Celebrating King

Yesterday, January 15th, was the late Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.’s actual birthday.  Had he managed to live to the present, he would be 83.  For several reasons, I feel deeply motivated to write this year’s first Tower post about Dr. King, his influence on my life, and my less-than-happy feelings about his status in the present as well as the recently-dedicated King Memorial in Washington DC.

I was 16 when King was murdered on April 4, 1968 at the age of 39.  I’ve never forgotten (or entirely recovered from) the sense of loss, rage and helplessness I felt in response to what the King Family and many others (including the jury of a 1999 wrongful death suit) believe was a government conspiracy.

In addition to grief and anger, there were countless poignant moments in the initial wake of the assassination: for the nation, for the black community, within the civil rights movement, and in the lives of individuals.

The moment that occurred in my family was this: my [white] maternal grandmother, a poor, uneducated Russian-Jewish immigrant who, more than 50 years after emigrating to America could still barely speak English, was living with my parents and me at the time.  The night of the assassination, my folks and I were going to a neighborhood [activist] church for a memorial service and my grandmother said she wanted to go with us, because “he was a good man; this is a bad thing.”  At her funeral, my [black] father told this story, saying how moved he had been that this woman who had literally never set foot in a church in her life, willingly went and stood, linking arms with us, weeping and singing We Shall Overcome.

This year is the 25^th anniversary of the federal holiday.  In the spirit of this occasion, I am consciously grateful to have lived when King lived, to have witnessed his work to combat the racism he so deeply understood lessens America’s greatness and impedes its progress.  And I still marvel at the courage and foresight he displayed (and the criticism he endured, even from his colleagues in the movement) when he broadened his message to include opposition to the Vietnam War and the destructive, enormous poverty in America, both of which he viewed as essential components of championing non-violence, justice and economic equality.

Martin Luther King, Jr. certainly deserves to be lauded as a great African-American icon.  But it has long pissed me off that, even to this day, he is not commonly recognized simply and truly as a great American by all Americans.  It is a telling, distasteful reminder that racism is still very much alive and well that he is not regarded as such by the general public – meaning white people, a considerable number of whom, both ordinary citizens and federal legislators, fought for years against establishing the King holiday, then, years later, doggedly opposed having a King Memorial in the nation’s capitol.

And that Memorial, which was supervised by a racially-diverse committee and should be a handsome, inspiring tribute, is instead a peculiar structure that is quite unattractive: carved out of a massive slab of white granite, barely resembles him (among other incorrect features, King’s signature mustache is hardly-visible or just plain missing ), and displays what many critics regard as an inappropriate (and heavily edited) King quotation.

The designer has had the chutzpa to “explain” that the quote problem was because of space limitations.  But what can possibly justify a design that didn’t incorporate sufficient space for a longer, much better and intact quote?  Dr. King wrote numerous books and countless hundreds of speeches and sermons – and this was the best they could come up with?  It makes me wonder just how much that diverse committee actually knew about King, his work and his writings.

Which brings me to my primary King-related pet peeve.  Aside from his 1963 March on Washington “I Have a Dream” speech; his “Mountaintop” sermon, delivered the night before he died; and his book, Letter From a Birmingham Jail, many Americans of all ethnicities (particularly contemporary youth) are sadly unfamiliar with the content, even existence, of King’s extensive body of written work.  In essence, to the general public, King’s legacy has been reduced to a postage stamp’s worth of information, not unlike that about Honest Abe Lincoln and his log cabin, and George Washington’s chopped cherry tree.

I do rejoice today in the life and work of Martin Luther King, Jr., as well as the brave, tenacious efforts of his widow, the late Coretta Scott King.  I also applaud the subsequent individual and collective accomplishments of their children.

But the country’s general understanding of black history seems to consist of this inadequate picture of Dr. King, along with the fact that George Washington Carver did marvelous things with peanuts; Madam C.J. Walker was the first to invent and market black hair care products; and Rosa Parks wouldn’t change her bus seat.  Most people don’t even know that in 1872, feminist Victoria Woodhull and abolitionist Frederick Douglass were the presidential/vice presidential candidates put forth by the independent Civil Rights Party.

