SATURDAY POETRY SERIES PRESENTS: BETH MATTSON

Posted on October 17, 2009 by asitoughttobemagazine

BethMattson

ROME

by Beth Mattson

The US is totally just like ancient Rome.
The perfect analogy.
The participatory democracy,
The classic over-extension,
The silly dress code.
And do you remember when Rome fell,
To the walking-dead,
Flesh-eating,
Tooth-gnashing zombies?
We could be next.

Beth Mattson lives in San Francisco, where she writes zombie fiction and poetry about your mom. Originally from Wisconsin, she earned her MFA at California College of the Arts.

Editor’s Note: Beth Mattson is at the forefront of the New Humorist movement in modern poetry. Through the use of short, simple language, with an expert application of levity, she is able to communicate her message to a widespread audience. But there is nothing elementary about Beth’s tackling of topical issues such as war, politics, sex, sexuality, and self-esteem. Through the use of sarcasm and absurdity, she is not making light of weighty issues, but rather giving her audience the gift of humor in an age when it is much needed. I hope to see more poets fighting for the future of the art by creating work that the masses can and will embrace and appreciate.

Want to read more by and about Beth Mattson?
My Own Devices – A Word Comic.
California College of the Arts 2009 MFA in Writing

EVE TOLIMAN

Posted on October 16, 2009 by asitoughttobemagazine

url

MEMORIAL

by Eve Toliman

I grieved so much.  I saw you pale and fearing.
That was in dream.  And your soul rang.
 
All softly my soul sounded with it,
and both souls sang themselves: I suffered.

Then peace came deep in me.  I lay
in the silver heaven between dream and day.

-- Rainer Maria Rilke (translation by Herter Norton)

Ira was an old family friend, one of the last people who had known my father. At the end of his memorial service, Ira’s colleague stood at the podium and said “We’re alive as long as those who remember us live.” I shuddered. I might end up alone with my father after all. Sorry, Papa. Who would want to be kept alive as a burden? I wish it were different but no matter how I come at it, it always ends up heavy.

Ira was a prominent psychologist who, ironically, got to watch one of his best friends, my father, incarcerated in various insane asylums until the cycle finally ended in 1969. Two days before Neil Armstrong took a small step for man and a giant leap for mankind, my father killed himself. After her father’s service, Ira’s daughter Joanne and I stole away for a precious hour alone. We had a drink at Jake’s Place and hurriedly caught up. How can you cram a year or more into a stolen hour? It’s what we’ve been doing for the past couple of decades, feeding our friendship on snatches of conversation, our words like contraband passed furtively and desperately between us.

In the streets nearby, thousands of demonstrators were protesting a US invasion in Iran while Joanne told me about her new book coming out in a couple of months on the cost of the war in Iraq. We sat at a sticky table over pastrami-on-rye and Irish coffee. We reminisced about her father and our childhoods. We swapped stories about our siblings, and fretted and glowed about our children.

Then she told me what Ira had told her to explain the enigma of my father, that brilliant flash of a man who seared into everything and everyone around him until he spontaneously combusted at age 42. Ira told Joanne that as a teenager my father was imprisoned as a spy in his Nazi-occupied home country of Norway. (This much I knew.) The Nazis said he worked in the Norwegian underground. (Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t. Most Norwegians resisted in some way or another; not all of them were in the underground. My mother told me the Nazis were never able to prove he was a spy and, as far as I knew, my father never claimed it.) He suffered from PTSD because while imprisoned he was gang-raped by a group of Nazis. (What?! No, no, no, no…) How many people have played Stingo to my parents’ version of Sophie and Nathan? How many were captivated by the spells my father wove and the changing stories my mother told? How many people were bewitched by the bright glamour they spun around themselves to ward off a final meaninglessness that threatened to obliterate them at any moment?

There is a certain nobility in being heinously abused by the unquestionably bad while doing unquestionable good. The reality I know is usually a lot murkier. Both my parents were traumatized by World War II, my mother as a child in Nazi Germany and my father as a teenager in occupied Norway. But I fear my father’s real nightmare grew from seeds planted long before the war, much closer to his heart, by hands that cared for him, too. Perhaps he told Ira, his trusted friend, a bit of the spirit of the truth without yet being able to broach the actual details of the truth.

Ten years ago I met his younger cousin, Ingvild, when I went back to Norway to bury my father’s middle sister. Ingvild looked like a tiny, slightly shriveled version of my father. His dashing features looked a bit hawkish and severe on the small woman’s face. Together we revisited that year when I was four, when my family lived outside of Oslo in a small cabin among the trolls that populate the Scandinavian woods. The outhouse froze solid in the winter. The flowers rioted in the spring. Ingvild was a teenager then. She told me that when she visited my parents during that year, she cowered in the corner like a mouse. She watched them with their friends, eating, drinking, arguing and laughing with a gusto that fascinated and terrified her. She said she never met anyone like them, before or since.

Was he really gang-raped? My parents told so many stories, embellishing, omitting, and adjusting facts to construct a picture of themselves and their lives they could tolerate as they searched for a truth resilient enough to withstand the horrors of our institutions and ideas; for a truth that would justify their belief in a humanity that had betrayed them.

