Memorial Day

First thing this morning I saw on Facebook, a link to someone singing that god awful Lee Greenwood song "God Bless The USA." I didn't click, but the song began playing in my head anyway. Though I'm loath to subject you to such abuse, here are Greenwood's lyrics which may make you wonder, as Bob Dylan did, "Is there a hole for me to get sick in?" 

“If tomorrow all the things were gone
I worked for all my life
And I had to start again
With just my children and my wife
I thank my lucky stars
To be living here today
’Cause the flag still stands for freedom
And they can’t take that away

CHORUS
And I’m proud to be an American
Where at least I know I’m free
And I won’t forget the men who died
Who gave that right to me
And I’d gladly stand up next to you
And defend Her still today
’Cause there ain’t no doubt
I love this land
God Bless the U.S.A.

From the lakes of Minnesota
To the hills of Tennessee
Across the plains of Texas
From sea to shining sea
From Detroit down to Houston
And New York to L.A.
Where’s pride in every American heart
And it’s time we stand and say

CHORUS X2”

— Lee Greenwood

This guy is proud to be an American where at least he knows he's free? What the shit does that even mean? Free from what? Free to do what? To whom? Given the current administration I would guess it means free to carry an automatic weapon, hate anyone less fortunate, take babies from their mothers, and wear a red hat saying America isn't great. 

"'Cause there ain't no doubt, I love this land." Well, not the land so much as _the idea_ of the land. The actual soil is ours to poison. The water too. And if poor folk drink the lead, it's because they're too stupid to trade the right stock or be born to the right parents and inherit enough wealth to move somewhere nice. 

The whole song is vapid bullshit. This is why it plays so well to its demographic, the same people who think Springsteen's "Born In The USA" is a pep rally for blind patriotism. Bruce doesn't go at anything blind. He's no follower. 

“Down in the shadow of the penitentiary
Out by the gas fires of the refinery
I’m ten years burning down the road
Nowhere to run ain’t got nowhere to go

Born in the U.S.A., I was born in the U.S.A.”

— Bruce Springsteen

That's a hard look at this country and what it stands for. Greenwood's is straight up nonsense or propaganda and instead of that we should listen to Woody Guthrie's "This Land Is Your Land," especially the last three verses which you probably don't know. Woody's patriotism ran deeper than a red hat with a racist slogan, a long red tie wound too loosely around the neck of a bigot, or a stars and stripes flag waving next to the Confederate banner. Woody's song, unlike Greenwood's, and even more than Springsteen's is a kind of national anthem that reads in part: 

“As I went walking I saw a sign there 
And on the sign it said “No Trespassing.” 
But on the other side it didn’t say nothing, 
That side was made for you and me.

In the shadow of the steeple I saw my people, 
By the relief office I seen my people; 
As they stood there hungry, I stood there asking 
Is this land made for you and me?

Nobody living can ever stop me, 
As I go walking that freedom highway; 
Nobody living can ever make me turn back 
This land was made for you and me.”

— Woody Guthrie

This Memorial Day I remember those who fought in lost, foolish causes: Korea, Vietnam, Iraq, and Afghanistan. I mourn the senseless loss of life and curse the privileged who sent them to die. 

This Memorial Day I mourn those who fought throughout Europe, The Mediterranean, the Pacific, and more against an axis of true evil. 

This Memorial Day I reject Greenwood and embrace Guthrie's. We are most American when this country belongs to everyone. We are strongest when we are most accepting. We cannot accept hatred as leadership. 

This Memorial Day, fuck Lee Greenwood and the big orange maggot. My flag stays in a dark corner of the front-hall closet until we start acting like real Americans. 

Rust

“Out of the blue and into the black
You pay for this, but they give you that
And once you’re gone, you can’t come back
When you’re out of the blue and into the black”

— Neil Young, "Hey Hey, My My (Into The Black)"

I got to thinking this morning of Neil Young, a guy whose music I usually like but with whom I often disagree. I remember when he put out a super-duper digital music player and I thought, no way is that going to sell. It didn't. And he wrote this book that felt like the whining of a child or the grumblings of an old man. Still, he's Neil Young and has made incredible music, done good charity work, and been working at a high level for longer than I've been alive, so I should cut him some slack and have some respect. 

