Always About the Lyrics

THIS BLOG WAS WRITTEN IN NOVEMBER, 2014.

           True story: Folk singer Woody Guthrie, who had stood with the unemployed at the height of the depression, watched as thousands of Oklahomans, and Kansans, and Texas panhandlers headed west to California during the dust bowl, was incensed over Irving Berlin’s “God Bless America,” that melding of civil into religion that should give any devout Christian pause. Guthrie’s response was to pen “This Land is Your Land”

            “This land is your land, this land is my land

            From California to the New York Island;

            From the redwood forest to the Gulf Stream waters;

            This land was made for you and me.”

            I love that song. I love the imagery Woody Guthrie creates with Biblical clarity as “the fog was lifting, a voice was chanting, this land was made for you and me.” The lyrics; it is always about the lyrics. They can move you, sustain you, give you hope. Nowhere is that truer than in here.

            Each morning around 4:00 I begin my day with the Episcopal liturgical calendar. I’m not Episcopalian, but on my 50^th birthday a dear friend delivered the Episcopalian “Book of Common Prayer” to me at the jail. I’ve had it with me ever since and begin each morning with the day’s verse selections. Each day begins the same with Psalms, lyrical poems of praise, or anger, or fear, or just asking God “why” – why this, why me? Each morning I take a 3X5 index card and jot down a verse to contemplate throughout the day. The Psalms, those lyrical, powerful, gut-wrenching Psalms, provide me clarity – and hope.

            I don’t get most music today. I’m stuck in a warp of great old tunes, songs that mattered. I don’t get singing – or rapping – about “bling,” and Hennessy, and large butts, but I pause and think often of Peter, Paul and Mary singing “If I had a Hammer” or “Blowin in the Wind.” Folk singer Pete Seeger penned “Where have all the Flowers Gone.” He was blacklisted and attacked by a drunken, hateful Senator McCarthy during the red baiting of the ‘50s. Pete just kept on singing … about civil rights, and war, and the water. McCarthy fell and died in alcoholic oblivion; Pete kept singing into his 90s.

            They told Peter, Paul, and Mary if they marched in Selma they’d never sell another record south of the Mason-Dixon Line. The trio said the music mattered more than record sales. For almost 50 years they sang – in the face of Nixon’s battle with Vietnam War protesters, in El Salvador standing with the churches decrying the killing by both left and right. The lyrics mattered. The lyrics always matter.

            Almost every blog I write has some song lyric or Bible verse attached. Those words give me direction. I keep a large folder of song lyrics in my locker, close to two hundred songs. There are songs that speak of heartbreak and lost love; songs of the future; songs of protest. Each one contains lines which cry out with emotion and truth. And truth is so hard to find these days.

            Today begins the Christmas season, Advent, the coming of the long-expected Messiah, Emmanuel, “God with us,” Hymns, beautiful hopeful hymns I recite as I run the track. And, while hearing those songs, I remember John Prine’s “Christmas in Prison.”

            “It’s Christmas in prison

            There’ll be music tonight

            I’ll probably get homesick

            I love you. Goodnight.”

            Psalms, songs, poems, lyrics all speaking to who we are, who we want to be. The lyrics matter, especially in here.

 

Olio

I work one or two crossword puzzles every day. You soon learn from doing that many puzzles that certain clues will appear in almost every puzzle you do. For example, a three letter name for “Woody’s ex” is always “Mia.” And so it goes. For a four letter word meaning, “A mix;” the word is always “olio.” My blog posting this week is a mix of a number of topics, it’s an olio.

Early Counts

            Since I arrived here in 2009 there have been three “standing” counts – everyman at the foot of their bed, standing, electronics all off. There are standing counts at 11:30 a.m., 6:00 p.m., and 10:00 p.m. At night, there are bed check counts at midnight and 3:00 a.m. Then, at shift change, there is a bed check count (all men on or in their beds) at 5:45 a.m.

            A week ago, a memo came out from the warden which explained, in part, that department directives require all “counts” between 5:30 a.m. and 9:30 p.m. to be standing counts. Apparently, LCC has been out of compliance for years!

            Starting Monday, February 3^rd at 5:45 a.m., the lights will come on, a whistle will blow, and everyone will assemble for a standing count. Guys’ll bitch and moan – it’s the nature of the place – and then drag themselves back to the rack to sleep until 8:00 a.m. (bed areas must be made and cleaned up). Later that day – at 9:30 p.m. instead of 10:00 we’ll assemble for evening standing count. Then lights – and noise – will lower at 10:00 instead of 10:30.

