I'm not quite sure whether I really want to see a snare drum at nine o'clock or so in the morning.
(Laughter) But anyway, it's just great to see such a full theater, and really, I must thank Herbie Hancock and his colleagues for such a great presentation.
(Applause) One of the interesting things, of course, is the combination of that raw hand on the instrument and technology, and what he said about listening to our young people.
Of course, my job is all about listening.
And my aim, really, is to teach the world to listen.
That's my only real aim in life.
And it sounds quite simple, but actually, it's quite a big, big job.
Because you know, when you look at a piece of music, for example, if I just open my little motorbike bag -- we have here, hopefully, a piece of music that is full of little black dots on the page.
And, you know, we open it up ...
And I read the music.
So technically, I can actually read this.
I will follow the instructions, the tempo markings, the dynamics.
I will do exactly as I'm told.
And so therefore, because time is short, if I just played you, literally, the first, maybe, two lines or so -- It's very straightforward; there's nothing too difficult about the piece.
But here, I'm being told that the piece of music is very quick.
I'm being told where to play on the drum.
I'm being told which part of the stick to use.
And I'm being told the dynamic.
And I'm also being told that the drum is without snares.
Snares on, snares off.
So therefore, if I translate this piece of music, we have this idea.
(Drum sounds) (Drum sounds end) And so on.
My career would probably last about five years.
(Laughter) However, what I have to do as a musician is do everything that is not on the music; everything that there isn't time to learn from a teacher, or to talk about, even, from a teacher.
But it's the things you notice when you're not actually with your instrument that, in fact, become so interesting, and that you want to explore through this tiny, tiny surface of a drum.
So there, we experience the translation.
Now we'll experience the interpretation.
(Drum sounds) (Drum sounds end) (Applause) Now my career may last a little longer.
(Laughter) But in a way, you know, it's the same if I look at you and I see a nice, bright young lady with a pink top on.
I see that you're clutching a teddy bear, etc., etc.
So I get a basic idea as to what you might be about, what you might like, what you might do as a profession, etc., etc.
However, that's just the initial idea I may have that we all get when we actually look and we try to interpret.
But actually it's so unbelievably shallow.
In the same way, I look at the music; I get a basic idea; I wonder what technically might be hard, or, you know, what I want to do.
Just the basic feeling.
However, that is simply not enough.
And I think what Herbie said: please listen, listen.
We have to listen to ourselves, first of all.
If I play, for example, holding the stick -- where literally I do not let go of the stick -- (Drum sound) you'll experience quite a lot of shock coming up through the arm.
And you feel really quite -- believe it or not -- detached from the instrument and from the stick, even though I'm actually holding the stick quite tightly.
(Drum sound) By holding it tightly, I feel strangely more detached.
If I just simply let go and allow my hand, my arm, to be more of a support system, suddenly -- (Drum sound) I have more dynamic with less effort.
Much more -- (Drum sound) and I just feel, at last, one with the stick and one with the drum.
And I'm doing far, far less.
So in the same way that I need time with this instrument, I need time with people in order to interpret them.
Not just translate them, but interpret them.
If, for example, I play just a few bars of a piece of music for which I think of myself as a technician -- that is, someone who is basically a percussion player -- (Marimba sounds) (Marimba sounds end) And so on, if I think of myself as a musician -- (Marimba sounds) (Marimba sounds end) And so on.
There is a little bit of a difference there that is worth just -- (Applause) thinking about.
And I remember when I was 12 years old, and I started playing timpani and percussion, and my teacher said, "Well, how are we going to do this?
You know, music is about listening."
And I said, "Yes, I agree with that, so what's the problem?"
And he said, "Well, how are you going to hear this?
How are you going to hear that?"
And I said, "Well, how do you hear it?"
He said, "Well, I think I hear it through here."
And I said, "Well, I think I do too, but I also hear it through my hands, through my arms, cheekbones, my scalp, my tummy, my chest, my legs and so on."
And so we began our lessons every single time tuning drums, in particular, the kettle drums, or timpani to such a narrow pitch interval, so something like -- (Marimba sounds) that of a difference.
Then gradually: (Marimba sounds) And gradually: (Marimba sounds) And it's amazing that when you do open your body up, and open your hand up to allow the vibration to come through, that in fact the tiny, tiny difference -- (Marimba sounds) can be felt with just the tiniest part of your finger, there.