When I was pregnant with my first-born child, both my parents already dead for many years, my father’s eldest sister suggested that I name my daughter after his twin. (What?!) Oh yes, he had a twin. Evline died before their first birthday. (Even our names entwine. I’m tied like a dog on a chain, my neck strong and raw from the endless tug of unknown ghosts.) He never told us he had a twin. My mother didn’t know either. She would have told us. Could she also not have known the truth of what happened to him in that jail? Was he ashamed to admit to the woman who bore his children that his budding virility had been appropriated for — what? That’s just it: for nothing. Just because it’s what power does, dominates and degrades as an end in itself — meaningless harm, pointless pain.

I got home from Ira’s memorial service just in time to whisk my son to his basketball game. I sat in the gym, still in funeral attire like some kind of vampire. I watched two full courts of 12 and 13 year old boys competing hard. Appropriately dressed family members cheered them on. Could it really have happened? The boys were running, blocking and shooting while these worm-thoughts crumbled my brain. Two realities superimposed. The gymnasium filled with gaunt prisoners wearing dirty, drab clothes en route from one foul place to another. I focused on now-time and clearly saw the boys playing on shiny wood floors in clean clothes. I heard their shoes squeak as they ran back and forth. I focused on ghost-time and the shouts and lights became cold and harsh. I heard orders shrieked from hard hearts efficiently sealed against the pain they inflicted on gray brothers and sisters with bright eyes.

The darkness in our hearts uses the exact same things as the light: our gathering places and our camaraderie commandeered for harm instead of joy, to humiliate and destroy instead of uplift and create; our devotion and our loyalty twisted to serve fear. We get to decide which way it falls, each of us. These ghosts live among us, prodding us to remember, urging us to celebrate our communion without ever neglecting that still, small voice within ourselves. It’s the voice of our own conscience, the only voice that humanity ever has or ever will have. It’s the voice that whispers to each of us, intimately, and when we consent, it’s the voice that speaks through each of us telling the same story over and over, but completely fresh and new each time.

My parents rammed into life hard. They thrashed and careened, dragging us behind them like a game of crack-the-whip. They paid and we paid and our children pay for this expensive tactic. But they survived, for a while, and we learned their ways. They neither fully embraced nor fully abandoned things as they appear to be. They poked and prodded everything, questioning and considering and constructing their own understanding as they went. They used situations and events as building blocks in their Watts Tower monuments to life. While the reign of hell drove beauty underground and bled senselessness over everything, they appropriated what was available — bits of anything — to create rather than destroy. They never succumbed to power. They struggled to hear the true voice within themselves and to express something real. They were not well adjusted. As my German uncle said to his own teenage daughter when she accused him of being abnormal, “If I were normal, I’d be a Nazi.”

I will never know what really happened. The ghosts of my parents and countless others assemble in me and tell me things: the spirit of the truth. I get to fill in the details from bits and pieces of my own life, then and now. I get to tell my own stories, embellishing, omitting, and adjusting facts to fashion, and re-fashion, my own ladder to what’s real. I get to build my own haphazard monuments to life, in homage to my reckless parents, beauty’s fervid crusaders.

Ira’s strange story from the beyond the grave shook me to my core. Whatever happened, my father suffered and today I suffered with him. As I stood in the ruins of what I thought I knew, I felt an endless quiet seep into me.

Today I was alone with my father and I was not afraid.

–Eve Toliman

GUEST EDITORIAL — JEFF ROCK

Posted on October 14, 2009 by asitoughttobemagazine

Kranky Cartoon by Joseph Rank.

“SPOILER THEORY” SPOILS DEMOCRACY

by Jeff Rock

Progressives are told every election they must vote for the Democrat, regardless of what policies that Democrat supports. We are lectured, we are cajoled and we are scolded if we entertain the idea of voting for a third party candidate. Ralph Nadar is dubbed the ‘great spoiler’ because, so the logic goes, he single-handedly caused Gore and then Kerry to lose the Presidential elections of 2000 and 2004. The Green Party that has consistently promoted sustainable technologies and the preservation of our environment, two cornerstones of progressive thinking, is also considered a spoiler.

However, there is another truism that trumps the fallacious spoiler theory. It goes, “the definition of insanity is repeating the same action and expecting a different result.” If progressives want fundamental change, they must consider making fundamental changes themselves. And the ‘spoiler theory’ is the first myth that must be changed.

There are many solid progressive Democratic Congresspersons, but a small group popularly called the “Blue Dogs,” within the ranks of Democrats, renders their efforts wholly ineffective. Until recent years these traitors to the progressive agenda have flown under the radar, almost unnoticed. It was not until they repeatedly voted with Republicans on key issues throughout Bush’s years in office that we began to see how Blue Dogs have compromised progressive ideas. Corporate lobbyists cleverly manipulated the Democratic Party to create this situation. They knew it would be difficult, if not impossible, to convince large numbers of progressive Democrat Congresspersons to vote against Americans’ interests. They also realized it would be very expensive and unnecessary. Only a few million in well-placed campaign contributions were required to reap billions in corporate rewards. Only a small number of key Democrats were needed to sway the balance of power. On popular emotional issues, such as gay liberties and a mother’s right to choose, Blue Dogs carefully contrive their speeches and votes to appear to be liberal. But when it comes to corporate friendly legislation, the oligarchs can count on their Blue lap dogs to vote for corporate welfare and removal of all forms of corporate regulation.

