[excerpt from the book]

Perhaps I should start with a little background on who I am. My mother, Gwendolyn Greene, is the daughter of Sam's oldest sister Mary. As his great nephew, Sam died a year and a half before I was born, hence I never could say I actually knew him. From a literary standpoint, I feel this fact is relevant, but to me it's always been of minor consequence. You see, as with most of my relatives, Sam's spirit lives within, and it's carried on by us in our daily lives. My great Aunt Agnes has said "there's not a day that goes by I don't think of Sam", and at the time of this writing it's been forty years since his death. Anyone who has ever felt the impact of his music or the tragedy of his loss understands that sentiment.

My earliest memories of Sam were as a toddler dancing to his music as my mother cleaned our apartment on Chicago's South Side, part of her Saturday morning routine. I'd follow her from room to room (as would Sam's music), picking up lyrics and melodies, my mother picking up toys and socks. As a little boy of maybe 4 or 5, I would request certain favorites:

"Play THAT one again, ma!"

She'd smile, feeling the warmth of my appreciation, and oblige my wish. Later in life she'd admit how amazing it was I could have the same passion for Sam's music as she had, but at such an early age. I, in turn, admitted his music had a captivating essence, whether slow or up-tempo, Gospel or Pop. We surmised it was because many of Sam's songs, especially the ones he wrote, had an enduring quality that seemed to relate to the old and young alike.

By 10 or 11, I knew all the words to his major hits and would sing along, but during this period I began to notice my mother's reaction to Sam's music more intently. Sweeping to "I Belong to Your Heart", for instance, was almost impossible. The broomstick would become a night club microphone, our kitchen floor her stage, and the fluorescent light overhead her spotlight. Vacuuming to "Twisting the Night Away" would transform our old Hoover upright into an imaginary dance partner a la Fred Astaire and the famous coat rack scene from "Royal Wedding". By this time, stories and memories would accompany some of the songs, and I began to learn of my famous uncle's impact on the music world.

By the time I turned 16, I didn't stick around for mom's "Saturday Morning Revue" too often. My friends and I had discovered that not only were the malls full of 16 year old girls, but that this adolescent nirvana was only 10 minutes away. Plus I found that if I stuck around the house on Saturday morning long enough, she'd inevitably find some sort of chores for me to do. The choice, in my mind, was a simple one. The "Revue", however, continued on without me.

I never gave much thought to Sam's music during my late teens and early 20's. Don't get me wrong, it was always there, constantly being played in the house, but it seemed kind of corny to be a fan of old love ballads and gospel songs when R & B, rap and techno music were what filled Black radio airwaves and teenage conversations. In mid-80's Chicago, private parties were dominated by the groundswell of "house music", basically a resurgence of disco songs from the seventies and early eighties. We'd party 'till the wee hours of the morning in underground clubs like the Playground, the Music Box, or the Power Plant to the mixes of DJ's like Ron Hardy, Frankie Knuckles, or Farley "Funkin'" Keith. It became the norm for amateur DJ's to raid their parent's record collection looking for 10 year old disco songs, scrambling to see who could uncover a hidden "gem" by the next house party. Still I felt embarrassed that "A Change is Gonna Come" could move me to tears or I could play "Bring It On Home to Me" and feel Lou Rawls' background vocals raise the hairs on the nape of my neck. These were feelings I would definitely have to suppress if I were to remain part of the "in" crowd. So I did.

But by my mid 20's Sam's music was back, this time to my rescue. Richard Pryor joked in his standup act that a man doesn't become a MAN until he has had his heart broken; really twisted, chewed up and spit out, he would describe it. In 1991, I became a MAN.

I made the mistake of falling for my ex-girlfriend's best friend, and while girlfriend #1 was no longer in the picture, the guilt and feelings of betrayal girlfriend #2 experienced were too strong and too overwhelming for her to ignore. For over a year, two people who felt they had everything in common yet an insurmountable wall between them played emotional tug-of-war until she one day announced she couldn't take it anymore and had found a new boyfriend to occupy her love interest. A total zombie, I remember returning home from our breakup, walking into our living room and hearing, really hearing "Trouble Blues" from the 1963 album "Night Beat". From Sam's humming intro to his very last note, I remember being astonished at how the pain he portrayed in the song seemed to reflect what I was feeling at the time. Over the next two months Sam's music would provide an emotional solace as I learned to appreciate not only the power of his voice but the beauty of his songs as well. "I'll Come Running Back to You", "That's Where It's At", "Only Sixteen", and "Nothing Can Change This Love" seemed to be written from Sam's pen to my shattered young heart.

Never again would I take his music for granted because it was during that fall of 1991 I realized that sometimes we have to be "blessed" with tragedy in order to develop as human beings. I now understand why my mom wept in a great sense of disbelief in December 1964 when the news broke of Sam's untimely murder, and how these same tears of pain could be turned into tears of pride as she watched her 4 year old son belt out his songs two generations later. During my emotional healing, I played Sam Cooke songs for my closest friends (and potential new girlfriends) and was quite surprised at the warm reaction his music generated. Mind you, it was always a subtle yet well-timed introduction-maybe driving down Lake Shore Drive on a lazy Sunday afternoon or coming home late night from a party-when I'd pull out an unlabelled cassette and pop it into the tape player.

"Here, take a listen to this," I'd say. . .

I've since married my wife Augustine and become a Financial Advisor in Chicago's South Suburbs. In my free time I enjoy skiing, cheering on the Bears, Cubs and White Sox (yes, it's OK to be a fan of both baseball teams!), and spoiling my nieces and nephews.