It is my great hope that from this day forward, there will be an ever-increasing interest, understanding and appreciation for all that Dr. King achieved and espoused, because it has enormous pertinence to present-day America – as well as a considerable increase in the public’s familiarity with the much wider world of black history.  Until that happens, we as a people will never fully “overcome.” 

Bad, Sad, Mad

I imagine President Obama isn’t feeling too well tonight.  Since I don’t think he’s delusional, he must know that the insane and protracted debacle that just accompanied the raising of the debt ceiling has ended with a really bad deal.  It pleases no one and may very well kick-start an economic decline that won’t stop until we hit bottom.  This man whom, I believe, genuinely wanted to help make America better – for everyone and everything – must know that he’s made a piss poor job of it, but I don’t think he fully understands how and why he and we got here.  But I’ve got the audacity to think I do understand, so here goes.

Things as they are now really started with the rise of Ronald Reagan and, simultaneously, the rise of Christian fundamentalism and the assassination of John Lennon, all of which occurred in 1980.  What was then called The Silent Majority was very displeased with the events of the 60s and 70s that ushered in a new era of social permissiveness.  They didn’t like what they saw as the success of the civil rights, women’s rights and gay rights movements.  They didn’t like uppity blacks and hippies and The Pill and the wholesale questioning of the existence of God.  They didn’t like the tough economic times of the 70s, or Jimmy Carter trying to rein them in, he with his sweater in a cold White House and the 55 mph speed limit and the energy crisis and his complete inability to get a whole bunch of American hostages out of Iran.

So, in the leadership of Ronald Reagan they saw a man who had seen the error of his own youthful Democrat, union-supporting, Hollywood-decadent ways and had been born again (as it were) in the sobering waters of Republican conservatism, traditional social and religious values, and unbridled free-market capitalism.  He made them feel comfortable and hopeful and much less afraid.

For their part, the Boomers – most in our 30s, a few in our 40s – were so demoralized by Lennon’s death and the end of his love-and-peace message that many of us allowed ourselves to be seduced by cocaine and unprecedented opportunities to make a lot of money, which seemed like a good idea, because it had turned out that love was not all we needed, and an ambitious younger generation (the Yuppies) were snapping at our heels like Pac Man.

Bill Clinton notwithstanding, things went on in this vein for a couple of decades, including an increasing lack of compassion for the poor, the under-employed, and the in any way vulnerable and needy on virtually everybody’s part.  The Silent Majority and Boomers may have been different in many ways, but they had come to share a love of money and success and feelings of safety.  They had kids and careers and comfort and they wanted to stay that way.  It was during these years that glamour was prized, and people shopped ‘til they dropped for things that were to die for.

Then 9/11 happened and America suddenly realized it was vulnerable in an unsafe world that was changing once again, filled with new kinds of revolutionaries, new kinds of heathens, more people who wanted a slice of the good times pie and we didn’t feel like sharing.  So we kept Bush-43 around for eight years, because he was butch and patriotic and God-fearing, and didn’t back away from a good fight or reckon with no new-fangled ideas.

Then along came Barack Hussein Obama, a clearly dangerous (liberal) black man (!) with a frightening foreign name who was young and handsome and talked real pretty about change and hope.  So the Reagan Democrats and Traditional Republicans and Super-Good Christians organically joined forces and morphed into a revitalized population of über-conservatives (soon to be known as the Tea Party) and radical Christians who eschewed science, common decency and common sense, along with the poetry and parables of the Bible, and chose instead to take everything literally, from the ancient Bible to the 200-year-old Constitution, to the obvious liberal dangers of the new millennium.  They did not see, and still do not see, any reason for rethinking or updating or changing anything, because if they concede to change, the terrible “other” wins.

