. Grinning faces, welcoming words, and flashing hands from throughout the community piled into the room, and the drumbeats, singing, and guitar chords rose to the rafters.

My cheeks were already sore with enthusiasm, and my foot tingled from ceaseless tapping, when Alvaro’s daughter climbed up to sit on a drum far larger than she was. I thought it was sweet that everyone would indulge the five year old, but then she started playing.

Por dios! He wasn’t kidding, she IS a musician! She thumped and thwacked right along with the best of them, pixie grins breaking out only between songs, as the music filled the night, almost as loudly as the welcome.

I am indebted to Alvaro for all his hard work, both with our delegation and with his community center, which also organizes a massive summer camp for local kids every year. And I just genuinely like the man.

That made it that much worse when I heard that Alvaro’s house collapsed a couple days ago. He, his wife, and their daughter are now on the street in Barquisimeto, and need help raising the funds to rebuild their home.

If you can spare anything to help, I urge you to do so. This is a good man, doing good work, and I have seen firsthand how selfless he is, working tirelessly without pay for his community. Please see his fundraising page at: http://www.gofundme.com/AHomeForAlvaro