And so what we would do is that I would put my hands on the wall of the music room, and together, we would "listen" to the sounds of the instruments, and really try to connect with those sounds far, far more broadly than simply depending on the ear.
Because of course, the ear is subject to all sorts of things.
The room we happen to be in, the amplification, the quality of the instrument, the type of sticks -- (Marimba sounds) (Marimba sounds end) Etc., etc., they're all different.
(Marimba sounds) (Marimba sounds end) Same amount of weight, but different sound colors.
And that's basically what we are; we're just human beings, but we all have our own little sound colors, as it were, that make up these extraordinary personalities and characters and interests and things.
And as I grew older, I then auditioned for the Royal Academy of Music in London, and they said, "Well, no, we won't accept you, because we haven't a clue, you know, of the future of a so-called 'deaf musician.'"
And I just couldn't quite accept that.
And so therefore, I said to them, "Well, look, if you refuse -- if you refuse me through those reasons, as opposed to the ability to perform and to understand and love the art of creating sound -- then we have to think very, very hard about the people you do actually accept."
And as a result, once we got over a little hurdle, and having to audition twice, they accepted me.
And not only that, what had happened was that it changed the whole role of the music institutions throughout the United Kingdom.
Under no circumstances were they to refuse any application whatsoever on the basis of whether someone had no arms, no legs -- they could still perhaps play a wind instrument if it was supported on a stand.
No circumstances at all were used to refuse any entry.
And every single entry had to be listened to, experienced, and then, based on the musical ability, then that person could either enter or not.
And so therefore, this in turn meant that there was an extremely interesting bunch of students who arrived in these various music institutions, and I have to say, many of them now in the professional orchestras throughout the world.
The interesting thing about this as well, though -- (Applause) is quite simply that not only were people connected with sound -- which is basically all of us -- we well know that music really is our daily medicine.
I say "music," but actually I mean "sound."
Because some of the extraordinary things I've experienced as a musician -- when you may have a 15-year-old lad who has got the most incredible challenges, who may not be able to control his movements, who may be deaf, who may be blind, etc., etc. -- suddenly, if that young lad sits close to this instrument, and perhaps even lies underneath the marimba, and you play something that's so incredibly organ-like, almost -- I don't really have the right sticks, perhaps -- but something like this -- let me change -- (Soft marimba sounds) (Soft marimba sounds end) Something that's so unbelievably simple -- but he would be experiencing something that I wouldn't be, because I'm on top of the sound.
I have the sound coming this way.
He would have the sound coming through the resonators.
If there were no resonators on here, we would have: (Marimba sounds) So he would have a fullness of sound that those of you in the front few rows wouldn't experience, those of you in the back few rows wouldn't experience, either.
Every single one of us, depending on where we're sitting, will experience this sound quite, quite differently.
And of course, being the participator of the sound, and that is, starting from the idea of what type of sound I want to produce, for example, this sound: (No sound) Can you hear anything?
Exactly -- because I'm not even touching it.
(Laughter) But yet, we get the sensation of something happening.
In the same way that when I see a tree moves, then I imagine that tree making a rustling sound.
Do you see what I mean?
Whatever the eye sees, then there's always sound happening.
So there's always, always that huge -- I mean, just this kaleidoscope of things to draw from.
So all of my performances are based on entirely what I experience, and not by learning a piece of music, putting on someone else's interpretation of it, buying all the CDs possible of that particular piece of music, and so on and so forth, because that isn't giving me enough of something that is so raw and so basic, and something that I can fully experience the journey of.
So it may be that, in certain halls, this dynamic may well work.
(Soft marimba sounds) (Soft marimba sounds end) It may be that in other halls, they're simply not going to experience that at all, and so therefore, my level of soft, gentle playing may have to be -- (Marimba sounds) (Marimba sounds end) Do you see what I mean?
So, because of this explosion in access to sound, especially through the Deaf community, this has not only affected how music institutions, how schools for the deaf treat sound, and not just as a means of therapy -- although, of course, being a participator of music, that definitely is the case as well -- but it's meant that acousticians have had to really think about the types of halls they put together.
There are so few halls in this world that actually have very good acoustics, dare I say.
But by that I mean, where you can absolutely do anything you imagine.
The tiniest, softest, softest sound to something that is so broad, so huge, so incredible.
There's always something: it may sound good up there, may not be so good there; it may be great there, but terrible up there; maybe terrible over there, but not too bad there, etc., etc.
