Before anything else, let’s “storm the gates of heaven” in prayer for fellow Pasadena blogger Rudy Carrasco and his family. His son Sam is in Children’s Hospital (LA) with what might be leukemia.
On a much lighter note, I realize that I am not the only Christian Chinchilla owner in the world. Click here for a list of religious chinchilla items available online. I just don’t think this particular item fits my fashion sense. Tempting, though.
I’ve been thinking about music and politics. Much has been made of the fact that the music industry has been increasingly politicized during the Bush Administration. (Think of the Dixie Chicks/Toby Keith rivalry in country music, and so forth).
As difficult as it is to admit, my politics are rooted in the records I listened to as a child. My mother went to college at Vassar in the late 1950s — at a time when college campuses, especially in New York, were being swept by the folk music movement. The songs of Pete Seeger in particular were especially important to her generation. I was born in 1967, and had my first “musical experiences” in the early to mid 1970s. We didn’t have a television until I was eleven years old (what a blessing that was!), and our radio really only “got” AM stations well. But we did have an old record player, and I had my mother’s folk music records. Day after day as a child, as soon as I could master the phonograph needle, I put on the Weavers, Odetta, Joan Baez, Woody and Arlo Guthrie, Tom Hinton, and all of her recordings from the various Newport Folk Festivals of the late 1950s and early 1960s.
I liked the bluegrass, I liked the blues, but I really liked the emotion-driven political folk songs, because they were the ones my mother sang to me as lullabies before I had even heard the recordings. She sang me songs like “You Gotta Go Down and Join the Union” and “We Shall Not be Moved.” It was only years later that I realized that there were Christian versions of these songs — I had only heard the secular political ones! These lines take me back to age six in a heartbeat:
We shall not, we shall not be moved
We shall not, we shall not be moved
Just like a tree that’s standing by the water
We shall not be moved
Black and white together
We shall not be moved
Our union is forever
We shall not be moved
Just like a tree that’s standing by the water
We shall not be moved
We shall not, we shall not be moved
We shall not, we shall not be moved
Just like a tree that’s standing by the water
We shall not be moved
Imagine how shocked I was in college to hear folks sing it this way:
Jesus is my saviour, I shall not be moved
Jesus is my saviour, I shall not be moved
Just like the tree standing by the water
I shall not be moved.
Many of my conservative Christian friends had their first experience of faith singing hymns in church. (Especially true for those buddies of mine raised in the pentecostal/charismatic traditions). Though in many instances, their faith has grown and become more nuanced, they still become very emotional when they sing the old classics. Their faith is rooted in song.
I was raised by a mother who was and is an atheist, a philosopher, and an ardent progressive. I can remember campaigning for Morris Udall in the 1976 Democratic primary (at age 8 or so). For Hugo at that age and still today at 37, left-wing politics had a soundtrack of acoustic guitars and soaring harmonies. I would sit at home on my mother’s bedroom floor, playing my favorite records over and over again and often crying copious tears at the injustice of the world. For my friends raised in conservative Christianity, the enemy was “the devil”; for me, the enemies of my childhood were the “bosses”, the “scabs”, and the “bankers”. What follows was my absolute favorite song (I’ve heard it done by half a dozen artists, but it is tough to find these days on CD), and lucky reader, you get all the lyrics:
I’ve traveled round this country
From shore to shining shore.
It really made me wonder
The things I heard and saw.
I saw the weary farmer,
Plowing sod and loam;
I heard the auction hammer
A knocking down his home.
CHORUS:
But the banks are made of marble,
With a guard at every door,
And the vaults are stuffed with silver,
That the farmer sweated for.
I saw the seaman standing
Idly by the shore.
I heard the bosses saying,
Got no work for you no more.
But the banks are made of marble,
With a guard at every door,
And the vaults are stuffed with silver,
That the seaman sweated for.
I saw the weary miner,
Scrubbing coal dust from his back,
I heard his children cryin’,
Got no coal to heat the shack.
But the banks are made of marble,
With a guard at every door,
And the vaults are stuffed with silver,
That the miner sweated for.
I’ve seen my brothers working
Throughout this mighty land;
I prayed we’d get together,
And together make a stand.
FINAL CHORUS:
Then we’d own those banks of marble,
With a guard at every door;
And we’d share those vaults of silver,
That we have sweated for.
I cannot hear that song even now without welling up. Growing up there in Carmel by-the-Sea, with a beach to play on, books to read, and a life of genuine comfort, I played recordings like that over and over again and wept in solidarity with the miner, the seaman, and the farmer! I thought about how wicked the bosses and the bankers were, and I cried more. And I wanted to be a union activist, and fight for justice, and if I was very lucky, get shot. Oh, I had grandiose dreams when I was a boy!
I’ve moved well to the right as an adult. At age 13, I joined the Socialist Workers Party. I actually tried to distribute copies of their newspaper, The Militant, on the campus of the private high school I briefly attended, and then at Carmel High. I think I sold one to a sympathetic wood shop teacher. My subscription lapsed by my junior year. By the time I was in college at Cal, I was just another liberal Democrat.
I was teased a lot as a kid. Yes, I was clumsy and a smart-aleck, and that sure didn’t help. But my politics really made me a bit of an outcast, and in all honesty, I enjoyed the notoriety immensely. When kids made fun of me for displaying and selling the Militant, I imagined that I was “suffering in solidarity” with the workers of the world. It made me proud. And when I had doubts, I went home (as late as high school), shut myself in my room, and listened to all the old songs. I wept at the injustice of the world (which was usually mixed with lots of adolescent self-pity) and resolved to do more for “struggle”.
And though my politics have moved towards the center, I remain convinced that the left still has all the best songs.