Wisdom and Violence: Strong Women on Television

When I was a kid, I would play Charlie’s Angels with my friends Kim and Tammi.  Kim was Sabrina (played by Kate Jackson on the show), Tammi was Jill (Farrah Fawcett Majors), and I was Kelly (Jaclyn Smith).   I’m not quite sure what we did to play these characters, besides shoot imaginary bad guys who invaded my backyard.  As a little girl who was first obsessed with strong female characters in literature like Jo March in Little Women and Scarlett O’Hara in Gone With the Wind, perhaps I wanted mostly to be grown up, and thus have some power to change things for the good.  These women, to a greater or lesser degree, had adventures and took risks unimaginable to me in our quiet suburban neighborhood. 

While I discovered plenty of strong female characters who could kick some ass in literature and popular culture since then, they have always been either over-the-top or too perfect.  In the former category, we had Saving Grace (TNT), a short-lived series featuring a scarily skinny Holly Hunter, who played Grace Hanadarko, a police detective in Oklahoma City.  She drank, smoked, and had sex like the men, but was also in need of saving by Earl, an angel (yes, I know.  The kind sent by God).  So the woman needed redemption but not the men?  Hm.  Holly Hunter’s devil-may-care (pun intended) characterization was undermined by the lousy writing and erratic pacing. 

In the too-perfect category, there is The Good Wife (CBS).  Alicia Florrick, played by Julianna Margulies, is a top lawyer at a top law firm married to the state’s attorney.  Yes, she engages in some high jinks of her own, but even her colleagues at the firm call her “St. Alicia.”  No thanks.  Both Saving Grace and The Good Wife suffer from inconsistent writing and cheesy dialogue.  Grace was too obnoxious and Alicia too mannequin-like for me to want to identify with.  *Sigh.* Where are the fierce, compelling, and realistic (within the suspension of disbelief realm) women who, just by watching them, can make me feel as if I can channel their powerful, positive energy and no BS attitude?

Luckily, there are two recent characters who fulfill that longing.  First we have Carrie Mathison (played by Claire Danes) in Homeland (Showtime). She’s independent, perceptive, courageous, and while she works for the CIA, she also sees the flaws in the system.   What’s not to like?  Oh wait…there’s that bipolar thing that provides some trouble with impulsivity and obsessiveness.  However, Carrie’s flaws are also assets. That’s how she got the information that a POW had been turned.  Of course, it’s also why she subsequently slept with him.  It’s also what enabled her to go into an old mill by herself to confront a terrorist.  Of course, she almost got killed.  But Carrie’s physical and emotional fearlessness, along with her commitment to a cause, make her the most appealing female character I’ve seen on television or in movies in recent memory.

Another new show, also about spies, has a similar character.  The Americans (on FX) is set in 1981 at the height of the Cold War.  Philip and Elizabeth Jennings (Keri Russell) appear to be your typical suburban couple with two adorable but real kids. You’d never know that they are (drum roll, please) Soviet spies under deep cover.  As their backstory unfolds, we find out they were trained to take on these American identities, erasing all trace of their Russian backgrounds, not even sharing their original names with one another.  Their marriage is somewhat fictional, in that, at first, they are more like teammates than romantic partners.  Elizabeth and Philip don different disguises in order to elicit information from a diverse group of characters working for the U.S. government, either through sexual or violent means. 

Like Carrie in Homeland, Elizabeth is intelligent and resourceful, and can kick some serious ass.  However, she is distinctly different from Carrie in that she is deeply loyal to the Soviet Union, whereas Carrie questions her country’s methods and morality.  Carrie has her own perspective and is happy to violate CIA protocol if she sees fit; whereas Elizabeth shoots a guy in the head simply because she was ordered to, without questioning if this is an ethical thing to do.

