I am a citizen of Bristol, Rhode Island, home of the longest
running July 4th Parade http://www.july4thbristolri.com/. As
someone whom native Bristolians refer to as a carpetbagger (since we have only lived
here 11 years instead of multiple generations), it was difficult to appreciate
the extreme patriotism without some sense of irony. I have never been a flag waver, especially
since Sept. 11, 2001, when national pride seemed to take a jingoistic turn. That being said, I can see now that there are
multiple kinds of patriotism and pride, in the words of the Avett Brothers, who
sing: I wanna have pride/like my mother has/and not like the kind in the bible
that turns you bad: https://youtu.be/wRFe-4kfJpQ.
As a critical researcher, it is
important that I not essentialize or stereotype the people with whom I
work. And yet, I, like a lot of folks, am often guilty of thinking in generalizations, especially for groups that
make me suspicious. Music, more
specifically, music that tells stories, provides an important counter-narrative
to my pre-conceived notions.
Ever since seeing Jason Isbell at the Chrysler Arena in
Norfolk a couple of weeks ago (http://www.sevenvenues.com/events/detail/jason-isbell)
I have been trying to figure out why this show was the best I have seen in
recent memory. We were sixth row,
center, which meant we could see the emotions on his face and the relationships
among the musicians on the stage, creating a sense of intimacy. Nels and I talked about how Jason “held the
space,” something I have mostly appreciated from the perspective of a teacher
and student in the yoga studio and classroom.
With Jason, it was beyond performance, something I would call
presence. The songwriting, the playing,
the singing, the humility and the confidence all combined for this. Pure skill with words and musicianship. Humility because it was clear he was grateful
to be there, knowing how fragile this was, given his history as an alcoholic. And yet he was confident in his music, in his
storytelling.
In many of his songs, Jason
offers the perspective of southern white working-class men trying to be the
people they were taught to be and sometimes fighting against those projections. As a card-carrying lefty feminist, it is easy
for me to dismiss these guys. I picture
Confederate flags flying off pickup trucks, traditional gender roles, corporal
punishment for kids and Trump bumper stickers.
But then, in “Something More than Free” the protagonist sings: Cause a
hammer needs a nail/And the poor man's up for sale/Guess I'm doin' what I'm on
this earth to do/And I don't think on why I'm here where it hurts/I'm just
lucky to have the work (https://youtu.be/kwRNo3A5VRc).
This song, along with many others he has written, offers an
alternative to my limited perception of redneck histrionics in Saturday night
bars slicked by spilled Budweiser and violent parking lot spats over slights
real and imagined. Perhaps these guys have been silenced in ways
that are unacknowledged by academics like me.
It is easy to look down on this group until I hear authentic-sounding stories
about an individual’s experience. The
fear of loss, the pain of separation, the use of drugs and alcohol to make it
all go away. And also the humor: https://youtu.be/3Fr2Gv3HyqA.
That’s what good stories do.
That’s what good songs, poems, movies and shows do. They transcend stereotypes and shine a
spotlight on the concrete individual. I
may not like or approve of what I see, but if the writing is authentic and
strong, then the other side becomes real, not just a caricature. This is not just important to appreciate on
an artistic level, or even an emotional level.
It is important on a political level.
I may not want to hang out with the characters in Jason’s songs, but
getting a glimpse into their worldview gets me off my high horse; shocking me
out of my academic snobbery and flinging me from the ivory tower.
I love being an academic.
I love theory, I love ideas, I love writing, reading, talking and
listening about the world through critical and feminist lenses. But I came to this world through
literature. Stories come first, even as
they can be scary and sad and shocking.
This is what good writers do: ask
me to bear witness to the experiences of groups that I have forgotten, and in
forgetting, rejected.
