As many faults as one finds with progressive journalists as a whole, occasionally one stumbles across a nugget of unintended wisdom.
Here’s an excerpt from “What is Good” published by William Rivers Pitt on Truthout this Independence Day.
The lament of the slaves
… became the blues.
Which became jazz.
Which proves that beauty can be born from incalculable sorrow.
Which proves the existence of hope.
Well…..yes and no. Yes, the blues and jazz are American treasures, one of our gifts to the world and yes, the blues and jazz had their origins in the Black community, but with substantial contributions from other races, even at their early stages in a place called New Orleans.
Whether one chooses to interpret this as beauty being born from sorrow is another matter altogether. The blues and jazz have an inheritance from the music of Africa, the music of a free people. Thus, the blues and jazz are in my mind less the product of slavery than the product of gifted artists who remembered and honored their heritage.
Is this reason for hope? At a time when memory seems to be at best short-term – perhaps.
But that’s not really what I want to write about.
Earlier today, I was mulling over several current events, including the most recent and particularly incomprehensible reported (and subsequently denied) execution of an American soldier, Marine Corporal Wassef Ali Hassoun.
Corporal Hassoun happens to be a native of Lebanon whose family came to this country 9 years ago. He was a translator who, rumor has it, had deserted his unit in order to return to Lebanon as the result of his being traumatized by the death of a comrade. Incredibly, he was betrayed by the Iraqis in whom he’d confided as he made his plans to escape.
If in fact Corporal Hassoun has been murdered by terrorists, it only proves that their religious fanatics are as lunatic, as arrogant and as oblivious to the consequences of their acts as ours.
Not to mention as stupid, yes, STUPID, the reasons being so obvious that I won’t insult your intelligence by cataloging them.
I am in a not particularly happy mood tonight because of a weird incident that happened at an extended family gathering to celebrate the Fourth of July.
I should explain, first, that the occasion was the annual July 4th get-together at my son’s in-laws. They are people of remarkable generosity and loyalty, and I generally enjoy seeing them and even the motley crew of their friends and relatives.
I should also explain that said incident involved my only granddaughter, who is for all her good qualities a frequent vexation or at least a minor challenge to her parents and to others of us who spend time with her.
I’ve often thought that my son’s three children were born to be only children, and this is especially true of my granddaughter. She spins on her own axis, occasionally lapsing into a semi-hypnotic state of total solipsism.
I happened to be walking out the front door when I caught her out of the corner of my eye whipping around a stick – she explained later that she enjoyed listening to the sound.
Unfortunately, her four year old brother – with whom she shares a profound mutual detest and who is quite a bit smaller than her – was standing nearby, with a rather large rock in his hand, as it turns out (I never saw the rock).
Evidently the proximity of the stick startled her brother, and he inadvertently dropped the rock on her foot. This was according to a semi-reliable eyewitness. My granddaughter started shrieking, so much that a flurry of women, fearing bloodshed or a traffic accident, came streaking out of the house.
My daughter-in-law is good in circumstances like this, and she hustled the kids into the house to deal with them appropriately. My granddaughter had a good bruise which under other circumstances she might have shrugged off. In retrospect, I think being started out of her trance scared her more than the actual pain.
Unfortunately, one of the other guests – someone who had never met my grandchildren until today – took it upon herself to cluck and bemoan the “attack” on this “nice little girl”. I told the guest not to worry about it, that Emme is prone to histrionics and anyway, her mother had the situation under control.
The guest made a couple of rude comments to me, like “Who are you?”, etc. Our hostess (Emme’s other grandmother) was standing next to us and rather than make an introduction, left me on my own, I think more out of confusion than malice. Rather than tell the woman that this was none of her business, I was, as always, stupidly polite. Which brings me to the second theme of this particular post.
As is the usual case, though, when single people go “up against” the annointed married ones, I came out the worse for this particular encounter, and I’m sure there was plenty of gossip about it afterwards. Even in America, perhaps especially in America, the content of our character is less important than our looks, which for women pretty much determine everything: education, income, marital status, even the respect of our fellow creatures.
There’s no question that if I’d shown up with a man in tow, even one of Hyannis’s resident drunks, I would have been treated with more dignity by this particular woman, who is an esteemed and highly valued friend of my son’s in-laws (whereas I am a minor nuisance who is, admittedly, the recipient of their incredible generosity, of which I am more than a little grateful, being cognizant that the kindness of strangers is not to be taken for granted).
Which somehow or other resonates with the beginning of this entry: how did those people create jazz when the world they lived in considered them second-class citizens based on only one criterion which was not within their power to change – their looks.
If I knew the answer to that, I sure as hell wouldn’t be sitting here, dear reader, writing this anonymous post to you – as much as I think you are a person of exceptional taste and refinement. I’d be out there creating hope and beauty out of sorrow, something which must take incredible strength and will, certainly more than I have, much to my eternal chagrin.