We favor blues musicians without testosterone, without teeth, without sight, without color.
Black women, androgynous white men, and old Black men are safer. Old, scratchy vinyl recordings are safer. But we shy away from the Black man in his prime.
The blues are easy to play poorly yet sound good to white ears. The Stones made a living on this.
I was playing Robert Johnson as the seniors strolled into class on Friday. I’ve gotten in the habit of playing music as the day starts, and Robert Johnson was the morning headliner.
The third marking period started a few days ago. The class just had their first quiz. Most failed, not unexpected given it was the first quiz for seniors that did not count. Senioritis has kicked in.
So I sang an off-the-cuff blues piece about senioritis backed by a harmonica riff lifted off YouTube.
And now I realize this was a mistake.
So tomorrow I will start class with an apology. Not for playing Robert Johnson, a fierce blues man who died far too young. Not for singing, though that may warrant a separate kind of apology.
I will apologize for my lack of respect. Using that art form at that moment to entertain students was wrong. It felt off at the moment, but I wasn’t sure why. I thank Justin of objective opinions for his kind reminder.
(Yes, I will still sing and play the blues by myself for myself–but I cannot share what I do not own.)
When I die, I hope nobody mistakes my kindness for niceness. I am not a nice man. Dr. King’s life profoundly affected mine.
I
have almost reached the regrettable conclusion that the Negro’s great
stumbling block in his stride toward freedom is not the White Citizen’s
Counciler or the Ku Klux Klanner, but the white moderate, who is more
devoted to “order” than to justice; who prefers a negative peace which
is the absence of tension to a positive peace which is the presence of
justice….Shallow understanding from people of good will is more
frustrating than absolute misunderstanding from people of ill will.
“Love” is a complex word, and one not easily used in public settings. “Cooperation” is much safer, more sanitary.
And it’s the wrong message.
***
My
Dad joined the 1963 March on Washington, dressed in full uniform, a
proud US Marine officer. He flew A4 Phantom Skyhawks off carriers, in
love with a country that let poor first generation children fly.
My
dad was pulled to the front of the parade, or so the story goes. If you
see a full-dressed USMC officer in photos from the parade, it may well
be Bill Doyle. Dr. King later went on to oppose the Viet Nam War as
unjust, and my father, a die-hard leatherneck, resigned his commission
for the same reason.
I grew up in an Irish Catholic
home, but Dr. King held as much influence as the Pope, maybe more, years
before he was assassinated. My Dad loved the man, not the cartoon he
has become.
Take a walk outside and watch the grace and agony of life around us.
Yes, it’s complicated. Life is complex,
You
want to learn about Dr. King? Go read his words, listen to his
speeches, learn everything you can about him. But don’t “cooperate” with
those who would steal his image without his words, the Mike Pences, the
innumerable talking heads that will piously bow today.
Take a walk, a walk outside, away from noise. Carry a copy of King’s letter and read it under the January sunlight.
Share it. Live it.
Don’t let the dream die.
The photo of Dr. King (D.C., August, 1963) is from the National Archives and is the public domain.
When I die, I hope nobody mistakes my kindness for niceness. I am not a nice man. Dr. King’s life profoundly affected mine.
I have almost reached the regrettable conclusion that the Negro’s great stumbling block in his stride toward freedom is not the White Citizen’s Counciler or the Ku Klux Klanner, but the white moderate, who is more devoted to “order” than to justice; who prefers a negative peace which is the absence of tension to a positive peace which is the presence of justice….Shallow understanding from people of good will is more frustrating than absolute misunderstanding from people of ill will.
“Love” is a complex word, and one not easily used in public settings. “Cooperation” is much safer, more sanitary.
And it’s the wrong message.
***
My Dad joined the 1963 March on Washington, dressed in full uniform, a proud US Marine officer. He flew A4 Phantom Skyhawks off carriers, in love with a country that let poor first generation children fly.
My dad was pulled to the front of the parade, or so the story goes. If you see a full-dressed USMC officer in photos from the parade, it may well be Bill Doyle. Dr. King later went on to oppose the Viet Nam War as unjust, and my father, a die-hard leatherneck, resigned his commission for the same reason.
I grew up in an Irish Catholic home, but Dr. King held as much influence as the Pope, maybe more, years before he was assassinated. My Dad loved the man, not the cartoon he has become.
You want to learn about Dr. King? Go read his words, listen to his speeches, learn everything you can about him. But don’t “cooperate” with those who would steal his image without his words, the Mike Pences, the innumerable talking heads that will piously bow today.
Take a walk, a walk outside, away from noise. Carry a copy of King’s letter and read it under the January sunlight.
Share it. Live it.
Don’t let the dream die.
The photo of Dr. King (D.C., August, 1963) is from the National Archives and is the public domain. This is a repost.