Still, this morning, getting in my car I got to thinking, "Neil's wrong." This was occasioned by the sight of rust weeping from under my driver's side door. 

My car, bought new in 2005, has 170,000 miles on it. We have been through a lot including one serious crash. Each morning, despite all the years, all those miles, and that crash, I open the door, climb inside, and my car starts on the first try. It gets me where I need to go. I like that and I'm sad to see the rust, know the exhaust system is dying, and feel it is passing the point of diminishing returns. 

It was raining this morning when I went out to the car. I opened the door and rusted brown water dripped from the rusting sill. I heard a voice sing, "it's better to burn out than it is to rust" and thought, "shut up, Neil." The rain and the rust had me a little pissy. I was thinking about Dad too. "And once you're gone you can never come back." God damn it, Neil. 

Driving to work, I thought over those two songs that I file as one: "Out Of The Blue And Into The Black." I didn't remember all the lyrics, but felt like arguing with him anyway. I wanted him to be wrong so maybe the I could be right. I remembered the album title: Rust Never Sleeps which I changed to Rust Never Stops. And rust always wins, Neil. 

Looking at the lyrics now, printed on clean white paper, out of the rain, I don't see much to argue in them, but I'm fighting what's happening to my car, what happened to Dad, what's developing in me. "There's more to the picture than meets the eye." I'm pretty sure Neil knew that rock and roll can and will die. Everything does. And even if he didn't know then, he knows it now. We're all forty years closer to death than when he sang his way out of the blue and into the black. After forty years, the rust is undeniable.

Did Dad burn out or fade away? Did he just rust? Is he out of the blue and into the black? Can he never come back? Is he forgotten? 

I'm not expecting answers. I sure as hell don't expect to hear answers from Neil Young. Or my car. Or Dad. I'm no longer in the mood to argue or fight. I'm just humming along with the song in my head. A memory or maybe an expectation. It goes like this: 

My my, hey hey and hey hey, my my. And goes on from there to wherever. 

Honestly, It Pisses Me Off

I ordered The Bad Plus's new album Never Stop II on vinyl a few months ago. It came out on digital stream a while back, but the distributor had difficulty getting the vinyl produced and shipped. No big deal. I listened to the download and waited. This week the record arrived in the mail. Actually, two copies of it showed up. Odd. 

I only paid for one and so wrote to the distributor saying I would be happy to mail one back if they paid the postage. My guess is I'm dealing with an operation run by one or two people, and I like small businesses too much to keep something I didn't buy. Even with large businesses I'm pretty much honest. Why wouldn't I be? 

The guy got back to me with a shipping label and thanked me for being so honest. I told him it was my pleasure even though it bugged me that he didn't expect honesty. I understand and am not offended, but it's weird that honesty is such a surprise. 

I'm glad I returned the record I hadn't ordered, but was left as conflicted as I was in college when I returned a wallet to a guy. Here's the piece I wrote about that years ago:

I Found A Wallet

bgfay - August 2016

In college I found a wallet. It was really thick. Brown leather. Worn edges. My own wallet was velcro (it was the eighties) and very thin. I had pretty much no cash and had bounced three checks. I carried my wallet mostly out of habit and for my meal card. I saw this wallet, picked it up, and brought it back to my dorm room. 

Inside was a wad of cash. Just shy of a thousand dollars. Color me impressed. There was a college ID like mine but with another guy’s picture and a name I couldn’t pronounce. My friends were impressed with the money too. We marvelled at a kid our age having that kind of cash. Wow, we thought. 

In the paper facebook listing all the first-years, we found the guy. I dialed his number. He picked up right away. I said, I found your wallet, and told him my room number. He said he’d be right over. My friends and I had music on and were just hanging out. There was homework we weren’t doing. In fourteen months I would fail out. 

The guy knocked. I recognized him from the facebook. You found my wallet? he asked. Yeah, I said, handing it to him. He opened it and passed his thumb over the bills. He said, but it’s all still here? I said, yeah. He said, you didn’t take it. I looked at him. 

