MUSIC: History's Content of Profound Grief

In 1964 I was 18 and a poster-child wanna-be for all things '60's: peace, justice, civil and human rights, pacifism. I listened as my parents, from a bootstrap generation that suffered the Depression, express personal prejudices and harsh judgments about race that stunned and made me ashamed of and for them.

After a while, I couldn't talk about politics or religion with them.  A cone of silence was the kindest way to go, and remained in place until inescapable dementia and illness dissolved the need. That silent circle was replaced by a hard core empty with loss and memory, and full with a most complete silence.

Now, solid and quiet, I have taken their place in family life: the oldest one left - yet.  

It's hard to go back, though I want to. Remembrance, of course, is  part of keeping the faith. So I deliberately listen to certain music, and my memory is freshened, and a flash flood of sorrow is injected, like some geologic process that leaves layers of sedimentation in granite.  

I think we each have our own songs; whether we listen to them purposely or they play on the radio driving, a random event that one's ears can't escape, even if one punches up the station selector.

So, I listen to The Edwin Hawkins Singers, humbled by the glorious arching hope that exists in deprivation and injustice.  I hear Johnny Cash sing "The Ballad of Ira Hayes", and burn with shame, wondering how the sins of American history's exploitation can ever be made whole. Look at that flag on the Brooklyn Bridge and see it as a burial shroud huge enough to wrap millions, including me.

For me, the answer always comes back, "Never. Not ever".  Only the personal moment can be clean.