Carrie and Elizabeth also demonstrate vulnerability, which makes them feel human, and thus easy to identify with.   Carrie falls for the wrong guy, and has to make the choice between him and her loyalty to her country.  Elizabeth eventually decides that she is ready to make her marriage to Philip more than just a cover.  It is both tension-building and gratifying to watch these two powerful women grapple with ethical choices in their roles as spies and as women. 

I hadn’t thought about what it meant to play games like Charlie’s Angels growing up; that is, to try on different identities.  Why would I want to try on Carrie or Elizabeth?  What’s their appeal to me now, and is it similar to the Jaclyn Smith character when I was nine?  Carrie and Elizabeth are thin and attractive, but that’s where the similarities end.  They are intense, make mistakes, and take risks for what they believe in.  Maybe that’s what appeals to me now: these characters may have doubt and fear, but they don’t let those feelings slow them down.    

Clothing Loathing: The (not so) Great Purge

You only need one pair of pants and one shirt for the week.

                                                            The Waynus (my dad)

When I was in my early teens, my mom and I would go school shopping every August.  We would spend the day at Glenbrook Mall starting at 10 a.m., stop for lunch at the food court overlooking the indoor ice rink, and then wind down, exhausted, by splitting one of those giant chocolate chip cookies at the Great American Cookie Company.   I dutifully modeled each outfit for my dad as he had a martini before supper.  As I ran up and down the stairs to change, Mom would say, “That was a great bargain!” Sometimes she would tell me not to bring out a particular item, saying, “Daddy doesn’t need to know about this one yet.”  We had our secrets, as Mom would carefully parse the line between what I wanted and how much she knew Dad wanted to spend on things as unimportant as school clothes.  When both your parents spend their formative years during the Depression, it’s pretty hard to convince them of the need for Calvin Klein jeans or Izod shirts, both of which were essential at Homestead High School.   

Unfortunately, neither my mom or I were sensitive to fashion trends, so it wasn’t until the first week of school that I would find out either a) every other girl had bought the same exact shirt I had, or b) bell bottoms had gone out of style without my noticing, both of which happened in seventh grade.  This was in contrast to a friend, Melissa, who had a seemingly endless supply of different-colored corduroys with matching sweaters.  She hardly ever wore the same clothes within two weeks, much less within one week.  

That year, a store that specialized in low prices for flawed designer items (a precursor to TJ Maxx and Marshalls) opened at Times Corner, the local shopping plaza.  Mom was in Germany with her church choir, but when I saw that the store had Calvin Kleins on sale, I knew I had to get there.  Somehow, I convinced my dad to take me and buy those jeans on a Sunday morning instead of going to church (I just knew they would be out of my size should we wait until afterward).  At last!  No more bell bottoms.  Unfortunately, some of my peers were quick to discern that I was wearing the same pair of jeans every single day and called my (and everyone else’s) attention to it.  When parents attempt to comfort you by saying nobody notices fashion faux pas but you, rest assured they know nothing about the scrutiny of teenage girls.       

The shame and humiliation of not having the right clothing, along with not having the right parents who understood this, has followed me.  I remember the first time I was able to wear a different pair of pants every day of the week.  I was like, “Take that, bitches.”  By then, though, it didn’t matter. 

My clothing and fashion woes continue.  I am truly my father’s daughter, in that I can’t find it in my heart to spend full-price on any clothing item, unless there’s a special occasion and I’m desperate.  The thing that gets me now, though, is the pace of the trends.  I can’t keep track of which color is in, and which season you can wear it.  I was also a little late with the longer hems on pants, and still haven’t figured out where my dresses and skirts are on the continuum between hussy and prude.  The rules changed once I hit my 40’s, but since I didn’t know what the rules were in the first place, I’m not sure how. 

