Music and Tradition

 

It’s about 3 p.m., and I’ve just been picked up from the Center for Achievement, a school for gifted students. My cousin Genesis and I climb into that boxy old Volvo with my grandfather behind the wheel. (Yes, I’ll keep bringing up the car—by the end of this course, I hope you’ll know me well enough to see the real me. Surely a woman of many hats, quiet but attentive in class… but still, the Banks-household D’Asia.)

We were near the top of our class, fourth graders—nine years old, proud, a little rebellious. Our days were structured. No—deeply structured. That was tradition in our household.

Outside of church on Wednesdays and Sundays, mornings always began the same way: wake up, make the bed (Genesis and I shared a room), walk through the open door—because in our house, only teens were allowed to close their doors. Walk—never run—to the bathroom, shower, then head into my grandmother’s room for cocoa butter and a quick fix of our hair. Walk—again, never run—down the stairs, where our shoes (never upstairs!) and bookbags waited by the door, with breakfast set neatly on the table.

After school, the same order. Homework first—minimal help, but plenty of encouragement. Then came snack and playtime, no longer than 45 minutes to an hour. Nap time. Dinner and maybe TV. Then wash up and in bed before 9 p.m. Sure, we shared a bed, but many nights we stayed up whispering. No phones, only tablets for weekend use, so we did what kids do—we talked. Sometimes well past bedtime, imagining our futures. I said my mansion would be half-WWE arena, while hers would be dripping in pink.

I know, that’s a lot. But if you take anything from this, it’s that structure was our tradition.

My grandmother was the primary figure in the household. My mom and grandfather were there, but they worked. Most of the day-to-day, after school hours—it was her, with me, my cousin, and my two brothers. Looking back now, I can only imagine the weight on her shoulders. A house full of kids under thirteen, managed at age sixty-two. I believe it was only by God’s strength that she made it through.

And still—during those rare moments of exhaustion, when the kids were tired from being kids and Grandma was drained from holding it all together—she sang. Sometimes songs she made up, about God being a present help. Other times, gospel staples like Richard Smallwood’s Center of My Joy: “When I’ve lost my direction, you’re the compass for my way… Jesus, you’re the center of my joy.”

Even as a child, I could feel the tension in the room—the weight of her responsibilities, our restlessness, the unspoken frustrations. And yet she sang. I’ll admit, it sometimes annoyed me back then. How could she worship while my crush was ignoring me at school? But now, I see it for what it was: resilience. A lifeline. A kind of love.

And the truth is, that kind of resilience wasn’t just in her songs—it was stitched into the very fabric of our family. Discipline, faith, and hard work weren’t things we talked about, they were things we lived.

I was born to two military grandparents and a mother who was both a nurse and computer technician. Work ethic was never optional—it was built in. And while people today may look at me and see someone “spoiled” or “supported,” it wasn’t by accident. It was because of sacrifices—of time, energy, and sometimes dreams—by people like my mother, my grandfather, and especially my grandmother.

And maybe that’s why music mattered so much in our house. It wasn’t just background noise—it was a reminder, a kind of glue that held all those sacrifices and lessons together.

Every Sunday, we’d drive forty minutes from Lexington back home to northeast Columbia, gospel filling the car. One of my grandmother’s favorite songs was Kirk Franklin’s I Smile. And Lord knows, life wasn’t easy for her. A three-time cancer survivor. A country girl who literally labored in the fields. A “mother” at an early age, forced to take care of her nine siblings, to grow up and support herself far sooner than she should have had to. And still—she smiled.

Through the hardships, the silent battles, the private tears—she smiled.

That is my music and my tradition. Not just gospel songs, not just structure, but my grandmother’s strength wrapped inside both. Structure. And grandmothers. And the way, even in the hardest times… she smiled.