Examples of this phenomenon abound. Clinton signed NAFTA into law. The repeal of the Glass-Steagall act also occurred under his watch. Democrats voted for the war in Iraq, the Patriot Act and Bush appointees. Diane Feinstein even “sponsored” Condoleeza Rice for her appointment to Secretary of State. In 2006 the Democrats took control of Congress and failed to enact any meaningful progressive legislation. They knew it could damage their ability to raise money from the corporate lobbyists if they voted for any real progressive change. No longer able to use the excuse of being the minority party in Congress they invented new reasons to explain their spineless appearance. Suddenly bipartisanship became the Democratic talking point du jour.

Democratic Blue Dogs are worse than Republicans. At least most Republicans openly promote their cherished neo-conservative policies. But Blue Dogs promise change, gain their seat in Congress and proceed to concoct every possible reason for blocking such change. True wolves in sheep’s clothing, Blue Dogs are the bane of the Democratic Party and have guaranteed their corporate sponsors that no progressive agenda will ever get past their vote.

In spite of this circumstance progressives continue to vote for Blue Dogs and so-called ‘moderate’ Democrats. Progressive Democrats take little effective action to isolate the traitors and remove them from office. Many Blue Dogs are deeply entrenched in Congress, serving multiple consecutive terms largely because of their ability to wage effective campaigns funded by large corporate donations. Max Baucus is only the latest Blue Dog to be exposed.

Why do progressives repeat this failed approach? Why do they place in office shills of corporate oligarchs whose only concern is accumulation of personal and corporate wealth and who have no care whatsoever for our nation, our people, and our Constitution? The answer is simple. Fear. Fear causes progressives to repeat the same actions each election cycle while hoping for a different result. It is a recipe for utter failure and decades of neo-conservative legislation are the evidence. What more do progressives need after witnessing Obama renege on his promise of change? The change we were promised is no more than the “new improved” detergent changed from the old and tired detergent. The direction of our nation has not changed one iota. Wars rage and expand in the Middle East. We support an extreme right wing element in Israeli politics. The DoJ is full of Bush appointees. Illegal eavesdropping persists without abatement. Bush’s old ally, Gates, runs the Defense Department. Education, healthcare, civil liberties are no better off today than under the Bush Cheney regime. The environment continues to be under attack and no significant effort has been made towards promoting alternative sustainable technologies.

So who are we kidding? The “spoiler theory” has only succeeded in perpetuating politics as usual. There is no new direction our nation has taken. There is no change. The neo-conservative mantel has been changed for the neo-liberal version. The ‘new improved’ detergent come in a blue box instead of a red one.

Let’s examine what really could happen if we vote for true progressives and reject the politics of the spoiler theory. Would we be any worse off? Not likely. Instead of second-degree burns over 95% of our body we would have third-degree burns over 70% of our body. Instead of destroying the environment in 25 years, we would destroy it in 20 years. The end result is the same. The direction of the Democratic Party is no different than the Republican Party, it is only a matter of degree. Can we honestly say that voting for a third party progressive candidate would really spoil anything?

What we need is real change. It is well within our power to achieve this goal. We who have been powerless for so long find it hard to believe that we can create real and fundamental change. But we can foster massive change in one short election cycle. We can change the face of US politics forever and change the direction of our nation, if only we can overcome the fear of standing up for our beliefs.

Let’s imagine what would happen if we did. If large numbers of progressives voted for the candidates who represented their policies and agenda many Democrats might lose their seat in Congress. It could mean that by 2012 the Republicans control both branches of elected government again. However, it would send a message that no Democrat candidate could ever ignore again. Democrats would be shattered and their party in ruins. Heads would fly, careers would end and new ones begin. By the mid-term elections of 2014 we would begin to see real results. No Democrat would be able to coddle their right wing corporate sponsors and hope to survive. No longer would politics as usual govern over Washington.

We have to be careful in this undertaking to not eject true progressives from their office. We have to be careful not to create the appearance of a Republican victory by simply avoiding the polls due to our general disillusionment with the lack of Democratic Party accomplishments. We need to vote in large numbers, as we did for Obama in 2008, but we need to vote for progressive and third party candidates in every moderate and Blue Dog constituency. We need to clean house by unseating all those phony moderates and Blue Dogs who perpetuate the fallacy that we cannot change our nation. We need to act as one, get smart and make real changes in our own ranks before we can expect any real change in Washington.

Most of all we need to overcome the fear instilled by the notion that if we stand up for our beliefs and vote for progressive candidates that we are somehow playing into the hands of the Republicans. We need to bury the fallacious and self-destructive spoiler theory once and for all.

Our nation depends on us. If we fail, politics as usual will reign for decades to come. If we succeed, by the year 2016 we will have succeeded in freeing our nation from the grip of the corporate oligarchs who are heading us off a cliff. We may even still have time to overcome the environmental destruction that has given rise to climate change, poison oceans, poison air and a truly unsustainable society. As you contemplate next year’s election have courage to stand up for your beliefs and values. Reject the fear that has kept us in chains for decades and vote for true progressives no matter in which party they belong. Do it for America, do it for your children, do it for the Earth.