All of this indecision—along with a loathing for trying on clothes--led to a glut of stuff that doesn’t fit right, look right, or is possibly out of fashion (not that I would know).  Thus, there are now five giant garbage bags full of said clothing destined for a spring garage sale.  This Great Purge, though, is apparently not great enough.  I still have two small closets and two dressers filled with clothes, most of which fit into three categories:  running, yoga, or school.  It would be easy to just stick with the basics—white t-shirts and khaki shorts for summer, black for school—but I haven’t given up on the fantasy that someday I will wake up and know what’s in fashion, what looks good on my particular frame, and what’s cool but appropriate for women in their 40’s.  I welcome any help, but if you’re like me, you might want to check out our garage sale in May.         

Identity Crisis or Ability Crisis?

There’s going to be a day when I wake up and I’ll pack up my shoes and I’ll be done…I don’t want to go and run a 21 minute 5K.

                                    Sheri Piers, 41 year old American elite runner

If you have run a 5K and you’re over the age of 30, or even if you’re not, you know that running 3.1 miles in 21 minutes, in which you would run each mile in less than seven minutes, is pretty great.  Depending on how big your local race is and who competes, it’s certainly possible, even likely, that you would win your age group, especially if you are a woman. 

I myself have barely scraped under 27 minutes, and that was just once, on a course that was probably short.  Now, I realize it’s completely unfair to compare myself to Sheri Piers, who was recently on the cover of Running Times (www.runningtimes.com), and the top American finisher at the Boston Marathon last year.   It’s like comparing most high school swimmers to Elizabeth Beisel or local softball players to the Boston Red Sox.  We are engaging in the same sport, but it’s at completely different levels.  That’s not my real objection to Piers’ comment.

Instead, I wonder at someone who would give up a thing that is a huge part of her identity and life—she runs between 90-130 miles a week and only takes a couple of days off a year—because she couldn’t run a certain time. 

In contrast, the next article in that issue of Running Times had exactly the opposite message.  David Alm writes about what he learned from training for a week before a half-marathon (13.1 miles) with some of the fastest runners in the world, mostly from Kenya and Ethiopia.  David knew he couldn’t keep up with them, but these runners didn’t treat him any differently.  The race was hot, hilly, and grueling, and everybody ran slower times than they were used to.  You’d expect elite athletes to be very disappointed—after all, these times are of public record and can have an impact on sponsorships. Instead, David writes, “But to them, none of that mattered.  Our times were numbers, nothing more.  And no one seemed disappointed—with themselves or with me.”  In contrast, when Piers had a bad race, she said, “I was so sad, and so mad.  I just felt like it was my last chance to do it.  Being in the shape of your life doesn’t happen all the time.” 

I wonder if Sheri’s all-or-nothing attitude, reflective of American ideals, is one reason why many students don’t feel valued in schools.  They know they are measured by their scores on tests.  As Ernest Morrell told 200+ English teachers today at Rhode Island College, kids know that education is valuable.  What they don’t know is how valuable they are.  Morrell argues that we don’t have an ability crisis; instead we have an identity crisis.  Motivation is the result of value (kids valuing what they are learning) plus expectancy (they believe they can succeed). 

It seems that Sheri Piers, who is not just a runner, but a parent, partner, and nurse practitioner, connects a certain 5K time to her self-worth.  While I admire her work ethic, stamina, and commitment, I hope that she won’t give up running just because she might lose a race to the likes of me. 

Unfortunately, this same kind of narrow measuring stick is at work in our schools.  I hope that students are given the message that standardized tests, and even course grades, unfold within a larger context; some of which they have control over, and some of which they do not.  Performance on those arbiters is not just about effort and ability—there is always a complexity of factors at work. 

And I hope teachers understand these same complexities.  Of course, we must always do our best to ensure our kids’ learning through motivation, engagement, and the teaching of necessary skills.  But we can’t lose sight of how, as the African runners suggest, we must value every runner’s [student’s] efforts, success, and potential.            

The Story Eunuch

Have you ever brainstormed a list of fantasy jobs, or simply fun ways to earn money?  Nels and I do this regularly, usually on the deck while listening to music and drinking beer.  We generate possible names for bands, pithy sayings for Magic Hat beer caps, themed music playlists, and so on.  

