It is known that in Africa it takes a whole village to raise a child. Lessons the child grows up with include customs and traditions of the tribe, and their obligations as tribe members. Once a child is born, it is not called by a name but simply boy, or girl. The child awaits the day to attain his rightful name. It is a well known tradition, that when the child comes of age, he or she is sent off in the woods. The child undergoes several strenuous obstacles, and upon their successful return home the child earns his honorary name. Some come back, some do not. For some, it takes a whole year to realize who they really are. However, for the tribe of Paris city it takes much less than a year to realize who you really are…and of course, as you would expect, I am an exception. For over eight years I have been searching for my true identity. Quite truthfully, I’m still not sure who I am or what my destiny is. All I know is that I need to find my mother, my real mother, my only known family. All I have is a medallion and a single photograph, which leads me from my foster home in New York and brings me to the alluring streets of Paris. And as I roam amongst the faces of people, I search for her angelic face. Her bright green eyes, and sparkling black hair haunt me in my sleep as I reach out, only to grab empty air. I have to tell you, there is something more then the medallion and the photograph showing my mother playing a violin. I play violin too… I have my mother in my blood. I feel her, I miss her, I want to find her, hug her, and call her my mother. I want to find my home, to spend evenings by the fire, and eat soft, chewy marshmallows. I want to swim in the summer, and jump in heaps of leaves in the autumn. But most of all, I want to find my mother. I will find her. I am sure of it. “Madame, the train is leaving in a minute”, the man said as Monique LeClaire hurried herself to the platform…

            It was just before midnight when Monique heard the phone. The last week was crazy and full of tedious rehearsals. She gently left the violin and grabbed the phone. “Hi Jack.” she sang as if her voice was extending the melody of the “Brandenburg concerto”. “Let’s go out for a walk.” came from the other side of the line. The night was warm and inviting. Monique and Jack liked these night walks through the busy streets of Paris. “I researched online yesterday night and found out that your medallion is given to children baptized in the basilica of St. Lazar.” explained Jack. “Really? We should visit it tomorrow morning! It’s right by La Rue de Sud on the right of Jerome street. Maybe that basilica will help me find out more about myself and my identity!” exclaimed Monique. The rest of the walk was one filled with accomplishment and excitement for the coming day.

The last sounds from the orchestra dissolved into the air and there came the silence. It was this kind of heavy silence that comes once in your life, a silence before a storm when nature becomes speechless, amazed, and confused of its own power, awaiting the release of accumulated forces unlocking a chain of unpredictable consequences, a silence that could kill or give birth. When a child comes back from the woods the tribe remains distant for a brief moment. This moment of silence is when the magic happens, the magic that transforms a nameless boy or girl into a fearless warrior and a loving parent. The tribe needs this moment to realize the child’s growth and accept the child as recognized part of the whole tribe. When the concert hall exploded in applause Monique LeClaire looked for Jack. When she saw his face encouraging her along with the supporting ovations of the public she was finally relived. She knew what her mother had given her. It was part of her blood and soul, and part of her destiny.