–Jeff Rock

This piece was first published in OpEdNews on 10/11/09.

Jeff Rock is an economist of thirty-three years. He has spent his entire career in the building industry working in a capacity that allows him to witness daily the inner workings of the so-called ‘free’ market. Jeff studied at US and French universties earning his Economics degree from Antioch College in 1976. He is bi-lingual. He supports and promotes green building and tries to incorporate green principles in every project on which he is assigned. He has built high rises in the US and Africa. He is a committed to left wing policies and strongly believes in a regulated market with emphasis on equalizing income distribution and strong social programs. Jeff believes that Friedman’s economic philospophy is a scam and that Friedman was chosen by the neo-economists as their mouthpiece simply because he equated democratic freedoms with market freedoms, a fallacious argument that has misled America into a blind faith in a deregulated ‘free’ market that has in turn led to oligoply and monopoly, the very antithesis of the free market as envisioned by Adam Smith.

HITCHHIKING & TRAINHOPPING — Part I

Posted on October 12, 2009 by asitoughttobemagazine

THE CONFESSIONS OF FOFI LITTLEPANTS

PART I

by Fofi Littlepants

INTRODUCTION

What follows are some reflections from my journey hitchhiking and trainhopping across the United States, from California to New York City. This was accomplished over a period of three months, together with a friend, one sizzling summer in the time of global warming.

It didn’t occur to me that these travels were of such incredible rarity or fascination per se that the interest of humanity requires that I write about them. Many people hitchhike and trainhop (ride clandestinely inside or outside a freight train), and quite a few have written on their experiences, most of which are much more colorful and interesting than mine. But I’m sending this along for three reasons. Firstly, because I was asked to give a history of the undertaking, by a friend who I discovered is hopeless to attempt to deny.

Secondly, most trainhopping and hitchhiking accounts are by men. I know that there are women out there that do it, but I don’t know how many there are, and certainly judging from the reactions of the people we met on the road, there didn’t seem to be lots. Apparently “small” women like my friend and I still aren’t supposed to be running around in this free country without the protection of [big] men. We were told over and over how shocking it was that we as women were hitchhiking and such.

Combined with this, the usually unspoken implication was that it was mind-boggling that cute little women of our socioeconomic background were hitchhiking. I guess the dominant mainstream attributes a variety of vices onto hitchhikers and trainhoppers, most of which are associated with the poor and marginal underclass, and we didn’t seem to fit into those stereotypes ~ we were not runaways, vagrants, alcoholics, drug addicts, sex fiends, felons, prison escapees, serial killers, mentally ill, or prostitutes. In contrast, we were squeaky clean: we didn’t have criminal records, didn’t even smoke cigarettes much less do drugs, barely ingested any alcohol or caffeine, and didn’t sleep around; we were also vegetarians, had completed higher education, and were gainfully employed in professional positions. This was all incredibly confusing for most people, because while we could accurately be classified as low-income (since we had a penchant for working at pitiful non-profit wages with organizations on the brink of bankruptcy), we were really glaringly “middle class” in most other respects.

According to many people we encountered, the only (middle class) individuals in their right minds that would stoop to hitchhiking are those whose cars have broken down. Thus we were treated to constant admonitions to be careful and to go take a bus. A travel book I purchased on the U.S., a British publication which compiles helpful travel tips and dry humour on the foibles of the country, provided but one paragraph on hitchhiking:

The usual advice given to hitchhikers is that they should use their common sense: in fact, of course, common sense should tell anyone that hitchhiking is a bad idea. We do not recommend it under any circumstances. (Emphasis in the original.)

The book does not even mention trainhopping as an option to be disdained and discarded, presumably because it was unthinkable, being an even more illicit and potentially physically dangerous activity than hitchhiking. This, from the “Rough Guide” to the U.S.A.

But as the stated purpose of this venerable blog is “to encourage thought and action related to contemporary political and cultural matters”, and sometimes bad ideas can unearth new pathways for the imagination, here follow the Confessions.

I. TRAINHOPPING

It goes without saying that the U.S. is car country, and the presumptive method of cross-country transport for my socioeconomic strata (middle class professional) was to drive a vehicle of some kind ~ conventional American wisdom is that any adult without an automobile must obviously be a vagrant, indigent, and/or a general loser.

I may or may not be those things, but personally I’ve felt lucky to have so far managed to avoid getting a car ~ I consider them a burden and I’ve always wanted to travel light in life. And both me and my traveling companion, who I’ll call “Joey”, are lefty tree huggers convinced that cars are the earthly embodiment of evil. Well, not entirely ~ I do concede that things like ambulances and firetrucks are useful, but you get the point.

When we set out to get ourselves across the country, trainhopping and hitchhiking were our transport of choice for a number of reasons: As parasitic modes of travel, they (1) were cheap (mostly free); (2) didn’t increase global fuel consumption by much (the train or the cars were going that way anyway, and we were so skinny that the additional weight surely didn’t make much of a difference); and of course (3) were the most interesting.