Unfortunately, there does not appear to be a market for this enterprise, despite the plethora of boring or downright offensive band names (Old 97’s=yawn, Popa Chubby=gross) or beer cap wisdom (Minds Awaken on Roads Less Taken=cool; A beer in hand is worth 2 in the Fridge=yawn).  My latest favorite potential band name is Meat Bat.  I saw it in directions for a recipe to whack chicken breasts to a particular size, but it could also mean a new variety of bat that eats frogs, for instance.  I have resigned myself to the fact that I will never earn a living from Meat Bat.  Damn the internet and its DIY-for free mentality.

Speaking of fantasy jobs, my friend Bryan from yoga teacher training has a great idea.  He theorizes that there are people who want to tell their stories to someone they can trust, knowing that these stories will not get judged or retold.  Bryan would simply listen, without question or expression, not imposing his experience or energy on the story, but just hearing what the person has to say without reacting to it.  When the person left, Bryan would promptly forget the story.  He named this job “The Story Eunuch” because it would be emotionally safe. 

As someone who longs to be heard, this didn’t make much sense to me at first.  I want reaction (with appreciation being especially welcome, thank you very much).   But then I realized that there are lots of stories I tell in my daily journal writing that never make it to a listener or reader.  This writing provides a safe place for making sense of raw experience.  Like the making of sausage, nobody else should be exposed to this process, lest they realize their darkest fears about me, i.e., that I am completely nuts.  For people who don’t use writing as this kind of outlet, however, having a non-reactive listener might be helpful.  It would be a cheaper form of therapy, plus the storyteller would know that Bryan isn’t concocting a way to fix her/him, or even to get her/him to fix her/himself.  

Maybe we all could use a Story Eunuch.  When is the last time you told a story and felt that you were heard without judgment, reactivity, or someone wanting to fix the problem for you?  Or worse, that they would remember that story and always associate it with you, when really, it was just how you felt at that particular moment?  Our stories seem to follow us around.  They gain purchase in the telling and retelling, until even we believe that they convey something more than they actually do.  Stories are powerful arbiters of meaning and identity, whether the meaning is accurate or the identity is truthful.  

Not to put Bryan out of future employment, but I wonder if we each can be our own personal Story Eunuch.  Can we listen to the private stories we tell only ourselves, and the public ones we share, with equanimity and compassion?  Can we choose to see these stories as constructions of experience, as opposed to arbitrary truths?  Perhaps it’s time to inventory our stories, and throw out the ones that don’t serve us.  The ones that create conceit and the ones that hone in on limitations. 

While we are at it, maybe we discard the stories we have about other people:  She’s OCD.  He’s a jerk.  The cat is lazy.  That way, we act as Story Eunuchs for others.   What might happen if we remove these judgments?  What possibilities appear?               

  

Bill Ayers, Katherine Boo, and Me

In yoga teacher training, we talk about dharma, as in “What is your dharma?”  Dharma, loosely translated, means one’s path, or true nature.  One of the questions on the final exam asks, “Is your dharma clear to you?”  For me, the answer to this question is no.  My dharma is maddeningly opaque.  But I recently encountered two people whose dharma is beautifully transparent. 

Bill Ayers is a teacher and writer who has been a social justice advocate since the 1960’s when he first started teaching kindergarten.  His activism has brought him trouble at different times, most recently in 2008 when conservatives excoriated President Obama’s relationship with him (they were both active in Chicago politics).   Fox News discovered he was the keynote speaker for last weekend’s Association of Teacher Educators conference in Atlanta, and there was a brief sizzle about how teacher educators were inviting a known terrorist to speak.  Luckily, the ATE leadership did not bow to this pressure.  Seeing Bill Ayers speak, in person, was a profound and moving experience. 

