The Beat of My Own Drum (32 page)

In setting up our charitable foundation, we realized our mission and set our sights high on creative fund-raising for those children at risk of being lost in the system and not being given the tools to rehabilitate them from the perils of living in foster homes, group homes, or juvenile detention.

There was one five-year-old boy from the Wings of Refuge in Los Angeles, whom I’ll call Rudy, who had been so severely abused that he shut down completely. He gave no reaction to anything or anyone and refused to speak. He was in therapy sessions, but I thought he was going to turn out to be one of those kids who couldn’t be helped. With the assistance of our donation of percussion instruments and the persistence of a music therapist, though, everything turned around for him.

When he was first shown the basics of how to play the piano, there was little or no response. But Rudy’s therapist noticed he
loved hitting a box over in the corner, so she encouraged him and sang songs to the rhythm of each thump. Once she saw that he responded to her instruction, she sat him behind one of the drums.

Rudy responded most to the rhythm of the nursery rhyme “Mary Had a Little Lamb.” At the end of the last chorus, she would sing in rhythm, “I love you,” and smile at him while looking into his eyes. One day, after she sang the words “I love you,” he sang them back to her. Those were his first words since his abuse.

When we were told this news, I dropped to my knees and gave thanks. If we helped no one else through our foundation, that was enough. One badly damaged little boy had learned to love and play and communicate again. Since then, there have been some amazing success stories, and a few of the kids who’ve gone on to work in the music business have told us that if we hadn’t helped them back then, they’d be dead.

Music therapy should be government funded in such facilities, but it often isn’t. The state does what it can for many of these places, but it doesn’t provide nearly enough. That’s why outside donors and outsourcing are so important to supplement the need when conventional assistance can’t keep up. Some of the facilities we approached didn’t like our hands-on approach, or our insistence on how we wanted the money spent. It was our aim to focus attention on the power of music and to raise as much money as we could to promote it.

We rallied as many musicians, artists, and entertainers as we could, including our friends Sheryl Crow, Jimmy Smits, Stevie Wonder, and a host of others. They assisted us in creating fundraisers for more institutions and facilities, both in Los Angeles and the Bay Area.

Visiting various campuses and alternative schools, Lynn and I saw more and more desperation at every turn. The more we observed, the more we realized the need. This far exceeded what I
was exposed to when accompanying my dad. There was one facility we visited called Vista Del Mar that housed about two hundred children, many of whom didn’t even know who their birth parents were. Most had never experienced living in a real home. What compounded their despair was having very few visitors. They lived in a state of lockdown—physically, socially, and emotionally.

Even though I have a loving family, I saw a piece of myself in them—I
was
them. When I saw how they had turned in on themselves to protect themselves from any more hurt, I completely connected with them and the saddest experiences of my own childhood. It made me even more committed to helping them find a means of processing their pain, which I so closely related to. They deserved the means to release their pain through their creative personal expressions.

No matter how upsetting it was to witness their suffering, Lynn and I made sure we didn’t show our emotions in front of them. The purpose of our visits was to encourage the kids to engage, in hopes of reaching at least one of them. Many of those we observed were shut down and rebelled against any contact whatsoever. Some, mostly young girls, just wanted to be hugged. That suited me just fine, as I come from a family of huggers and was more than happy to oblige. The boys were more about high-fiving and less interested in any type of affection.

Our focus was on supplying musical instruments and instructional equipment, electronics and art supplies, and even providing a calm and inviting environment for them in class. We totally remodeled their existing music room and painted and updated their bathroom, cleaning it up and making it a place they’d be excited to enter each day. We purchased violins and electronic drums, percussion and keyboards, trumpets and guitars—whatever they needed. We provided video cameras and production equipment, and we even taught them how to create PSAs and burn their own CDs.

It was overwhelming to see how well they responded. It is surely one of the greatest feelings in the world to view the rewards that this kind of instruction and interaction gives these kids—it provides them with a fighting chance.

An old friend of mine who was a seamstress (formally a member of one of the local street gangs) heard what we were doing and wanted to give back. She decided to make quilts with matching pillowcases, and she also whipped up some warm jackets for the younger kids.

However, our main focus was therapy through music and arts education. We created a pilot program through an innovative curriculum that would ultimately provide them the social skills for a successful transition to the outside world. The power of music had proven its significance in the area of emotional growth and well-being. We secured a music instructor to teach music and video production.

The whole process was an amazing learning experience for both Lynn and me, but it was really hard work. People tried to discourage us, telling us that it couldn’t be done, but these kids proved them wrong.

One young boy was a case in point. He had severe emotional issues and was very disruptive and combative in class. Often destructive, he would run away for hours on end. The school was ready to discharge him and turn him over to the state. One of the staff heard that he had a secret interest in playing the saxophone. Learning about our foundation, our office received the request to help him. We jumped at the chance of reaching him when no one else could. Immediately after he was given his own saxophone, his entire demeanor changed. He treasured his instrument as if it were gold, carrying it with him to every class. It was his new best friend.

In a matter of months, he completely turned himself around. He became such a great kid, a model student; his grades improved;
and he stopped cutting classes and going AWOL. One afternoon Lynn and I were called to his classroom, as he had a surprise for us. He had learned to play my song “The Glamorous Life,” and he recited it to us note for note. The smile on his face was priceless. We were so proud of him, but better yet, he was proud of himself.

By connecting with the kids musically or in any way that feeds their curiosity and opens their hearts, Lynn and I could prove to them that there is life beyond abuse. I also loved sharing the history of percussion and drums with young children, just as Pops had taught me. I relished describing the hollowed-out gourd called a guiro from Brazil or the shekere drum from West Africa, whose rattling beads always produced smiles.