            Change never goes over well inside a prison. But, this one should be no big deal.

 The “Race” Debate

            I had words with a member of NOI the other morning over – of all things – the school’s African American History quiz and contest. Every February, as part of “African American History” month, the LCC school sponsors a history quiz. The top three scores are presented dictionaries by the school and recognized in the school monthly newsletter. Since 2006 the quiz has been called “African American History.” Of course, since 2006, the aide responsible for running the quiz was an African American teacher’s aide. He was caught up in the great December computer caper and transferred out. Time was running short and the quiz was in danger of not getting out. The principal – my boss – asked me to take the quiz on, which I did. And that’s what led to …

            “No white man can truly understand my people’s history.” Say what? I’m not sure what pissed me off more, him standing in the dayroom spouting his ignorant claptrap or his diatribe on our chalk board. “This quiz is an afront [sic] to Africans like me. We aren’t African Americans!!”

            Not one to back away from a battle with a half-wit, I said, “Hey Socrates, if you’re going to write a political epistle, at least spell your words correctly. It’s a-f-f-r-o-n-t.” I then told him I drafted the quiz. “But you don’t know what we’ve been through. You can’t be responsible and sympathetic to our plight.”

            “Really? What do you know about what it means to be Armenian, or Jewish, or Scotch? Can you have empathy for the Chinese or Italian experience in America? Should I, as a white tutor, only help ‘my kind’?” The dayroom was silent as I lit into him about ignorance and race-baiting. Then it was over; he walked away less sure of the stupid position he espoused.

            And that’s one of the problems with prison; it’s a toxic stew of uneducated, ignorant crap that feeds their obsessive self-pitying. Prison sucks. It is demeaning and counter-productive. But – and this is an important but – most of us did the crimes that landed us here. We aren’t innocent. We did stupid – and in some cases horrible – things. That doesn’t make the system less insane, but it should cause you to focus on real improvement, real education and job skills, not some chin-rubbing wanna-be philosophizing.

 Mental Health Continued

            Last Sunday night, the CBS News show “60 Minutes” interviewed Virginia State Senator Creigh Deeds. Deeds described in great detail his son’s mental health issues and the tragic incident that unfolded at the family farm Thanksgiving weekend. Deeds said society doesn’t treat mental health like cancer or heart disease (he’s right). He then talked about the bill he’s proposed in the Virginia legislature to allow mentally ill people to be held 24 hours (instead of the current 6 hours) to find available bed space for in-patient treatment.

            The bill seems to be a common sense approach to a tragic and glaring problem in Virginia’s mental health umbrella. So why then does the Virginia Sheriff’s Association oppose it?

            “We’ll have to babysit ‘those’ people for 24 hours,” the VSA spokesman said. “It’ll cost $4.5 million for the extra manpower.” Really? So the Commonwealth is willing to spend $1.25 billion each year on prisons, a system where over 50% of the inmates suffer from diagnosed mental illnesses. Holding mentally ill people in prison, pumping them full of psychotropic drugs so they spend the days like zombies, that’s a good use of a billion dollars plus. But $4 ½ million, whoa we can’t afford that. Kind of makes you wonder who really is crazy.

 Peter Seeger RIP

            On January 28^th, folk singer Pete Singer passed away at the age of 94. Seeger was part of a great collection of men and women who wrote and sang beautiful folk songs – songs of everyday people – that meant something. “Where have all the flowers gone?” That was Pete Seeger.

            He sang with Woody Guthrie. He sang for civil rights, and social equality, and cleaning his beloved Hudson River. He abhorred violence and militarism, yet during the Second World War he enlisted. Hitler and totalitarianism of the Fascists had to be stopped.

            In his twenties, Seeger joined the American Communist Party. Then he saw that Stalin and the Soviets were as bad as Hitler and the Nazis. He quit the party. America in the ‘50’s wasn’t so forgiving. He was blacklisted and spied on by Hoover’s FBI. He never quit smiling, he never quit singing.

            One of my favorite Seeger stories involved seeing him in concert at Vassar College during my high school days (1976 or ’77). Seeger was at the Poughkeepsie, New York School (my hometown back then) and he began to sing his song “Goodnight Irene.” He told the audience, “You can sing any song lyric to this tune.” Even now, almost 40 years later I find myself singing dozens of songs to the tune of “Goodnight Irene.”