So to find an actual hall is incredible -- for which you can play exactly what you imagine, without it being cosmetically enhanced.
So therefore, acousticians are actually in conversation with people who are hearing impaired, and who are participators of sound.
And this is quite interesting.
I cannot give you any detail as far as what is actually happening with those halls, but it's just the fact that they are going to a group of people for whom so many years, we've been saying, "Well, how on earth can they experience music?
They're deaf."
We go like that, and we imagine that's what deafness is about.
Or we go like that, and we imagine that's what blindness is about.
If we see someone in a wheelchair, we assume they cannot walk.
It may be that they can walk three, four, five steps.
That, to them, means they can walk.
In a year's time, it could be two extra steps.
In another year's time, three extra steps.
Those are hugely important aspects to think about.
So when we do listen to each other, it's unbelievably important for us to really test our listening skills, to really use our bodies as a resonating chamber, to stop the judgment.
For me, as a musician who deals with 99 percent of new music, it's very easy for me to say, "Oh yes, I like that piece.
No, I don't like that piece," and so on.
And I just find that I have to give those pieces of music real time.
It may be that the chemistry isn't quite right between myself and that particular piece of music, but that doesn't mean I have the right to say it's a bad piece of music.
And you know, one of the great things about being a musician is that it is so unbelievably fluid.
So there are no rules, no right, no wrong, this way, that way.
If I asked you to clap -- maybe I can do this.
If I can just say, "Please clap and create the sound of thunder."
I'm assuming we've all experienced thunder.
Now, I don't mean just the sound; I mean really listen to that thunder within yourselves.
And please try to create that through your clapping.
Try, just -- please try.
(Loud clapping sounds) (Clapping ends) Snow.
(Laughter) Snow.
(Soft clapping sounds) Have you ever heard snow?
Audience: No.
Evelyn Glennie: Well, then, stop clapping.
(Laughter) Try again.
Try again: snow.
(No sound) See, you're awake.
Rain.
(Light clapping sounds) EG: (Laughs) Not bad.
Not bad.
The interesting thing here, though, is that I asked a group of kids not so long ago exactly the same question.
Now -- great imagination, thank you very much.
However, not one of you got out of your seats to think, "Right!
How can I clap?
OK, maybe: (Clapping sounds) Maybe I can use my jewelry to create extra sounds.
Maybe I can use the other parts of my body to create extra sounds."
Not a single one of you thought about clapping in a slightly different way other than sitting in your seats there and using two hands.
In the same way, when we listen to music, we assume that it's all being fed through here.
This is how we experience music.
Of course, it's not.
We experience thunder, thunder, thunder.
Think, think, think.
Listen, listen, listen.
Now, what can we do with thunder?
I remember my teacher, when I first started, my very first lesson, I was all prepared with sticks, ready to go.
And instead of him saying, "OK, Evelyn, please, feet slightly apart, arms at a more or less 90-degree angle, sticks in a more or less V shape, keep this amount of space here, etc.
Please keep your back straight, etc., etc., etc." -- where I was just probably going to end up absolutely rigid, frozen, and I would not be able to strike the drum because I was thinking of so many other things, he said, "Evelyn, take this drum away for seven days, and I'll see you next week."
So -- heavens!
What was I to do?
I no longer required the sticks.
I wasn't allowed to have these sticks.
I had to basically look at this particular drum, see how it was made, what these little lugs did, what the snares did.
Turned it upside down, experimented with the shell.
(Drum sounds) Experimented with the head.
(Drum sounds) Experimented with my body.
(Drum sounds) Experimented with jewelry.
Experimented with all sorts of things.
(Drum sounds) (Drum sounds end) And of course, I returned with all sorts of bruises.
(Laughter) But nevertheless, it was such an unbelievable experience, because where on earth are you going to experience that in a piece of music?
Where on earth are you going to experience that in a study book?
So we never, ever dealt with actual study books.
So for example, one of the things that we learn when we are dealing with being a percussion player as opposed to a musician, is basically, straightforward single-stroke rolls.
(Drum sounds) Like that, and then we get a little faster -- (Drum sounds) and a little faster -- (Drum sounds) and a little faster, and so on and so forth.
What does this piece require?
Single-stroke rolls.
(Drum sound) So why can't I then do that whilst learning a piece of music?
And that's exactly what he did.
And interestingly, the older I became, and when I became a full-time student at a so-called "music institution," all of that went out of the window.
We had to study from study books.
And constantly, the question, "Well, why?