And when Barack Obama won in 2008 – thanks largely to a whole new generation of uppity blacks and deviant young people – the now not-so-silent majority/minority made it their mission to bring him down even before he could get on his feet.

For his part, President Obama gravely underestimated the toxic level of racism that would be added to an already-vile witch’s brew of philosophical and political opposition.  His chief goal – the one upon which hope and change were firmly tethered – was to make everyone in the Washington power structure play nicely together, understand and respect each other’s differing views, and from the epiphany that would result from this new rapprochement, they would work together to change America for the better.

Maybe it would have worked if Bush-43 hadn’t ratcheted up the debt and deficit, decimated government regulation and oversight of nearly everything, and put two wars on America’s American Express card.  But he did.  And Barack Obama inherited an indescribable mess.  He kept the American (and world) economy from falling over the proverbial edge of the proverbial cliff, but he didn’t get a lot of credit for that, because to most people (like me), economics is math and math is something we don’t understand.

Then the President took the initiative in changing some things he could change on his own, but he hasn’t gotten a lot of credit for that, because modest but meaningful changes are small news and the media didn’t cover it.  Lastly, the President simply would not abandon his “let’s all get along” prime directive, nor did he play hardball with the disparate members of his own party.  It may also be that negotiation just isn’t his strong suit.  In any case, he ended up presenting the country with really crappy versions of change initiatives we wanted, like universal health care and strong financial reform and making the rich & corporations pay up and, now, even raising the debt ceiling came with poorly thought out, never discussed, and damaging laws and protocols that may very well push us over that cliff after all.

The President turns 50 this week and I imagine that even for a president, that’s a rough milestone to reach.  It was a bitch for me.  But it was also the point at which I decided to stop caring about what other people thought of me and just be and accept myself as I am – and let the chips fall where they may.  With any luck, Mr. Obama will have the same impulse and let us know that if we re-elect him in 2012, he’ll be the Obama we voted for last time, rather than the largely ineffectual compromiser he’s been during his first term.  He’s only got one term left and he’s got nothing to lose.  I hope he’ll see it that way – before the rest of us lose everything.

Regarding Bob Dylan, `Round His 70th Birthday

They say that if you can remember the 60s you weren’t really there, but I was there, and while my memories are sketchy, they’re there, and I’m glad I have them. And some of my fondest memories are of Bob Dylan and what he meant to me as I was growing up. I had this poster of Dylan (left) on one of my bedroom walls for ages. I think it came with one of the rock albums, but I’m not sure. I just know that it, like he, was a constant presence, an inspiration, a yardstick, a spokesman for my times for a long, long time. The fact that he’s still with us and still writing and singing is comforting to me. It makes me feel that I haven’t been set loose into the future like a forlorn balloon, even though I have been – we all have been. May 24^th was Dylan’s 70^th birthday. I was never aware of his birthday, but his being 70 now – just 11 years older than I – feels important.

I remember reading an extensive interview with Dylan in Rolling Stone (one of the first of many in that magazine over the years), and the interviewer asked him how it felt to be the Voice of His Generation and he said “I don’t see myself that way.” I guess; it’s hard for any of us to see ourselves as others see us. But Dylan has always had public and critical response to him as an artist and a person to reflect back at him. Yet for as long as I can remember, Bob Dylan has always looked like he didn’t quite understand how he got to wherever he was and that he didn’t want the responsibility of being the Voice of His Generation. I imagine it’s hard to have greatness thrust upon you, even if greatness is what you aspire to. It just wasn’t the kind of greatness he had in mind. So it goes.

From the start, all Bob Dylan wanted was to make music, and rock `n’ roll was his first love. He wanted to be Elvis Presley before Woody Guthrie captured his heart, which took him unexpectedly into the folk revival of the 60s. He wanted to be relevant more than he wanted to be political, but he allowed himself to be embraced by the civil rights/anti-war politics of the time and to reflect that in his music as a “protest” singer/songwriter. He allowed Pete Seeger to take him under his wing. He allowed Joan Baez to share her fame and her social voice with him. He may have been sidetracked, but he wasn’t stupid.