He talked about seeing the unseen people of the world, because “every human being is of incalculable value.”  He spoke about the differences between teaching the arts of liberty—initiative, courage, imagination, listening, speaking--versus obedience and conformity.  He was earnest and honest about the intellectual and ethical challenges of teaching, and said that it was up to us to change the dialogue that has blamed teachers for the problems of student learning borne out of poverty, inequity, and racism. 

He also said, “Privilege blinds us and anesthetizes us” and insisted that whatever rich kids get in school, all kids should get.  Smaller class sizes, libraries, field trips, discovery learning.  He clearly understood the pressures teachers experience in the face of scripted curricula and few resources.  Ayers said that his son, a high school teacher, told him that he was 70% an agent of the state and 30% a free agent. Ayers urged us to find the nooks and crannies in order to do what is right for our students within that 30%. 

These messages about making the invisible visible and the blindness that comes with privilege reminded me of the book Behind the Beautiful Forevers by reporter Katherine Boo.  She spent over three years collecting and documenting the experiences of residents of Annawadi, a slum adjacent to the Mumbai, India airport.  In a matter-of-fact, nonjudgmental tone, she describes the harshness, the corruption, and the stench through the eyes of several different residents.  Abdul is a garbage sorter who collects recyclables from his fellow residents who scavenge trash from outside the airport.  Asha is a wife and mother who uses the corrupt system to gain power and money for her family’s well-being.  Fatima is a woman born with one leg who changes their world forever when she sets herself on fire in protest and rage against the unfairness she experiences.  Boo humanizes these individuals by providing their perspectives on survival in a place that only wants to get rid of them in order to attract Westerners and others with money. 

Bill Ayers and Katherine Boo are not afraid to look at the results of dehumanizing poverty and inequity.  They do not let us turn our heads from the individual and collective anguish inflicted on the voiceless—poor students of color and slumdwellers.  They also don’t victimize them by claiming what Shoshana Felman calls “passive empathy,” which further oppresses the unseen by removing their power.  Instead, Ayers and Boo view the strengths and choices of their subjects with respect for the individual and the context.  One Annawadi resident says, “Rich people fight about stupid things.  Why shouldn’t poor people do the same?”

I am no Bill Ayers or Katherine Boo.  Neither, probably, are you.  However, we can still bear witness to the social, economic, cultural, racial, and sexual inequities of the world, and vow to see the unseen, not with pity or contempt, but with the knowledge that “every human being is of incalculable value.”  Ayers ended his talk with a quote from the Mary Oliver poem, “Instructions for Living a Life:”

Pay Attention.

Be Astonished.

Do Something.

Sure, that’s a bit opaque for one’s dharma, but I’ll take it.

Coincidence or Serendipity

If You Were Born Today, December 13
You are a very versatile person with an adventurous spirit, yet a very grounded outlook. Material success is likely in your life time, as you are hard-working and proud. As well, you are filled with ideas, and they're usually quite marketable! A true problem solver, you love to find answers and help others to do so as well. 

In what could be a coincidence or serendipity, today is the birthday of two people who have had a big impact on my life.  Heidi was my roommate and friend, and Chuck was my cooperating teacher, principal, and friend.  I met both while in my mid-20’s, a turbulent time for me.  In different ways, they guided me, made me laugh, and offered their unconditional support.    

You just never know who you’re going to meet in the dorm.  I met Heidi through Cheryl, who lived on my floor in Ashton, formerly Rogers Centre, where my parents had met 40 years before.  Ashton consisted of multiple buildings, and I chose this dorm because I wanted a single room.  There were girls on my floor who had wanted a roommate, which seemed like the weirdest thing to me.  Why would you want to share your space? The irony is that Heidi became the only roommate I ever actually enjoyed living with, when we eventually shared two different apartments. During that time, she counseled me through an epic breakup and subsequent relationship with Nels, the man I eventually married. 