I couldn’t have taken his money. None of my friends brought up the idea either. We weren’t especially good or moral boys. We were mostly cash-strapped, wondering how to buy the next beer. But it wasn’t our money. 

Two months later when the vending machine gave back three dollars on every purchase, we emptied it at the expense of a vending company that extorted for Snickers and Coke. The wallet though belonged to a guy who lived across campus. That was his money. 

He tried to give me some cash. A reward, he said in a thick accent. I waved him off. I wanted to be done with the whole thing. His surprise bothered me, made me angry. He thanked me. Two of his friends were standing in the hall. I looked at them. They looked at me. I said, no problem, and closed the door. I never saw him again. I wonder if he remembers any of this. 

Spending The Morning

I worry how I spend my time, though the metaphor "spend" bugs me because thinking of life as a transaction is gross. A life lived as a series of transactions is only as interesting as the conveyor belt at the Wegmans register and leads to unhappiness on the order of the terrible orange maggot in the White House. I prefer to wonder how I am living and this morning I have put hours into reading and thinking about a long essay. 

The essay was Tim Urban's "How To Pick A Career" from the site Wait But Why, a great site of nothing but longreads. I printed the essay at school yesterday on the backs of previously used copy paper because I don't enjoy reading on a screen. 15,000 words took ninety pages. It's not Urban's longest or shortest piece and it has been about a year since he last published. You don't follow Wait But Why so much as wait for it. The wait is often worth it. 

I have a long-running career. I've been a school teacher for twenty-three years. I've taught college too and a bit of middle school as well as some summer programs, summer school, an SAT prep course (ugh), and professional development seminars for teachers through the National Writing Project. I've thought about ditching that career for writing, but I'm not sure I can make money at that and (here's the kicker) I don't know that I want to make a living doing it. I love to write and send those words out into the world. It's my favorite work. I'm not sure I would love turning that work into my job, my career. For now, I'll keep writing and keep the teaching career. 

Which makes it odd that I would spend most of my morning reading 15,000 words and thinking about how to pick a career.

Part of the reason is that I like Tim Urban's writing. I'll follow him most places he goes. That's especially true in the case of thinking about how to live. 

I think a lot about the directions in which I'm moving, the ways in which I'm choosing to live. I worry I'll end in regret when I'm old. Regret come from a place of accepting what's handed out instead of actively choosing. Reading things like this helps me stay focused on making my own choices. 

My two girls are coming of age and are making choices. I want to give them good advice, not about what to choose but about how to think and choose. I want to feel okay about their processes rather than anxious. My anxiety won't do us any good. Maybe some people do this sort of thing naturally, but if I leave it to chance, leave it unconsidered, I'll bung it all up. 

I've also just come through some turbulence. I worked toward a life change only to have the opportunity evaporate. I was shocked and devastated, but have begun to think I may be on a more interesting path now. 

A friend says he didn't know what he wanted to be when he grew up until his forties. He doesn't truly believe in end points or goal posts outside of sports. We keep going, keep becoming. We don't finish growing up. I've been growing up for nearly fifty years and I'm not quitting. I read articles such as this because I'm playing a game I don't ever want to end. 

Back in the economic terminology, I wonder was reading and thinking about this worth most of my morning? It didn't earn me a damn thing in the immediate, but now, an hour later, I've got this piece of writing. I'll post it where, again, it will earn nothing for my wallet. Was reading the essay worth most of my morning? Only if there are bigger things than economics, only if there are other kinds of wealth. 

A student asked me about college, if it was "like a great party time." I said that, going back after failing out, I wasn't much for parties but college remains the one concentrated time in my life to which I most like to return. He thought I meant that I'd go back if I could, but I meant I return to the college experience often in the form of deep-dives into ideas. I did it early this month reading Alan Jacobs' book How To Think when I kept reading all the articles he referenced in there and ordered three more books from the library because of it. I did it again this morning with Tim Urban's essay, writing notes, underlining passages, and now writing my own piece because of it. I like to study, to take on new ideas, incorporate them into my thinking, and see what happens. I'm curious how I might change. Reading "How To Pick A Career" didn't lead me directly into a new career or confirm my current career beyond a shadow of a doubt. It merely pushed me further into living, but that's good enough work for any morning. 

I'm richer for it.