***

BUT FIRST, here’s a disclaimer: I want to be very clear that I don’t consider myself an authority in trainhopping, in even the most remote sense of the word. In fact, I was an abysmal failure at it. There are experts out there that can give more useful information, and I try to provide some citations to them. Also, I’m not encouraging anyone to do it, though I’m not discouraging anyone either ~ I try to make few recommendations to others about their lives because I think every person’s road winds uniquely.

Also, all names of the people (and pets) we encountered have been changed.

***

Trainhopping is an activity infused with history and mystique, immortalized in literature and song (Steinbeck, London, Kerouac, Guthrie, Ellington, etc.), and indulged in by millions (famous hobos include Steam Train Maurie, A No. 1, and Jack Black (each of whom also wrote books about their experiences); Walt Whitman, Mark Twain, Upton Sinclaire, and William Douglas (the U.S. Supreme Court Justice) etc. are also said to have train-hopped). While the dominant vision of trainhoppers in most Americans’ minds stems from photos of Depression-era hobos climbing onto traintops and boxcars in search of a better life, various waves of trainhopping had already been taking place since the end of the Civil War. But by all accounts, the Great Depression was the apex ~ at least one million and perhaps as many as three million people (men, women and children) were riding the rails in search of work.¹

Since then, the activity has obviously declined, but people continue to hop trains, though at present the predominant stereotype of trainhoppers appears to be that of drunks and runaway kids. Many of the young trainhopping people we met indeed had been on the road for years from a very early age (and seemed to drink a lot); we might also have seen some of the old guys that people talk about, but didn’t have a chance to interact with any.

Most people have probably seen at least the young trainhopping kids at some time ~ they often have tattered attire, a dirty pack, tattoos and piercings, a piece of cardboard that they use for insulation on the trains, and often also a dog (for protection and company). They might be hanging out in parks or on the sidewalk; sometimes they ask for money at street corners, shopping centers, or intersections.

But Duffy Littlejohn, author of Hopping Freight Trains in America, claims that trainhopping is also increasingly a recreational pastime for other sectors, such as for yuppie professionals like computer programmers, doctors, and lawyers (Duffy himself is a lawyer, though he had been trainhopping prior to becoming so and continued thereafter). In the 1990’s, Duffy estimated that there were 5,000 to 10,000 people who made trainhopping a full time job, and an estimated 20,000 to 40,000 people who rode the rails for fun.² We also learned that it’s a popular anarchist activity.

Shawn Lukitsch, a 30-something trainhopper that created a traveling film exhibition about the activity in 2008, describes three types of trainhoppers: (1) hobos ~ persons hopping trains to travel between towns for work; (2) tramps ~ persons riding rails fueled by wanderlust or adventure; and (3) travelers ~ riders (often younger ones) seeking to escape the commercial aspects of mainstream culture.³

Under this classification, Joey and I were probably a combination of #2 and #3, even though we were slowly making our way to New York for a job, so could have perhaps tried to argue that we also fit into #1. But “hobo” culture has a very long history and is very specific; it developed its own heroes, ethics, songs, lingo, and code (pictographic symbols). There are some tensions between them and the newer generation of tramps and travelers; just one public example manifested during the National Hobo Convention (organized annually in Britt, Iowa by the Hobo Foundation) where there were problems last year that were blamed on drunk, unruly, young tramps. Steam Train Maury, who was one of the founders of the Hobo Foundation, had stressed hobo chivalry, and had spoken in his last years about “pretenders” at the Convention.

Duffy says in his book that recreational trainhopping is increasing, but the last edition of his book was published before 9-11, when controls started getting tighter. According to Shawn, trainhopping is dying in this security-conscious era. Statistics given by train companies seem to confirm that trainhopping is decreasing; for instance, Union Pacific director of Public Affairs Mark Davis reportedly announced that between January and July 2006, there were 20,000 people found, arrested or removed from trains and train yard property, representing a 3000 person decrease from the year before.⁴

***

How is trainhopping accomplished? Again, I’m the last person that anyone should ask. I would probably be called a pretender by other real trainhoppers, even though I wasn’t purposefully trying to pretend to be anything.

The definitive instructional bible on trainhopping is Duffy Littlejohn’s book Hopping Freight Trains in America. Also there is information online, such as “How to Hop a Freight Train” by Wes Modes at http://www.thespoon.com/trainhop/train1b.html.

If anyone reading this is actually interested in doing it, the book and all the information available online gives good information on safety, which is important because I guess it’s a fairly dangerous activity. According to statistics from the Office of Safety Analysis at the Federal Railroad Administration, there were 990 trespasser injuries and deaths in the U.S. in 2006.⁵ One of the truckers that we met on the road told us that he used to work for the railroads, and they would quite frequently find shirts, limbs, and bodies tangled up in the wheels. But again, I’m not recommending anything to anybody (or not).

There are also lots of books written by hobos that give more in-depth views of the traditional culture and life (see for instance books by Steam Train Laurie (Maurice Graham) and A No. 1 (Leon Ray Livingston).) For some beautiful contemporary photos of trainhopping, see Amelia Merrick’s at http://www.pbase.com/artandrevolution/travels.

***

Joey and I did not find trainhopping to be a simple matter.

