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A young boy is singing in a high, thin voice as he plays the piano. Behind him is a boys' and girls' chorus of diverse faces and voices, some a little older, some slightly younger. Near him on the sound stage are a guitarist, drummer, and bass player.
Visually, vocally, emotionally, it's oddly reminiscent of a celebrity video, made in 1985 on behalf of children in drought-stricken Africa, called "We Are the World." What's different is the youthfulness of these voices which, by themselves, tell a story that goes beyond the lyrics.
My grandson, who's called "Little Jay," to distinguish between himself and his daddy, "Big Jay," often asks to use the computer when he comes to visit. And he knows how to log on to his daddy's account, how to launch Internet Explorer, how to click on the favorites menu for Nick.com.
At four and a half years old, he's also an accomplished gamer, on the Sony PlayStation and Nintendo Gameboy, and loves the online games at Nick. And that's been his usual destination on the computer, until just recently. Because somehow, in the intuitive way of kids his age, he's found the web page for a Nickelodeon show called "The Naked Brothers Band."
Where the "naked" reference comes from, I've no idea, but there are two brothers and they do have a band. And, as one of them explained in an intro to the website, they want their songs to be about things that are important to kids.
If my grandson is any indication, they've surely succeeded. Little Jay's mom and dad have been living apart for nearly two years. That's almost half his lifetime. And both of them have moved on, with varying degrees of success, to new lives and new relationships.
His mom, for instance, now has a second child, a little half-sister who my grandson obviously adores. The little girl is less than a year old, but her mother no longer lives with the boyfriend who fathered her.
On the other side, my son moved out with our grandson, about a year ago, to live with a girl who also has a child from a previous relationship. And the days and months since their departure have been filled with sometimes poignant, sometimes wrenching reminders of all the things that are irrevocably altered, or irretrievably lost, in the aftermath of such events.
Unfortunately, they've been filled, as well, with the sort of emotional fallout that such times inevitably rain on the lives of young children. And on those who are close to them and who choose to truly see them and hear them and understand them.
On this day, my grandson is here because his dad is doing some cleaning at home that might aggravate the little boy's asthma. I'm in the kitchen, working on lunch for the two of us, when I hear the music and the high, thin voice.
At first, the boy is singing alone. Once, twice, he repeats the refrain so the words and their emotional content are unmistakably clear. Then, he's joined by those behind him, a chorus of other young voices rising in affirmation.
I move cautiously to the doorway, between the kitchen and where the computer is situated, curious, concerned, but not wishing to intrude. The little boy sits transfixed, staring at the screen.
Perhaps sensing my presence, he turns slightly in his chair but then turns back to the computer. I step back from the doorway, returning to my task in the kitchen, but continue listening.
The video ends and there's a moment or two of silence. In the silence I wonder if, at his age, he's really connected, through the music, with these kids who are two or three times his own age. Or if I've simply made the mistake of projecting my adult sensibilities on this child.
Then the music starts again, the same video, the same high voice.
"I miss my family, I miss my family..."
I glance toward the doorway and, although I can't see him, I know there's no mistake.
Visually, vocally, emotionally, it's oddly reminiscent of a celebrity video, made in 1985 on behalf of children in drought-stricken Africa, called "We Are the World." What's different is the youthfulness of these voices which, by themselves, tell a story that goes beyond the lyrics.
My grandson, who's called "Little Jay," to distinguish between himself and his daddy, "Big Jay," often asks to use the computer when he comes to visit. And he knows how to log on to his daddy's account, how to launch Internet Explorer, how to click on the favorites menu for Nick.com.
At four and a half years old, he's also an accomplished gamer, on the Sony PlayStation and Nintendo Gameboy, and loves the online games at Nick. And that's been his usual destination on the computer, until just recently. Because somehow, in the intuitive way of kids his age, he's found the web page for a Nickelodeon show called "The Naked Brothers Band."
Where the "naked" reference comes from, I've no idea, but there are two brothers and they do have a band. And, as one of them explained in an intro to the website, they want their songs to be about things that are important to kids.
If my grandson is any indication, they've surely succeeded. Little Jay's mom and dad have been living apart for nearly two years. That's almost half his lifetime. And both of them have moved on, with varying degrees of success, to new lives and new relationships.
His mom, for instance, now has a second child, a little half-sister who my grandson obviously adores. The little girl is less than a year old, but her mother no longer lives with the boyfriend who fathered her.
On the other side, my son moved out with our grandson, about a year ago, to live with a girl who also has a child from a previous relationship. And the days and months since their departure have been filled with sometimes poignant, sometimes wrenching reminders of all the things that are irrevocably altered, or irretrievably lost, in the aftermath of such events.
Unfortunately, they've been filled, as well, with the sort of emotional fallout that such times inevitably rain on the lives of young children. And on those who are close to them and who choose to truly see them and hear them and understand them.
On this day, my grandson is here because his dad is doing some cleaning at home that might aggravate the little boy's asthma. I'm in the kitchen, working on lunch for the two of us, when I hear the music and the high, thin voice.
At first, the boy is singing alone. Once, twice, he repeats the refrain so the words and their emotional content are unmistakably clear. Then, he's joined by those behind him, a chorus of other young voices rising in affirmation.
I move cautiously to the doorway, between the kitchen and where the computer is situated, curious, concerned, but not wishing to intrude. The little boy sits transfixed, staring at the screen.
Perhaps sensing my presence, he turns slightly in his chair but then turns back to the computer. I step back from the doorway, returning to my task in the kitchen, but continue listening.
The video ends and there's a moment or two of silence. In the silence I wonder if, at his age, he's really connected, through the music, with these kids who are two or three times his own age. Or if I've simply made the mistake of projecting my adult sensibilities on this child.
Then the music starts again, the same video, the same high voice.
"I miss my family, I miss my family..."
I glance toward the doorway and, although I can't see him, I know there's no mistake.
