I own an etched copper doumbek hand drum, an instrument traditionally used in belly dance. I bought it for myself as a graduation present when I finished my Bachelor’s degree eight years ago. I knew very little about hand drums at the time, and nothing about Middle Eastern percussion (and nothing about belly dance), but it was one of the most beautiful things I had ever seen, and when I held it, it felt like it was designed for my hands. Leaving the store, that felt like a very, very good decision.
About a year later, though, I decided that buying a drum had been a mistake. Everyone I knew that played hand drums were (white) hippie lesbians. Of course, they all played djembes, which are very different from doumbeks, and djembes are originally from West Africa anyway, and not white hippie lesbian-land, but at the time, none of that mattered to me. I was someone who had been born female, who people saw as a masculine woman (and who people assumed was a hippie lesbian), but who was actually a guy! And I was beginning a gender transition — asking people to change my name and to refer to me as “he” rather than “she” — and so I wanted to separate myself from hippie lesbians as much as possible. A hand drum, I thought, would not help with that. I needed an instrument that would affirm who I was.
So I sold it back to the music shop. And with the money, I bought a harmonica. But, it turned out, THAT was the real mistake. As soon as I sold it back, my heart ached for that doumbek drum. I was able to get enough money together to buy it back from the shop in just a few weeks, before someone else bought it, and it traveled with me to the three states I moved to after that, and I got to play it in several drum circles. Unfortunately, though, a few years back, because the drum counted as “luggage” on one of my flights somewhere, I decided it was a good idea to save on space and packed three shirts inside of it. This led to the head being stretched out, rendering it unplayable. I’ve taken it to several music shops since then. But I haven’t been able to find anyone who has ever worked on a doumbek, and no one has known how to replace the head (it is not pre-framed). So I’ve been lugging this broken drum around with me for four years.
I also managed to acquire a small hand-held steel drum from Trinidad. The drumsticks for this drum were recently stolen (they were in my backpack that a thief stole from my car), and it is very out of tune, and I have no idea how to play it.
So I got to thinking the other day that maybe I was a drum person at one time, but maybe that time has passed now, since I haven’t played either of these instruments in so long and obviously haven’t taken the care to get them fixed. In fact, I haven’t even really looked at them much at all.
I got to thinking about how I used to own a guitar and how, even though I only managed to learn two or three chords, how much I liked owning it. (I’m a big folk music enthusiast, and also a poet, two things guitars come in handy for. Plus, it’s good to have one around for camping trips with people, because someone’s bound to know how to play). So I thought – maybe it’s time to trade in these two drums – and to get another acoustic guitar.
I packed up my drums and went into a music shop this morning. My plan was to initially get an estimate for repair and tuning, and if the cost was more expensive than the drums themselves (which I assumed it would be), then to ask about trade-in possibilities and potentially walk out with a cheap acoustic guitar. But a weird thing happened. As I was standing there talking to the cashier guy, who had never seen a drum like my doumbek before in his life, and who was stalling for time for his manager to get back, I suddenly felt very defensive. He told me that if they would be able to repair it (it turned out they weren’t equipped to repair it – his manager let us know that just a few minutes later), it would take ten business days. I found myself saying, “ten business days?! that’s a long time!” not wanting to surrender my instrument for so long. It might become lost or something in that span of time. Something might happen to it! After the manager came, he told me that no, they would not be able to repair it, after all (they aren’t equipped to work on doumbeks there), and he sent me away with the name of a potential repair shop sixty miles away.
I walked out of the shop and realized I was tapping out an alternating rhythm on the rim, base, and broken head on my way to my car like I used to back before it was broken. But my drum was still broken. And I did not have a guitar in my hand. And yet, I felt — victorious. I felt — happy. Like I had successfully accomplished some narrow escape. I would like a guitar, and I would like to learn how to play. And maybe I will get one. But now I know it will not happen if it means having to give up being a “doumbek person,” whatever that might mean.
Amorphous Amphibian 