“Do you wanna play?” I’d ask, and then I’d start tapping out a beat on a drum. I’d invite them to join in, and then maybe get a few of the teachers to jam with me in a way that always takes me straight back to my childhood. While the likes of Tito Puente or Eddie Palmieri made music in our front rooms, we kids would try to keep up on a cowbell or a guiro while Moms laughingly stirred the soup.

It always takes a while to get some of the kids to tune in, but they usually do in the end, and once they’ve relaxed, I tell them a little of my story. “I understand what you’re going through,” I say. “I’ve been through something similar too. I got through it because of music. You can too.”

Inspired by these children, I designed a range of percussion instruments specifically for kids that weren’t just plastic toys that would fall apart. The Sheila E Player Series of bongos and hand drums in bright colors were designed for children as young as three (the age I started playing), and the range moves all the way up to pro level. I was excited to have TOCA percussion make these instruments for the kids.

We’ve donated hundreds of instruments to schools all over the Bay Area, including twenty thousand dollars’ worth of equipment
and money to my old alma mater, San Leandro High School. It felt surprisingly emotional to return to the place where I’d gone through so many agonies of teenage self-analysis and loneliness.

So much of the work I’ve done with children through the foundation felt like holding a mirror up to my own pain. I could see and feel their anger as I remembered my own. I wished I could make them understand that they cannot fully live a life if they feel ashamed, dirty, or guilty. So many children who’ve been abused carry the same lack of confidence and live in a state of fear that shackles them to the past.

I knew that as a little girl I became my happiest when I began playing music. When I was taken to that show at Sweet’s, I lost myself to the music for the first time. Standing in the spotlight, my heart, arms, and mind pumped with excitement and the satisfaction of knowing I’d done well. That’s what I wanted the kids we were trying to help to experience—that feeling of accomplishment. That was the whole purpose of sharing my story.

My life could have been so different, and I was reminded of that every time I talked to kids who’d been abused or were on meds. They had no goals; they were stuck. They either didn’t know their parents or they were never around. They’d checked out. I could have gone the drugs route and checked out too, but thankfully that wasn’t my destiny.

Music helped me find the way.

Reflecting back on what had shaped and then saved me, I realized that I’d spent far too much of my life allowing my abusers to keep some sort of hold over me. In keeping it all inside, harboring the shame of my past, they still controlled me in some way. I knew I couldn’t live my life like that anymore.

It’s no wonder it took so long for me to begin to heal, since even well into my adulthood I felt compelled to protect the five-year-old girl within me. I didn’t quite realize that I continually blamed
myself. And I was protecting the abusers when I often asked myself “What is it about me that made them do this?” The molestation occurred in secret, and I was warned in pressured whispers that it would be bad if I told anyone about what happened in the dark. And so for many years I complied.

Then when I received Christ back into my life and began reading the Word as truth, I found scriptures that guided me in the direction I should go. There was one passage in Ephesians that really struck me. It reads:
Let all bitterness and wrath and anger and clamor and slander be put away from you, along with all malice. Be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, as God in Christ forgave you.

It was time for me to confront not only the man who raped me, but also the cousins who had molested me. I needed to forgive them, and I needed to let them go. I hadn’t seen them for years, and then only at a few family gatherings. Even as an adult, it was always hard for me to look at any of them. On the occasion that I saw one cousin, he behaved as if nothing ever happened. He’d hug me, say hello, and ask me how I was doing, but I’d just stand there stiffly and mumble. I would try to avoid looking at his hands, those same hands that came toward me at night. They looked the same.

As for my rapist, I knew I wouldn’t be fully healed until I found him again, talked to him, and offered him my forgiveness. I figured that even if I couldn’t face him in person, then I would write him a letter or maybe speak to him on the phone.

I found his sister’s number and called her up to get his address. Initially I pretended I was just calling for a casual catch-up. But after a few minutes I heard myself blurt out the truth. It took me a long time to summon up the courage to confront this demon, but I finally found the strength. “I think you should know that your brother raped me when I was five.”

“What?” She was horrified.

“So where is he?” I said, feeling very shaky. “I need to find out if he’s around young children.” And then my voice got quieter. “And I need to forgive him.”

“I’m so sorry, Sheila,” she said. “He passed away two years ago.”

The news filled me with a peculiar mix of relief and sadness, but I was sorry that I had lost the opportunity to look him in his eyes, take those hands in mine, and tell him he was forgiven. I had so badly wanted to feel the profound release of forgiveness. But even in death it felt as if he’d robbed me of something profound.

Instead of wasting time on regret about waiting so long to contact him, I reminded myself that even though he was dead, it was as loving to forgive him in my heart and unto God—and I could still finally have the closure and peace of mind. Just by attempting to reach him, in fact, I actually experienced an invigorating sense of release.

Having experienced this newfound strength and understanding, I turned my attention to the cousins who’d been our babysitters. Believe it or not, I had developed a certain kind of compassion for them, understanding that their actions were the result of their own dangerously unacknowledged pain and low self-esteem.

First I confronted them and described the impact of their actions—how their actions and my innocence left me with invisible scars. They denied any wrongdoing, or at least the memory of it, although one did say, “Man, I don’t really remember that, Sheila—but if I did that, then I’m so sorry.”

One by one, I forgave them too.

Believe me, as a teenager and a young adult, I never would have thought this could be possible. Nor did it seem like something to strive for. Why would I even consider forgiving the men who had so aggressively invaded my innocence? Well, over time I began to realize that as long as I was still actively blaming these abusers, I would never truly live. It is interesting that prior to my decision, I had this
fantasy that when I forgave them, the abuse could magically be undone. I accepted the reality of this part of my past: it happened. Now I had the freedom to move on with total forgiveness in my heart. This was huge for me—an essential component of my healing.