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2/3/04

Flipping around (and off) the cable this morning  it was pleasant to remember Arlo Guthrie’s contention that most of his day goes by without once being conscious of whom the president of the United States actually is… about how the things that bring joy and meaning to his life are not dictated by some politician somewhere. (Obviously this might be different if you’re in the military!) So in the spirit of AG I’ll stifle the urge to comment on the SOTU speech last night and get to the good stuff.

I’m just back from a few days in Tennessee where I appeared in Memphis and Chattanooga. My thanks to Dr. Nancy and to Andrew for their hospitality and help in bringing my music to some new Tennessee ears. It had been awhile since I played in the volunteer state, at least out side of Nashville and I couldn’t have received a nicer reception. ( While getting gas station somewhere between Waverly and Bucksnort, TN a station attendant asked me where I was from. Rounding my answer out geographically (and because my friend Lisa Kristofferson has advised me never to tell anyone I live in Delaware!) I answered “Philadelphia!” “Izat right?” drawled the pump jockey wryly. “Well, son, welcome to the United States!”)

I had a chance on a rainy Memphis afternoon to visit both Graceland and the Civil Rights Museum. Elvis’s house was quite modest compared to my imaginings. Obviously this man could have lived anywhere in the world and I was struck by the roots he had obviously sunk in this delta soil. And for all his wealth, the reasonably unpretentious (despite some obviously unfortunate decorating choices - but wants to be judged by the standards of the seventies? - I mean I wore a paisley tuxedo to my junior prom for gosh sakes!) palace he chose for his family. If you take away the southern style plantation columns on the front porch you’re left with basically a four bedroom colonial with a family room and a small finished basement. Elvis didn’t even have an eat-in kitchen. (One of the many uncanny similarities I share with the King!) Most of the land seemed to be in the front yard. Indeed Graceland’s backyard looks into many others; Elvis could literally see the neighbors, their rusty old swing sets, sedimentary jalopies, and modest ranch houses.  I always pictured his tomb up on a high lonely hill; the eternal flame flickering under a big old hickory tree. In fact Elvis’s grave lies just a few yards from his backdoor. It was indeed a lonely place despite the modest procession of onlookers in the cold drizzle. But the loneliness was more contextual; stemming more from your awareness of the tragic ending to this quintessential American story than the immediate geography of this proud, garish, and somehow humble place. Hard to explain. But worth the trip!

The Civil Rights Museum is easy to explain. It’s amazing.

It occupies the building that was once the Loraine Motel; the site of the assassination of Martin Luther King. Dr. King’s room and the infamous balcony where he was gunned down can be viewed from behind a Plexiglas wall. The shooter’s vantage point from a seedy bathroom window across the street- the bathtub that James Earl Ray actually stood in as he fired his rifle- is also open to the public. When you stand in these places the ache of lost possibility, the sense of pure stupid evil, are both real and palpable.

The museum itself is one of the most inspirational places I have ever been. It is filled with heroes. Students.  Old people. Ordinary average Americans of every color stare out from photographs and challenge you to live by their example. It documents the incredible courage and self sacrifice required to face up to violence, bigotry and hatred. And in a special way leaves you aware of the inevitability of the human spirit’s eventual triumph over all injustice.

One of the most disturbing exhibits in the museum does not hang on the wall or stand on a podium. It covers the floor. Hundreds and hundreds of pairs of combat boots all in rows, each representing one of the US soldiers killed in Iraq, blanket first floor of the museum. In each room you are required to literally step over and around these empty boots, each baring a name tag. Each time you do you become conscious that we as a nation are tiptoeing around the empty lives and unfulfilled promises left behind by this war.

In one room the shoes are all civilian. Men’s loafers and work boots, women’s high heels and sandals, children’s sneakers. These represent the countless (literally.. no one wants to count them…) civilian dead from America’s decision to share democracy. (That's why we went to war right? It's hard to remember anymore...)  No words could convey the profound loss and grief that is stirred by these simple representations of silent, silenced lives.

Which all brings me back to the president and last night’s speech. Help, Arlo!

Peace,

John