Feast of love: a Kwanzaa celebration to remember.

Excerpted from Between Father and Son: An African-American Fable by Eric V. Copage, Amistad/HarperCollins, October 2005 $14.95, ISBN 0-060-82861-7 (for ages 9 to 12) By permission of the publisher

It was the week before the Oakwood school district's Christmas vacation was to begin, and Snackman had given his annual Kwanzaa ceremony at the town's elementary, junior high, and high schools. He had just returned to his store and was leaning into the front window, to start setting up the famous Kwanzaa display he installed every year, when he heard the front door creak open and slam shut. Jordan had entered along with the twins. He had picked them up at school and was walking them home.

"That was a great Kwanzaa ceremony, Snackman," said Jordan, who was enthusiastically seconded in his opinion by Lisa and Kenny.

"I like the way you use the songs and stories to tell us about the holiday," Lisa added. "You made it so dramatic!"

"And I like what you two contributed to the holiday this year," Snackman said to the twins. He reached into the window and pulled out lengths of construction paper the twins had pasted together and painted to resemble a strip of kente cloth. It was about three feet long and three inches wide. "I am so impressed by your Kwanzaa kente!" Snackman enthused. "Thank you for letting me use it in my Kwanzaa display!"

"When Lisa and I decided to stop fighting over the paints and decided to work together, we decided to design a cloth that stands for the spirit of Kwanzaa," Kenny said proudly. He had recently won a spelling bee with the word "decided."

"Tell me about it again," Snackman said kindly, his eyes shining in anticipation of what he knew was a well-rehearsed recitation.

"We used the colors of red, green, and black because those are the colors of Kwanzaa," Kenny said. "At the top and bottom of our cloth, we decided to use a pattern that looks like stairs because it means unity and cooperation."

Lisa added, "The shield pattern means that although there are many obstacles in life, we do not have to let them harm us. And the diamond pattern represents one of the most precious of all the minerals of Africa. It symbolizes the strength and value of black people."

"And last" added Kenny, "we decided to use lots of gold, to symbolize the spiritual wealth of our people." Jordan sidled up to Snackman and quietly thanked him for having faith in him.

"I have faith in all black people," Snackman said.

"Even J.B.?" asked Jordan, who hadn't talked to J.B. since the locker room confrontation; J.B. had been avoiding him.

"Even J.B.," Snackman said without hesitation. "Some of our young men, no matter where or how they grow up, confuse being a thug with being a warrior. I know because I was once such a young man. I didn't know the way of Muscular Black Pride. But our community never gave up on me, and I'm not giving up on J.B. J.B.--and you, Jordan--and all young black men and women are our future. And I'm not about to give up on our future.

"J.B. confessed and I didn't press charges. I told him to return my money and he did. All except for the sixty dollars he'd spent. In exchange for dropping the charges, J.B. and his parents agreed that he would repay me by working a full day each day of his Christmas vacation and an afternoon of work each day after school--from now until the beginning of summer vacation," Kenny's eyes widened.

"That sounds like such a big punishment, Snackman," he said. "I thought you got back most of your money."

Snackman bent down so that he was on Kenny's level, and he looked at him kindly. "It's not a punishment," Snackman said deliberately, so that Kenny would be sure to understand every word. "And it's not about the money."

Lisa, suddenly remembering the many small, family Kwanzaa celebrations her father had led in their home, tugged at Snackman's sleeve. "Do you think my grandma will let us have a big Kwanzaa celebration this year?"

Still at child level, Snackman turned his head to face her. "I don't know, you'll have to ask her," he replied. "But I'll tell you what: If you celebrate, I'll be glad to help."

"Yes!" yelled Kenny and Lisa simultaneously in voices so loud that everyone in the store stopped what they were doing.

"After all," Snackman added, "we're all in this together."