Dylan gave the movement some of its most important anthems, but he was never on the front lines. Oddly enough, he wasn’t really a political animal, he was an artist and a poet. And when he went electric (to the dismay of the folk/political purists), he really didn’t understand why people responded with such rage. The man with so much insight and talent to express, the artist cunning and ruthless enough to be an opportunist, never understood what he meant to people, and never saw any obligation to his audience because of that meaning. That he was so clueless in his prime is what made him human. I think he gets it now and has for some time. What makes him human now is his age.

I sort of tell time by his albums, at least up to a point. I remember being about 12 or 13 and buying his first three albums, Bob Dylan, The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan and Another Side of Bob Dylan and devouring them. I was among the folk purist audience who booed him at the infamous Forest Hills concert when he went electric in the mid-60s, but I came to relish the Highway 61 and Bringing It All Back Home albums. He turned me; I got it. I remember sitting in the back of the B-41 Flatbush Avenue bus clutching the Blonde On Blonde album I'd just bought (I still think it was his greatest) and actually tingling with anticipation until I could get home and play it. I remember the seductiveness of Desire and the boldness of Blood On The Tracks (his important, eloquent middle period), and the lively, interesting Shot of Love and Empire Burlesque. Then for a long time he lost me. I didn’t catch up again until 1989's Oh Mercy (which was the soundtrack for a torrid love affair I had in the early 90s) then he lost me again. The man has released more than 50 albums, not counting numerous bootlegs. In 2009 he put out a Christmas album; you can’t buy everything.

It doesn’t matter that as I got older I didn’t keep up with Dylan’s Born Again period, or his cowboy/Pat Garrett period, or his extended Greatest Hits period. I’d shake my head about his odd ventures into different things, but I respected that he dared to try, and to do it in public, too. Bob Dylan taught me to express myself and take risks at every turn – lessons I haven't always lived up to. But he inspired the poet in me and the socially caring person in me and the dreamer in me. I’m grateful for that.

Now, as an old man, the father of six (including the talented, adorable Jakob) and the grandfather of nine, Dylan represents endurance to me, and a willingness to try new things at any age. In the 90s, he created some very lovely Matisse-esque paintings, and he performed in China for the first time just a few months ago. I pray he outlives me. I would feel untethered without the voice, and conscience, and very human confusion of my generation that is Bob Dylan.

Sweet Mary (Mary Travers 1936-2009)

When I was around eight years old, my mother bought me the Halloween costume of my choice that year: Beatnik. We bought it at Woolworth’s, where it lay in a plastic bag among the similarly packaged ghosts and witches and skeletons. It consisted of a long-haired, platinum wig attached to a black beret and came with a long cigarette holder. I don’t remember if it also came with a black turtleneck, but I do recall being dressed in a little black outfit and that my mother did my make-up, complete with heavily darkened eyes and very pale lips. I knew about beatniks, because my parents were into jazz and other “hip” things. I thought it was all very cool.

Two years later (1962), I discovered folk music and bought my very first album with my very own money. It was Peter, Paul and Mary’s debut album and there was Sweet Mary: the quintessential hipster with the darkened eyes and pale lips. I loved their music and I was enchanted by her. I remember sitting in the living room listening to that album over and over, and looking at the album cover photo: two handsome young men with goatees and a beautiful blonde, all leaning against a brick wall. I think it was on the stage of The Bitter End, a now-legendary folk club/coffee house in the heart of Greenwich Village. That was the album with “If I Had a Hammer,” which became a Number One hit, as well as other songs that rang through my head for years (and often still do): “500 Miles,” “This Train,” “If I Had My Way,” “Cruel War” (which I was singing to myself just the other day), “Lemon Tree” and “Where Have All the Flowers Gone?,”

It was Peter, Paul and Mary who brought a kind of clean-cut accessibility to the often-grungy-and-intimidating folk scene. Their melodic beauty gave a much-needed softness to important songs by Bob Dylan (like “Blowin’ in the Wind” and “Don’t Think Twice, It’s Alright”) that literally helped put Dylan over the top, despite his own odd, nasal, talk/sing voice. Their clear political courage and well-developed social conscience, sans stridency, helped bring many into the counter-culture fold. And as the years passed and their albums mounted up, they became symbolic of radical social change in a very pleasing package.