We dutifully did all the research ~ we bought the Duffy Littlejohn book on Amazon (and received it with a personalized Post-It from the author), did lots of Google-searching, and interviewed trainhopping kids in the street, etc., We came to understand the general instructions, which seemed to go something like: Get to know where the trainyards are, and understand the routes of trains in order to identify which ones can get you to your intended destination; check out the target trainyard during the day if possible; go back, usually at night, dressed in dark clothing; find a train going to your destination; find a safe car to ride (you should have previously done your homework to understand the types of cars trains are composed of, and which ones are safe to ride); climb onto the selected car, and finally, hop off when you arrive at the destination.

However, while we understood the theory, we still struggled with various challenges in the reality of implementation. I’m embarassed to have to say that while we tried many times, we only successfully managed to hop a train once.

One challenge was figuring out how to avoid getting kicked out, arrested or beaten up by the “bulls”, i.e. railroad police who are guarding the sacred cow of railroad private property. The recommended method is to be smart, stay off paved roads (where bulls drive around in a truck), and wear dark clothing when sneaking around trainyards at night.

Joey and I were kind of excited to try to get black trainhopping outfits ~ we thought perhaps we would look like ninjas. I had a light blue backpack that I bought on sale, and Joey had a monstruous backpack that had a psychedelic collage of South American tapestry pieces sewn onto it, so we both bought black raincovers for the packs. Joey had black clothes, but light brown shoes, so she tried to color them black with a magic marker (they did get darker, but looked essentially like they had gotten run over by a greasy truck.) For myself, I pieced together a black outfit mostly from thrift stores, except for a khaki canvas shoulder bag that I ended up having to stuff into my black jacket when trying to trainhop. This made me look 6 months pregnant, and was rather cumbersome when I was running after trains in the dark, but I put up with it because I thought it might be advantageous in moments of potential arrest (“Please officer, I jus’ wanna get home to my mama to give birth to my baby!”)

We didn’t get arrested or beaten up, but we did get kicked out of more than one trainyard. The primary problem is probably that while we had the black gear, we failed to have the requisite amount of mental capacity (“smart”). Once, we were sitting in the middle of a trainyard in broad daylight looking so intently at a map that we didn’t notice the security wagon pulling up right in front of us. I’m sure the bull had a good laugh at the sight of us sitting in the grass next to the tracks, covered head to toe in black, holding onto a map with our mouths open. He ambled over to us, and said (rather paternally): “Now you girls wouldn’t be trying trainhop would you? Because if you are, I’m going to have to arrest you…”

All we could provide as a response, after we finally managed to stop catching flies with our mouths, was a pathetic “Nnnnnnnooooooooooooooooooooo…….”

He sat in his car, clearly amused, as he watched us gather up our backpacks and map and shuffle off.

A second challenge we faced was that it was very hard to figure out what train was actually going where, and when it was leaving. We were sometimes able to identify a train that was going basically in the right direction, but we couldn’t really figure out how we would know where exactly it was going ~ it could have been going to our intended destination, stopping much earlier, or veering away at some point to go somewhere else altogether. Duffy encourages us to go right up to rail workers and ask them point blank when the next train to such and such place is leaving, because rail workers are union members and would be happy to help you get one over on The Man. However, that advice was issued before 9-11. We heard through various sources that things have gotten stricter, and this seemed to be true ~ we think we were turned in to the bulls by employees. So we were totally baffled by this. On the train that we did get on, I had to keep checking the compass and the map incessantly during the 12 hour ride to make sure we didn’t end up in Alaska instead of Montana like we wanted.

Third, we realized that trainhopping requires a lot of patience, as you have to wait for the train to actually arrive or depart ~ sometimes this can take hours, or even days. Wes Modes described it thus:

Train hopping is time out of time. You wait and you wait and you think and you fidget and you wait some more. You sit in the weeds and the dirt and you read and you smoke a cigar. You pull the seed heads off of grasses and pick stickers out of your socks. You write for a while. You watch the sun set. You put on more clothes. You watch the moon rise. You have one of those absolutely perfect moments and then it passes and you smile and wait some more.⁶

This is definitely not for ADHD people on a schedule. Once we waited for a train for thirty hours (30!) in some ditches. I guess this is not that unusual for trainhopping; Duffy considers such experiences to be good for building the life skill of patience, and Wes says “Train hopping is the closest thing to meditation that I do.”⁷ I struggled to build such life skills without tearing all my hair out. I wish I had been a bit better at meditation, because I might have reached enlightenment during all that time we spent waiting for trains. Instead, I was constantly checking my Blackberry and being annoyed by the rats scurrying about us in the tall grass.

(Later, it occurred to me that I might also have had more patience had I approached these situations as Whiteblack the Penguin, who leaves the comfort of Penguinland to see the world to collect stories for his radio show, would have. Whiteblack, in the face of an endless variety of bizarre misfortunes, invariably enthuses, “This will make a great story for my radio show! And besides, I’ve always wanted to [get shot out of a canon / be stranded in the desert / fall off the top of a plane / etc.] So following his model, I should have maintained equanimity thus: “This will make a great story for my AIOB blog entry! And besides, I’ve always wanted to wait for a train for 30 hours straight while battling flesheating rats that are probably carriers of bubonic plague!”)