Why?
What is this relating to?
I need to play a piece of music."
"Well, this will help your control."
"Well, how?
Why do I need to learn that?
I need to relate it to a piece of music.
You know, I need to say something.
Why am I practicing paradiddles?
(Drum sounds) Is it just literally for control, for hand-stick control?
Why am I doing that?
I need to have the reason, and the reason has to be by saying something through the music."
And by saying something through music, which basically is sound, we then can reach all sorts of things to all sorts of people.
But I don't want to take responsibility of your emotional baggage.
That's up to you, when you walk through a hall, because that then determines what and how we listen to certain things.
I may feel sorrowful, or happy, or exhilarated, or angry when I play certain pieces of music, but I'm not necessarily wanting you to feel exactly the same thing.
So please, the next time you go to a concert, just allow your body to open up, allow your body to be this resonating chamber.
Be aware that you're not going to experience the same thing as the performer is.
The performer is in the worst possible position for the actual sound, because they're hearing the contact of the stick -- (Drum sound) on the drum, or the mallet on the bit of wood, or the bow on the string, etc., or the breath that's creating the sound from wind and brass.
They're experiencing that rawness there.
But yet they're experiencing something so unbelievably pure, which is before the sound is actually happening.
Please take note of the life of the sound after the actual initial strike, or breath, is being pulled.
Just experience the whole journey of that sound in the same way that I wished I'd experienced the whole journey of this particular conference, rather than just arriving last night.
But I hope maybe we can share one or two things as the day progresses.
But thank you very much for having me!
(Applause) (Applause ends) (Music) (Music ends) (Applause)
Good evening.
My journey to this stage began when I came to America at the age of 17.
You see, I'm one of the 84 million Americans who are immigrants or children of immigrants.
Each of us has a dream when we come here, a dream that usually has to be rewritten and always has to be repurposed.
I was one of the lucky ones.
My revised dream led me to the work I do today: training immigrants to run for public office and leading a movement for inclusive democracy.
But I don't want you to think it was a cakewalk, that America opened its arms wide and welcomed me.
It's still not doing that.
And I've learned a few lessons along the way that I wanted to share with you, because I think that together we can make American democracy better and stronger.
I was born in India, the world's largest democracy, and when I was four, my family moved to Belize, the world's smallest democracy perhaps.
And at the age of 17, I moved to the United States, the world's greatest democracy.
I came because I wanted to study English literature.
You see, as a child, I buried my nose in books, and I thought, why not make a living doing that as an adult?
But after I graduated from college and got a graduate degree, I found myself moving from one less ideal job to another.
Maybe it was the optimism that I had about America that made me take a while to understand that things were not going to change.
The door that I thought was open was actually just slightly ajar -- this door of America that would open wide if you had the right name, the right skin color, the right networks, but could just slam in your face if you had the wrong religion, the wrong immigration status, the wrong skin color.
And I just couldn't accept that.
So I started a career as a social entrepreneur, starting an organization for young people like myself -- I was young at the time that I started it -- who traced their heritage to the Indian subcontinent.
In that work, I became and advocate for South Asians and other immigrants.
I lobbied members of Congress on policy issues.
I volunteered on election day to do exit polling.
But I couldn't vote, and I couldn't run for office.
So in 2000, when it was announced that the citizenship application fee was going to more than double from 95 dollars to 225 dollars, I decided it was time to apply before I could no longer afford it.
I filled out a long application, answering questions about my current and my past affiliations.
And once the application was submitted, there were fingerprints to be taken, a test to study for, endless hours of waiting in line.
You might call it extreme vetting.
And then in December of 2000, I joined hundreds of other immigrants in a hall in Brooklyn where we pledged our loyalty to a country that we had long considered home.
My journey from international student to American citizen took 16 years, a short timeline when you compare it to other immigrant stories.
And soon after I had taken that formal step to becoming an American, the attacks of September 11, 2001, changed the immigration landscape for decades to come.
My city, New York City, was reeling and healing, and in the midst of it, we were in an election cycle.
Two things happened as we coped with loss and recovery in New York City.
Voters elected Michael Bloomberg mayor of New York City.
We also adopted by ballot referendum the Office of Immigrant Affairs for the City of New York.
Five months after that election, the newly elected mayor appointed me the first Commissioner of Immigrant Affairs for this newly established office.
I want you to come back to that time.
I was a young immigrant woman from Belize.
