Hope wherever you are, you’re wrapping yourself in the arms of a song tonight.
I’m listening to Nina Simone sing Bob Dylan’s “These Times They Are A-Changing” (Changin’? My computer keeps correcting me which is a funny statement in and of itself) and sobbing my eyes out.
Nina’s is a strong, bold version. A hymn of strength, light streaming through stained glass on Easter morning and your grandma has her eyes closed, singing softly, holding your little hand, and is crying happy tears. I urge you to get in deep with her version. Lights low and just let Nina take you on a journey.
Bob’s version seems almost tongue-in-cheek, as if telling everyone “look, you asked for this - you knew it was coming, you ignored it, and it’s finally here.” Full of young fiery energy and angst. I recall Simon and Garfunkel’s “Mrs. Robinson” - “sow around the grounds until you feel at home” - because the only thing that’s not changing is Mrs. Robinson’s stubborn booty.
Somehow, as I listen to the echo of police sirens here in Durham the two versions of this song are melding into one for me tonight.
I’m stuck at home. My friends are out marching. I can feel them. I want to be there with them.
“Come gather ‘round people, wherever you roam...”
On Saturday I’m boarding a cross country train from Union Station in Washington, D.C. to King Street Station in Seattle, Washington. Aaron’s dad is advancing in Alzheimer's and I’ve heard all through the pandemic the stories of his mother struggling. After begging for him to wait since we couldn’t take the chance of getting her sick, I broke. He’s crying on the couch. He needs his family, and he’s millions of miles and a pandemic away. Racking our brains, we ran numbers and tried to find the safest way across the miles of the grand American adventure - and the train finally won. So, we’ll be in a bedroom having meals delivered as we watch the American theatre roll by the window listening to the hum of the rails.
So, I’m on house arrest of my own choosing so neither of us catch anything that could lead to her death. And it’s destroying my heart.
I logged out of Facebook. Hopefully for a long time. I watched local jazz musicians tear apart their own. One’s not saying the right thing, one’s not saying enough, somebody’s posting a MLK quote while someone calls them out for not understanding fully. I saw a man write “...and a white women is not the answer.” I wanted to scream, fight, call him a sexist pig with every ounce of punk rock energy in me. I didn’t. He’s hurting and all he has right now are his words on a social media page. He’s been hurt badly enough to feel those things strongly enough to write them on a public forum. I logged out I just started sobbing. We are killing our own. In words, in action, in deeds. It is time for deep reflection, open listening, and acceptance.
“Don’t speak to soon, for the wheel’s still in spin...”
How can I as a white person understand? My ancestors came over to mine coal in the depths of Pennsylvania. They were looking for a better life. They had the privilege to choose. They had their names changed on Ellis Island and tried to not teach their ancestors their native tongue. I can try to be compassionate and understand - but I know I am blind. The ancestors of my friends didn’t get the chance to choose. They were chained and forced across the sea against their will.
Here we are. The year is 2020. Racism is deep. Sexism is deep. It’s accidentally or purposely taught to us. However the darn train got here, it’s in the station. Where do we go from here? How the hell do we start?
“Come senators, congressmen, please heed the call...”
Called my father tonight. He’s the mayor of a small town in North Carolina. I knew he had a board meeting tonight - and I wanted to make sure he knew what was happening in Raleigh and Durham. He told me he was helping the former mayor (a strong, brilliant, and wonderful woman of color) with a tree that had fallen on her yard. We discussed how we needed strong leadership and well chosen words from those who have the microphones of the world. How does one find the right words right now? How can anyone? Dad has to - he has no choice. He has people looking to him for answers, for guidance, as someone to express their anger to. We reminded each other of how we’ll never understand, how we must open our eyes as much as we can, how we must be humbled before it all, how we must do everything in our power to help, how we need to call out those of our own and make them feel the weight of the responsibility. Dad reminded me that he hated the word “protest” and instead said “this is a march. Dr. King called it a march.”
“Come mothers and fathers throughout the land, and don’t criticize what you can’t understand...”
I’m an alumni of an HBCU. I remember being pulled over when my friends were driving and watching the police treating them differently. I remember the cop seeing me and easing up on my friend. I remember asking the cop if it was the color of my skin and him giving me a weird response. I remember the doors locking on campus when we had active shooters - which was not uncommon. No, you don’t hear about it on the news. Apparently active shooters on HBCU’s is old news and not worth reporting for whatever reason. How the hell is that okay? Even “progressive” newspapers... nothing. Silence. SILENCE.
“The battle outside is raging, will soon shake your windows and rattle your walls...”
I remember my friend Bryn giving a speech at FemFest 2019, a music festival built around awareness of domestic violence against women in Winston-Salem. She thanked all the male allies that had come out to support women... but she gave a grave suggestion. Bryn said that men’s words have more weight in a group of their own and it was their duty as allies to speak up and hold their own up standards. To accept nothing less. I remember the room filling with cheers, our female fists in the air, tears and hugs all around. As a domestic violence survivor, remember feeling as if a cool waterfall was cascading over my head and I felt free of the old hurtful memories burned in my brain - the ones I still struggle with. I felt I was with my people. I felt safe. I felt good in my own skin.
“Don’t stand in the doorway, don’t block up the hall, for he that gets hurt is he who has stalled...”
I don’t understand it all and I’m a fool to try and say my experiences could be anything equaling my black and brown family. I remember that moment at FemFest though - that freedom. The lightness, the feeling of safety. Feeling victory. Surrounded by understanding beings.
I wish this for my students, my friends, my family.
To the marchers: I see you, I hear you, I’ll fight for you, I’ll be your ally, I’ll do all I can as much as I can. Not just today, but for the rest of my life. You are family.
“And keep your eyes wide, the chance won’t come again...”
We all love what we love and we can’t help it. I’ll do my duty as an artistic educator to uphold the rich history of musicians of color and be a louder voice for my friends. We can always do more.
Be safe tonight, all. As I pack my bags my heart hurts, I’m in tears, and feel physically ill. I am with you and pray for everyone’s safety.
I feel Nina’s strong and bold words at the same time as Bob’s voice of helpful warning calls for us all to be ready and open to change. Somewhere in all of it is some kind of answer for me tonight. I am humbled at how much I still have to learn and understand - but I know my capacity for love is boundless and that’s all I can send out to the universe tonight. I love you all.