The fourth type of challenge for us was that it really was not that easy to hop on a train. Prior to attempting it, we studied the different types of train cars (boxcars, hoppers, piggybacks, gondolas, reefers, auto racks, rear units, flatcars, engines, etc. etc.), so that we would know which ones were rideable, and where we could sit or lie safely without falling off, freezing to death, or suffocating. Duffy’s book has a helpful description and photos of each type of car. On our trip to our first railyard, we felt a youthful (rookie’s) pride at being able to point out and name the different types of cars.

But actually getting on a train was more difficult. The books and stuff say that you can board a train while it’s still parked in the yard, and hide yourself and wait till it takes off. But for us, since we never really figure out how to know what train was going where, we couldn’t tell which parked train we should get onto.

This left us with having to attempt to hop a train when it was pulling out of the yard (and we could tell that it was actually going in the right direction.) This meant, of course, that we were supposed to get on the train while it was moving. To do this, you have to be able to make split-second decisions to identify and select a rideable car. Then you have to hop on. You are supposed to run after it and throw your pack (and then your dog, if you have one) onto the train and then jump on yourself.

For ourselves, we ran around through many a night chasing many a train, but most attempts fizzled into failure: many trains did not have any rideable cars at all, and even when we finally found one that did, we didn’t manage to hop on very easily, so the train would just cheerfully chug by, leaving us in the dust. A large part of the problem was that we had too much stuff ~ Joey and I both had large, heavy laptop computers in our backpacks, along with other electronics and crap (yes, it’s ridiculous, more on this in Part III.) At least we didn’t have a dog we had to hurl onto the train.

The fifth challenge was that when you actually get on a train, you have to make sure that you are safe, i.e., that you don’t fall off, suffocate, get locked into a car, die of wind or rain exposure, starve or dehydrate to death, etc. And try to avoid being kicked off or arrested and/or beaten up. This wasn’t our biggest problem, since we didn’t get on too many trains (sad), but with the train that we did got on, we were lucky to find that we could sit comfortably outside, on the back of the cargo container, so we were shielded from the wind. It did get pretty chilly, but we had good sleeping bags so it okay, and we went through some tunnels (which can get pretty bad with exhaust ~ many hobos have historically suffocated from trains breaking down in tunnels), but we survived. The hardest part was trying to pee into a milk carton as Duffy Littlejohn recommended.

The final challenge was that, once we got on a train, we then had to get off it too. We were worried about whether we would have to jump off while the train was moving ~ it’s in the process of getting on and getting off that people seem to most frequently get hurt, losing limbs and sometimes life. Duffy’s book has various instructions about how you throw your gear and then yourself off in such circumstances, but they all seemed rather cryptic to us. But in the end, our one train actually stopped in the ideal position (slightly outside the trainyard, which helps you avoid the bulls), so we easily tossed our gear (I think this is must be how I got that mysterious dent in my stainless steel water bottle), and hopped off. But before that, while we were crouched on the train looking for the right moment to jump off, we spied a hobo on the side of the tracks, looking for his right moment to jump on. He looked like the real thing ~ he was sprouting hair from everywhere on his head and face, was pretty tattered, and had a dog. We had a momentary mutual thrill when we connected and waved at each other, and then the train rolled on and he was gone.

***

A different challenge we faced is that we had much difficulty picking cool trainhopping names, which we had heard was required.

Traditional hobo names are very colorful and long, like “Hard Rock Kid” or “Slo Motion Shorty” (see John Hodgman’s spoken word poem listing 700 historical hobo names ~ my personal favorites are #602 “Amesy Squirrelstomper, the Chipmunk Preferrer”, and #633 “Whistling Anus Mecham, Le Petomaine”⁸); contemporary trainhoppers on the other hand seem to have mono- or bi-syllabic noms de guerre like “Dust”, “Bebop”, and “Vomit”.

What trainhopping name should we adopt, we wondered? And it suddenly occurred to us ~ was “Duffy Littlejohn” a fake trainhopping name??

We discussed this issue extensively. “Joey” (meaning baby marsupial) was the suggestion I eventually gave for my friend, because she liked fuzzy animalitos, and had a diminutive gray, furry, corduroy backpack (in addition to her jumbo South American tapestry one), which, when hooked onto to her shoulders, looked like a baby koala that had imprinted on her. She was pleased with this, and decided that “Sancochado” went well with it, thus forming “Joey Sancochado”. She also tried on a few other names, including “Fox Minestrone”, but discarded those. A Chicana friend later suggested “Punky Pozole”, which was my personal favorite but by then it was too late. (“Joey Sancochado” had already been written onto her luggage tag.) (And I don’t know why all my friends are obsessed with soups. (Sancochado is a Peruvian stew/soup. The word could also mean, if used as an adjective rather than a noun, “boiled”, but I’m sure that’s not the meaning Joey intended ~ she would have cried to contemplate the idea of a “boiled baby marsupial”.))

We were trying to think of a name for me, but never really could. In the end, after a few complicated transfigurations, the nonsensical “Fofi” arose (“Fofy” incidentally is an African mattress company, but the origins are more convoluted than that.) Joey decided that “Fofi Littlepants” would fit the bill ~ she had the bright idea of “Littlepants”, because then the whole thing would be a play on “Duffy Littlejohn”. I don’t know where she got “Littlepants”~ I certainly didn’t go through this trip wearing tight hotpants (and I refuse to admit that I’m kind of little so even my baggy pants might be too.)