Two weeks later, on New Year's Eve, the next-to-last day of Kwanzaa, the Garrisons' living room was packed. They were hosting their first community Kwanzaa Karamu, the Kwanzaa feast, and everyone had come together to celebrate--Jordan's relatives, his late father's friends, his grandmother's friends, his brother's and sister's friends and their parents, his friends and their parents, and teachers and neighbors--and Snackman, resplendent in the folds and geometry of his most regal African robe. Later there would be much laughter, music, dancing, singing, and eating, all through the night; a celebration inspired by the traditions of nations from the four corners of the globe, from everywhere people of African descent lived or had been.

But right now was a solemn moment, and at this solemn moment, Jordan was stuck in the kitchen, alone, unable to part the sea of people to get to the Kwanzaa table. He stayed in the kitchen, and although he was alone there, apart from the warmth of the scores of bodies steaming up the living room and dining room of his house, Jordan felt surrounded by love--the love of his family and the love of his friends. He felt embraced in spirit by black people everywhere and throughout all time.

Under Snackman's watchful eye, Jordan's grandmother raised the unity cup, and then poured a few drops of water on the carpet, a libation to the ancestors.

"I'd like each of you to think of at least one black person who has influenced you or meant something to you, but who has passed away," Snackman said. "It doesn't matter whether they are famous or not."

Every person in the crowded house then gave thanks in his or her own way. To Jordan's left, a man the color of a brown paper bag stood with his forearms in front of him, his palms open and facing upward, as if he were preparing to cradle something about to be tossed from a window. His head was angled upward, too, and after he closed his eyes, he thanked W. E. B. Du Bois, Mary McLeod Bethune, Booker T. Washington, Ida B. Wells, and a host of other black historical figures for "sharing the road maps that help guide us."

To Jordan's right, a mother stood between her daughters, her arms outstretched, resting protectively on their shoulders. The family members were dressed more like they were at church than a Kwanzaa ceremony, as none wore anything that was obviously Afrocentric. But as they bowed their heads, Jordan noticed that each had a row of two or three cowrie shells that had been made into earrings, which hung discreetly from their pierced earlobes. The mother acknowledged John Coltrane and Romare Bearden, and Tupac Shakur and Jean-Michel Basquiat for bringing "so much beauty and truth into our lives."

Jordan, now standing with his head bowed, clasped his hands in front of his chest and closed his eyes as he tried to focus on someone who had passed to whom he would give thanks, when he found himself repeating the words "Mom" and "Dad" He did so quietly, but with a growing intensity. He found himself fervently thanking them for giving him life and for giving him guidance. He repeated this prayer of appreciation to his parents over and over and over again, like a mantra, like a charm, like an incantation.

A murmur gently rose and fell like waves lapping against a sandy shore, as prayers of thanksgiving moved throughout the house, and person after person recited the names of famous African Americans and departed loved ones.

When the prayers stopped, Lisa, Kenny, and five other young children stood at the dining-room table, which had been covered with three wide swaths of fabric, one red, one green, and one black, upon which were a basketful of fruit, another basket with many ears of corn, as well as the other symbols of Kwanzaa. One by one the children lit the seven candles on the kinara, as he or she explained the principle of Kwanzaa represented by that candle. It was hard to hear most of what the children said, but all the adults smiled anyway. But when it was Lisa's turn, she spoke with such clarity and strength that every-one heard every word. And Kenny's precocious eloquence wowed the party.

At the end of the candle lighting, Snackman pronounced, "You now know the seven principles: Umoja/Unity; Kujichaghlia/Self-Determination; Ujima/Collective Work and Responsibility; Ujamaa/Cooperative Economics; Nia/Purpose; Kuumba/Creativity; Imani/Faith. Now you can celebrate!"

In the early-morning hours, in the wake of the Karamu, Jordan had a chance to reflect on the year, on the season, and on the day. Jordan had recently celebrated his fourteenth birthday, and had weathered the first semester of high school. He had lost his father, yet the void from that loss was sometimes filled with something robust and radiant. There were times Jordan could swear that the spirit of his father was right next to him and whispering in his ear.