I had basically floundered in various jobs in America before I started a community-based organization in a church basement in Queens.
The attacks of September 11 sent shock waves through my community.
People who were members of my family, young people I had worked with, were experiencing harassment at schools, at workplaces and in airports.
And now I was going to represent their concerns in government.
No job felt more perfect for me.
And here are two things I learned when I became Commissioner.
First, well-meaning New Yorkers who were in city government holding government positions had no idea how scared immigrants were of law enforcement.
Most of us don't really know the difference, do we, between a sheriff and local police and the FBI.
And most of us, when we see someone in uniform going through our neighborhoods feel curiosity, if not concern.
So if you're an undocumented parent, every day when you say goodbye to your child, send them off to school and go to work, you don't know what the chances are that you're going to see them at the end of the day.
Because a raid at your workplace, a chance encounter with local police could change the course of your life forever.
The second thing I learned is that when people like me, who understood that fear, who had learned a new language, who had navigated new systems, when people like us were sitting at the table, we advocated for our communities' needs in a way that no one else could or would.
I understood what that feeling of fear was like.
People in my family were experiencing it.
Young people I had worked with were being harassed, not just by classmates, but also by their teachers.
My husband, then boyfriend, thought twice before he put a backpack on or grew a beard because he traveled so much.
What I learned in 2001 was that my vote mattered but that my voice and vantage point also mattered.
And it's these three things -- immigrants' votes, voices and vantage points -- that I think can help make our democracy stronger.
We actually have the power to change the outcome of elections, to introduce new issues into the policy debate and to change the face of the pale, male, stale leadership that we have in our country today.
So how do we do that?
Well, let's talk first about votes.
It will come as no surprise to you that the majority of voters in America are white.
But it might surprise you to know that one in three voters are black, Latino or Asian.
But here's the thing: it doesn't just matter who can vote, it matters who does vote.
So in 2012, half of the Latino and Asian-American voters did not vote.
And these votes matter not just in presidential elections.
They matter in local and state elections.
In 2015, Lan Diep, the eldest son of political refugees from Vietnam, ran for a seat in the San Jose City Council.
He lost that election by 13 votes.
This year, he dusted off those campaign shoes and went back to run for that seat, and this time he won, by 12 votes.
Every one of our votes matters.
And when people like Lan are sitting at the policy table, they can make a difference.
We need those voices.
We need those voices in part because American leadership does not look like America's residents.
There are over 500,000 local and state offices in America.
Fewer than 2 percent of those offices are held by Asian-Americans or Latinos, the two largest immigrant groups in our country.
In the city of Yakima, Washington, where 49 percent of the population is Latino, there has never been a Latino on the city council until this year.
Three newly elected Latinas joined the Yakima City Council in 2016.
One of them is Carmen Méndez.
She is a first-generation college student.
She grew up partly in Colima, Mexico, and partly in Yakima, Washington.
She's a single mother, a community advocate.
Her voice on the Yakima City Council is advocating on behalf of the Latino community and of all Yakima residents.
And she's a role model for her daughter and other Latinas.
But the third most untapped resource in American democracy is the vantage point that immigrants bring.
We have fought to be here.
We have come for economic and educational opportunity.
We have come for political and religious freedom.
We have come in the pursuit of love.
That dedication, that commitment to America we also bring to public service.
People like Athena Salman, who just last week won the primary for a seat in the Arizona State House.
Athena's father grew up in the West Bank and moved to Chicago, where he met her mother.
Her mother is part Italian, part Mexican and part German.
Together they moved to Arizona and built a life.
Athena, when she gets to the statehouse, is going to fight for things like education funding that will help give families like hers a leg up so they can achieve the financial stability that we all are looking for.
Immigrants' votes, voices and vantage points are what we all need to work to include in American democracy.
It's not just my work.
It's also yours.
And it's not going to be easy.
We never know what putting a new factor into an equation will do.
And it's a little scary.
You're scared that I'm going to take away your place at the table, and I'm scared that I'm never going to get a place at the table.
And we're all scared that we're going to lose this country that we know and love.
I'm scared you're going to take it away from me, and you're scared I'm going to take it away from you.
Look, it's been a rough election year, a reminder that people with my immigration history could be removed at the whim of a leader.
But I have fought to be in this country and I continue to do so every day.
So my optimism never wavers, because I know that there are millions of immigrants just like me, in front of me, behind me and all around me.
It's our country, too.
Thank you.
(Applause)