I didn’t drink coffee—that is, unless it had hot chocolate mix in it--until I lived with her.  Heidi taught me about the wisdom and joy (not to mention energy) that comes with the smell and taste of strong black coffee, preferably accompanied by fried eggs and hard rolls.  As a German, she also shaped my taste for chocolate.  I would bring home what I thought was a treat—a bag of Hershey Miniatures.  Heidi disdained this offering, and introduced me to chocolate as strong and dark as her coffee.  I am forever grateful, and dark chocolate is still my favorite.    

Along with being a great roommate, Heidi was the first poet I ever met.  She loved books as much as I did, but she was into poetry.  I never appreciated poetry until she introduced me to poets who showed how everyday events and people could become meaningful and beautiful through language.   Even though I only grudgingly went to poetry readings with her (she lured me with the promise of cookies afterward), she also convinced me to take a poetry writing class, where I wrote one good poem and a lot of bad ones.  Now I have two shelves of poetry books and have written several on my own, including a slam poem. 

Heidi also shared her poetry with me.  My favorite was “Women at 40” written for her mom, Ursula.  I’d like to see that poem again now that we are both in our early 40’s.  Heidi wrote this when we were in our 20’s, and 40 couldn’t have seemed any more distant. 

Heidi, thank you for being a terrific roommate and friend.  You were, and no doubt still are, exceedingly generous with your space, food, enthusiasm, and time. 

As I pair teacher candidates with cooperating teachers, I am always reminded of my own fortuitous meeting with Chuck Holloway, who was my cooperating teacher.  When I met him, Chuck was a rollicking 7^th grade teacher at Tri-North Middle School who had previously taught at an alternative school in Colorado.  His sidekick was Suzie McCloud, who taught math next door. They co-taught an English-Math block for the “at-risk” kids.  In the early 90’s, Janet Reno was in the news as the first woman to serve as Attorney General.  Chuck and Suzie, along with special education teacher Connee Headley, thought it was hilarious that I had the same first name as Janet Reno.  As a hazing ritual, they pasted my photo over Reno’s in a newspaper article and posted it all over the school.  The middle school kids didn’t get it, but the teachers thought it was hilarious.  Eventually, I did too. 

 A couple of years later, Chuck became the principal of the new alternative school and hired me as the lone English teacher, along with a math teacher, social studies teacher, and work-study coordinator.  The experience of starting a school—which eventually was named Aurora by the students—is one of the most important of my life.  I learned every single day on the job, and Chuck’s humor and guidance were essential to my personal and professional growth during this time.

The kids who came to Aurora were there because they did not fit into the regular high schools’ social or academic worlds.  Thus, they taught me not only how to teach English, but how to be an advocate.  In the early days especially, I screwed up more than I got right, but they, along with my colleagues and Chuck, put up with me and pushed me gently (and not so gently) to continue to get better. 

I am the teacher I am today because of what I learned from Chuck.  He taught me to appreciate kids as human beings first and students second.  He taught me that schools don’t have to be dictatorial, that students and teachers could have voice in impactful school proceedings, including the gut-wrenching decision to expel students.  He taught me that this kind of pedagogy may be hard, but it’s worth it. 

Chuck, thank you for being my first mentor.  I had no idea what meeting you on that August day 20 years ago would mean, and I am forever grateful for the opportunities you provided and your belief in me. 

Happy birthday to two of my favorite Hoosiers!  Much love to you both.        

Outlaw Country Visits Rhode Island

Steve Earle and Billy Joe Shaver are both grizzled singer songwriters who have influenced scores of performers.  We had the privilege of seeing them both, separately, last week.  Earle played at the Narrows Center for the Arts in Fall River, which takes up the third floor of an old warehouse overlooking the river with floor to ceiling windows, wood floors, and an art gallery.  The audience is encouraged to bring picnic baskets and coolers, creating a festive atmosphere.   Billy Joe Shaver was at the Channing Unitarian Church in Newport, built in the 1880’s.  The stone walls, handcrafted wood balustrades, and soaring, painted ceilings were evidence that this was meant to be a holy place, indeed.  Picnic baskets were not welcome here, of course, and the church was all sanctuary, such that if you wanted to go to the bathroom,  you had to go outside and be led to the separate church office via flashlight.   While the Earle show was packed and the Shaver show barely registered 100 people, the crowds were equally fervent.