When I learned of Mary Travers’s death from cancer at the age of 72 yesterday, I felt as if a dear friend had died and a vital link in my chain to the past had been broken. Rest in peace, Sweet Mary. Thank you for the years of beautiful music, and for helping to shape my life.

Woodstock at 40

Unlike many of my friends (one of whom still has the tickets he bought and never had to use), I did not go to the Woodstock Music Festival, August 15-17, 1969. That was the summer I was 17 and I spent it in England, primarily London. I watched the televised moon landing in a local pub, where, as Neil Armstrong set down his famous foot for man and mankind, the bartender said to me, “Well, you Yanks have made it!” and gave me a free beer. I left England before the fairly-as-famous Isle of Wight festival (that Bob Dylan did participate in, unlike Woodstock), thereby missing the two key pop-culture events of my generation. But even if I’d been here (or there), I wouldn’t have attended, because I was a hippie in spirit only, not in the physical sleep-on-the-ground, frolic-in-the-rain-&-mud kind of way. I loved the creed and music of the 60s, but I saw no reason to give up my bed and air conditioner in their name.

I did, however, get to visit The Beatles’ Apple Records and meet Derek Taylor, their longtime publicist, to whom I’d been given entrée by a popular young folksinger who was a close friend at the time. The Beatles were in the process of breaking up like a bad marriage and the Apple offices looked like they were under siege, with lots of boxes being packed and young assistants literally running around in a dizzy panic. The tall, slim Derek sat serenely cross-legged in his tall, round-backed Panama chair and said calmly, “This is what the end looks like.” I never got to meet a Beatle, but Derek gave me a 45 of Give Peace a Chance autographed by John and Yoko, the first joint I’d smoked in weeks, and a pass to a recording session at Abbey Road Studios (it was either Johnny Mathis or a symphony, I don’t remember which).

When I think of Woodstock now – the festival, not the town – I think of it as the last gasp of 60s sensibility, which struggled to be seen and heard through the Disco 70s and truly died with John Lennon in 1980. The 60s were the original days of “yes we can,” audacious hope, and change we not only believed in, but genuinely made. We kinda changed the world, but not in the ongoing way we thought we would. My generation – now aging, preoccupied with its waning health and wealth and doting on its grandchildren – has come to be reviled for our youthful excess and envied for the fact that we got to have loose, crazy sex in the last era before AIDS. We had faith and we had fun and we took action, and we were cool and looked cool before what we were got mainstreamed and diluted.

Remembering Woodstock – the era, not the festival – makes me sad now, because it turns out we were more wrong than right. Love is not all we need, nobody is willing to give peace a chance, one’s body can’t handle LSD after the age of 40 (and who in their right mind wants to trip now?), and we can’t stop the current wars which, like the one we fought against, are bleeding us dry for no good reason. A lot of us died young and most of the rest of us are deeply, deeply tired.

From 1981-2001, my family owned a rustic little condo in West Hurley, New York, which is just a few miles from Woodstock – the town, not the phenomenon. In order to survive economically, Woodstock evolved from a quiet artists’ community into a tourist monument to an event that took its name, but was held 50 miles and light years away. I loved the town of Woodstock and I miss it. I’m sure things are hoppin’ up there this weekend – to their relief and dismay. It’s not easy being the keeper of a flame you never lit. For the rest of us, it’s business as usual – or whatever it’s become since the Crash of 2008. For me, today is a wistful memory of my youth, the tenth anniversary of my father’s death, and time to clean up the kitchen. Time marches on.