For whatever reason, when I hit the SUBMIT button to send my story about Jester Hairston I get an "Oops!" message. Cannot say why, but here's the story

The summer of my 15th year I was privileged to be a member of the College of Pacific Music Camp in Stockton, California. From opera to jazz and back --they taught it all during that intense summer session.

High visibility conductors and instructors had been assembled to expand our musical minds and teach us all they could in that short span of time. I sang and played the clarinet so that gave me entree to many of the activities available to us. It was a time of expanding our horizons about ethnicity's as well.

I came from Southern Oregon -- Grants Pass -- a whitebread town if there ever was one. In my short life I had not been exposed to Asians, Afro-Americans, Jews, Hispanics -- nothing but our little Caucasian community situated on the Rogue River. I vaguely remember hearing about someone in my hometown refusing to serve coffee to Billy Eckstine and because my dad was on the Community Concert Board I do remember his disgust with a community that would not allow Marian Anderson to stay in any hotel in town. (Learning of this Miss Anderson wisely opted to not sing for the good people of Grants Pass!)

By the time any of this news reached me, however, it was all pretty diluted and, even at that age, to me it seemed pretty unbelievable. Color blind and completely unaware I was sent off to Stockton. I played in the symphony conducted by Constantin Bakalienikoff from Universal Studios. I sang in the opera (chorus, that is) under the baton of Charles Previn. I sang with the dance band (because I desperately wanted to be Julie London).

But the hours that most influenced me throughout the rest of my life were the ones spent singing in a choir conducted by Jester Hairston. Jester was then a man of 50. With boundless energy and humor he molded that little band of gypsy-singers into a single performing unit. He told us wonderful stories about his childhood, he told us great anecdotes about acting in movies in Hollywood.

He poured music and knowledge and love all over us and we responded in kind. And, of course, he taught us about syncopation in its highest form. The spirituals that are his domain became our joy. With his infectious laugh and his pixie humor he taught me more about the ridiculous stupidity of prejudice than any single factor in my entire life.

We (the students) were all blissfully unaware of any ethnic, religious or color differences during that music-filled summer. We worked and played together, and some of us fell in love and some of us had mild flirtations and all of us practiced and studied all the time.

When the parents came to collect us and to enjoy the fruits of our labors in the nightly concerts the lines began to get drawn. Some of them were devastating to the parties involved and all of them were completely unnecessary. We had a common goal and a common bond and the prejudices of our fathers should not have been visited upon us.

When I returned to Grants Pass and to the choir loft of our Methodist church I carried Jester's lessons with me and they could be heard in my singing every Sunday. Not too many Sundays had passed before our minister said quietly to me, "Ruthann, why is it that when you sing "Nearer My God To Thee" it sounds like a torch song?"

The Hairston influence found its way into the rather square beat the reverend expected to hear and spiritual joy had replaced it. So 49 years later I still carry Jester Hairston in my heart and soul and songs. Yes, he is a National Treasure -- one that every child should have the great good fortune to be exposed to. Thank you and God Bless you, Jester!