I was struck by how these two performers were so similar and so different.  They both write from the heart but where Earle is intellectual and political, Billy is strictly a honky tonk guy.  They have both found their dharma in writing, singing and playing with clarity and honesty in a particular genre that has room for both of them. 

Romantic love was not the focus for either performer.  Instead, both talked about love of country, love of God, and love of drugs.  Earle is unabashedly and unrepentantly liberal.  On stage, he said, “Obama is not a socialist. I’m a socialist.”  Because of this statement, conservatives might paint him as unpatriotic, but his point is this:  the promise of the United States is that everyone will have equal opportunity.  Earle’s critiques of the system (and he has many, including the death penalty) does not mean he is against the United States; he just feels we are not living up to the promise of equality and freedom for everyone.

Billy Joe Shaver represents old-school patriotism, claiming in the song “Good Ol’ USA” that he has been around the world, and, pointing vehemently to the ground, the United States is the best place in it.  He didn’t talk about the recent election, like Earle did.  Instead, his loyalty to the U.S., specifically, Texas, was just as unabashed and unrepentant as Earle’s commitment to social justice.   Shaver took care not to alienate anyone in the audience (at least on a patriotic level), unlike Earle.

Both singer songwriters also talked about religion in ways that matched their stance on patriotism.  While Earle didn’t sing the song “God is God” (I believe in God/and God is God) he talked about how the death penalty was a violation of the Ten Commandments.  Because he is a citizen of this country, where the death penalty is legal in many states, he feels that he is implicated.  Therefore he speaks out, in songs, (“Billy Austin” and “Ellis Unit One”) and in outreach to prisoners on death row.  Whatever you want to say about Steve Earle, he follows through on his beliefs. 

Shaver, once again, took a more direct approach.  He said that Jesus was his hero, and thanked God for giving him the gift of songwriting.   Some of his songs have specific mentions of God, and he clearly acknowledged that he was singing in a church.  Both performers have experienced and enjoyed the dark side and told those tales in their music, yet their spirituality was also apparent.  Earle’s approach was finely tuned, whereas for Shaver it’s just not that complicated. 

Going along with the joy of spirituality and surrender to a Divine spirit is what Jung calls the “shadow” side.  Both performers have songs about hell-raising (Earle, “The Week of Living Dangerously” and “Copperhead Road” and Shaver, “Tramp on Your Street” and “The Hottest Thing in Town”) and are not ashamed to talk about it or write about it.  Even as some of their earlier work celebrates a hedonistic lifestyle, and they still sing those songs, they acknowledge the dangers, especially of heroin.  On stage, Earle talked about the powerful force of his own addiction.  He noted that his family members and friends were pretty sure he would die an addict, as was he.  He then launched into “South Nashville Blues” with the lyric “I went downtown just to ease my pain/I took my pistol and a hundred dollar bill/I had everything I needed to get me killed.”

Earle lost years off of his life that he will never get back.  Shaver lost his son Eddy, who played guitar for several famous groups and had also been in Shaver’s band.  In one of the few sobering moments of the show, Shaver dedicated a song to all the people who had either experienced addiction or knew someone who had.  He sang a shaky a capella song while the guys in his band turned around and removed their cowboy hats.  Shaver’s sincerity and sense of loss were as touching as Earle’s matter-of-factness was transfixing.   

Steve Earle is 57 and Billy Joe Shaver is 73.  For both, writing and performing is salvation.  Where Earle is serious and nuanced, Shaver is joyful and straightforward.  Where Earle is troubled, Shaver is delighted.  Both have clearly found their dharma, or their calling, and it was a privilege to see them in action last week.  Their songwriting and performing are exemplars of what the arts can tell us about the human condition, and thus so much more than an evening’s entertainment.