            Pete Seeger wanted people to know he wasn’t perfect. None of us are. But as the character William Wallace said in “Braveheart,” “Every man dies, but not every may lives.” Pete Seeger lived.

            “Irene goodnight

              Irene goodnight
              Goodnight Irene
              Goodnight Irene
              I’ll see you in my dreams."

           

The "F" Word

Words matter.  No doubt about it.  Words paint mental pictures for us.  They can sway our emotions, feeling heartbreak, joy or blinding anger.  Words are important.  And, many times it is the simplest words that carry the most power.  Think of Moses in Exodus, who asked God “who should I say sent me?”  Exodus records God’s simple, yet powerful words, “I am”. 

Hemingway once wrote a six word short story.  You can’t help but be moved by his words, “For sale.  Baby shoes.  Brand new.”  What, we wonder, is the story of the baby?  Why are the shoes for sale?  And our minds suddenly envision a grieving couple looking at an empty crib.  Baby blankets and sleepers and diapers folded neatly on the dresser.  But there is no child.  The baby has died.

Words matter.  Woody Guthrie soulfully singing “This land was made for you and me”.  Bob Dylan hoarsely calling out “The answer is blowin in the wind”.  Dr. King in his soulful, rich baritone calling forth “Free at last.  Free at last.  Thank God Almighty.  Free at last.”  Yes, words matter.

Words can lift up or bring down.  Perhaps that’s why both Solomon and James focused some attention on taming the tongue.  From my own life I know I have a gift for words.  Yet my gift can be a demon.  Too often I have said things in anger, in haste and hurt those near me.  Words are powerful.  Words can create or destroy.

Words.  For the young boy struggling with his sexual identity being called “fag” tears at his soul.  For the young learning disabled girl called “retard” her heart aches.  She feels loneliness and shame.  Words are a sword that cuts and slashes the fabric of our being.

I hear all kinds of words in here.  Each day is a cacophony of expletives.  I’ve heard every imaginable word to describe every race, every ethnicity.  And, I’ve heard words of hope, of longing, of regret, of comfort.

There is one word, the “F” word that matters most to the 2.3 million men and women in America’s prisons.  That word is “Felon” and the stigma and stain it carries does as much as anything to define which released person succeeds or fails.

As Margaret Love, former US Pardon Attorney recently noted,

“Felon is an ugly label that confirms the debased status that accompanies conviction.  It identifies a person as belonging to a class outside many protections of the law, someone who can be freely discriminated against, someone who exists at the margins of society…a legal outlaw and social outcast.  No passage of time,” she says, “or record of good works can erase the mark of Cain.”

Love notes that labeling a person convicted of a crime as a “felon” for life survives even “forgiveness”.  It is, she argues, an unhelpful label for people who have paid their debt to society.  It is also deeply unfair.

Until the late 20^th century prison, criminal justice was seen as a temporary period.  You broke the law, you went to jail.  But, upon your release you returned home.  However, in the last three decades America, under the dual mantras of “war on crime” and “tough on crime” made an industry out of penology.  And the law expanded with literally hundreds and thousands of new crimes created for social behaviors.  Punishment became key and what better way to punish than make a person wear the scarlet “F” for the rest of their life.  As scholar Nora Demleitner has pointed out, using the label “felon” creates a state of internal exile for those wearing the mark.  Today that label applies to more than 20 million Americans.

Labeling those who have paid their debt to society is directly contrary to the expressed goals and efforts to reduce the number of people in prison, and encourage those who are to rehabilitate and then re-enter society as productive citizens.  And, it mocks the myth of America as a land of second chances.

“Felon” arouses a sense of fear and loathing in “law-abiding” citizens.  Who would want to live – or work – with a “felon”?  In Virginia the fact that one is a felon can be used to deny a person employment and access to many grants, loans and benefits programs.  It shouldn’t be that way.  Love correctly argues that it is time to scrap the word “felon” and the equally reprehensible word “offender”.

In Virginia, over 90% of those currently behind bars will be released.  Governor McDonnell has correctly noted that any recidivism is too much recidivism.  He has made re-entry of released prisoners a cornerstone of his administration’s agenda.  But, it is idle words if the stigma of “felon” remains.

Words matter.   So do actions.  It is time to lay to rest “felon” from this nation’s lexicon.