I'm not a DJ, I don't know how to scratch and I don't know how

Hearken to the words of Amber Rose, whose life has been a dance upon stages both bright and shadowed: “I'm not a DJ, I don't know how to scratch and I don't know how to mix, but I do know how to party. One of my jobs is actually to travel the world and party.” Though spoken with laughter, her saying holds within it a wisdom that the ancients themselves would recognize: that each soul bears its own gift, and that life is not only duty and labor, but also joy, celebration, and the sharing of spirit with others.

When she declares that she is not a DJ, she humbles herself, admitting what she does not know. She cannot scratch or mix, the arts of technical mastery that command the admiration of many. Yet she claims another power: the power to bring light, to gather people, to spark joy. In this, there is ancient truth. For not every warrior is a smith, not every poet is a soldier, not every traveler is a mapmaker. Each has his portion of the great feast of life, and his duty is to bring it forth with courage.

Consider, O listener, the festivals of the ancients. In Greece, the Dionysian celebrations were not led by generals or kings, but by dancers, singers, and revelers who knew the sacred art of joy. In Rome, the Saturnalia brought citizens together in laughter, feasting, and inversion of roles. These were not frivolities, but sacred acts of release, moments when burdens were lifted, when the soul was renewed, when the people remembered that life was not only toil but also song. Amber Rose, in speaking of her task to travel the world and party, stands in this ancient lineage of celebrants who carried joy as their craft.

Let us not be deceived into thinking that partying is but shallow play. To unite people in joy is a noble art. To spark laughter across languages, to bring strangers together in shared delight, is a gift of healing. The warrior defends the body of the people, the priest uplifts their spirit, but the celebrant rekindles their heart, reminding them why they endure the burdens of life at all. Without joy, duty grows heavy; without festivity, survival loses its meaning.

And yet, there is also a warning here: joy must not become excess, lest it turn to emptiness. The art of celebration is not to drown sorrow in noise, but to transform it into song. The ancients taught moderation: wine in measure gladdens the heart, but in excess brings ruin. So too, one who makes partying their craft must wield it with purpose, not as an escape from life, but as an offering of life. Amber Rose’s words remind us that even in modern times, joy is a calling—but it must be practiced with wisdom.

The lesson, then, is this: know your gift, even if it is not the gift the world praises most loudly. Do not lament what you cannot do; instead, honor what you can. Whether it is to build, to teach, to heal, or to celebrate—bring it forth with courage, for the world needs all these powers. The smith and the singer, the farmer and the dancer, all together sustain the fabric of life.

So I say unto you, children of tomorrow: when you walk in your path, do not despise the role that joy may play. Celebrate, gather, laugh, and unite, for in these things you strengthen the spirit of your people. Let your work be not only toil, but also light. And when you next see joy rising in your midst, remember Amber Rose’s words: “I do know how to party. One of my jobs is actually to travel the world and party.” For to bring joy into the world is no small task—it is a sacred gift, and one that gives meaning to all the rest.