And we didn’t end up ever using these names ~ I didn’t encourage it because I thought that rather than endearing us to other trainhoppers, they were so not cool that they might rather increase the likelihood of us getting our butts kicked.

But on one, special occasion, we did use the names: when we signed the wall outside of Graceland as “Joey and Fofi” (with a hearted “i”). We didn’t think the Elvis fans would mind having the extra little bit of tackiness, there in that Shangri-La of tack.

***

The One Train we did manage to catch came through the grace of a dear trainhopping friend we met in Washington ~ an 18 year old that seemed to have been on the road since he was 15. He had been back and forth across the country many times, and gave us tons of tips. He was very sweet, and we wanted to give him a hug (though clearly he had his edge ~ he was nursing a hand in which he had cut his tendons a month before, in the process of cracking a bottle over someone’s head (“the guy deserved it”)). He told us exactly the best spot to lie in wait in Spokane to hop a train ~ on the overpass where the trains pass above the city, coming often to complete stops.

And so they did ~ and after a bit of tribulation darting around in the dark in our railninja outfits, hanging off a billboard, and holding our breath behind a wall while hiding from a bull’s flashlight, we found that miracle moment, the opening in which we managed to climb aboard a piggyback (a car that has two freight containers stacked on top of each other.) There was a space behind the containers, a small indented platform where we could sit more or less comfortably, as well as stuff our backpacks underneath.

The act of clamouring onto that train, in that moment, was to us akin to climbing onto the back of a winged unicorn. We were in pure, magical bliss. And the ride was beyond anything we had imagined ~ clanking, rolling, and rhythming through pine forest mountains in Washington, following the edge of rivers through canyons, gliding over the waters of Lake Coeur d’Alene in the Idaho panhandle, and into the majesties of Montana. It was resplendently breathtaking. It really was indescribable, and I won’t waste any more words on feeble attempts.

***

Alas, that was our first, and last, successful trainhopping exercise. But we consider ourselves lucky for having gotten a taste of this anachronistic, dying of arts, going rapidly the way of fax machines, film photography, newsprint, and hopefully, SUV’s.

–Fofi Littlepants

FOOTNOTES:

1 Duffy Littlejohn, Hopping Freight Trains in America, 258.

2 Littlejohn, 260.

3 Colin Moynihan, “Train-Hopping Traveler’s Life, Captured on Film”, New York Times, May 18, 2008. http://www.nytimes.com/2008/05/18/nyregion/18hobo.html?_r=1

4 Saxon Baird, “Forget Greyhound, Hop a Train”, The Rearguard: A Monthly Alternative, accessed 26 August 2009, at http://www.therearguard.org/june-2007/forget-greyhound-hop-a-train.html

5 Melissa Hiebert, “The last great adventure”, Street Sheet Canada, March 3, 2008, at

http://www.streetnewsservice.org/index.php?page=archive_detail&articleID=2344

6 “Seven Questions”, Interview of Wes Modes by Tom Mangan,

http://www.thespoon.com/trainhop/articles/sevenquestions/

7 “Seven Questions” (Interview of Wes Modes by Tom Mangan)

8 You can see the names, and an ambitious project to illustrate all of them at http://www.e-hobo.com/hoboes/list

_________________________________________

Read the complete:

CONFESSIONS OF FOFI LITTLEPANTS

I Trainhopping

II Hitchhiking

III Other Particulars

IV The Journey

V Society I ~ Native America

VI Society II ~ Identity

VII People

VIII Penises

IX Of Dreams And Spirits

X Conclusion

“Tableau à la Rousseau” by David R. Slavitt

Posted on October 11, 2009July 10, 2020 by asitoughttobemagazine

Tableau à la Rousseau

by David R. Slavitt

That lions like lavender is amiable; for the mane’s
tawny to find complement in the green
spike with sharp accent of the blossom
is not mere whimsy, as delight in catnip
would be, but somehow right. One can nearly
see in those slow yellow eyes a need to express
the innate refinement lions have, and lavender
must be a relief from the flesh-red, blood-red
redness of their usual provender
and the bloody obviousness of crimson with gold.
Or, it may be the odor, or
just to adore such a vegetable vegetable.
It extends the range of lions, even as they
extend its possibilities: they may
love most to patronize, to let it be said
that among the lovers of lavender are lions.

***

David R. Slavitt is the author of over 80 books — nonfiction, novels, poetry collections, and translations. Recent books include the poetry collection, Seven Deadly Sins (LSU Press); a translation of Sophocles’ Theban Plays (Yale U Press); and the forthcoming essay collection George Sanders, Zsa Zsa, and Me (Northwestern U Press). The above poem is used by permission of the author and can be found in his 2005 collection, Change of Address: Poems New and Selected.

WITNESS IN PALESTINE

Posted on October 9, 2009 by asitoughttobemagazine

A student from Nablus being questioned at the Huwwara checkpoint. Photo by Esti Tsal and MachsomWatch.

SICK MAN DETAINED AT HUWWARA CHECKPOINT

by Anna Baltzer

After saying goodbye to Fadi and his family yesterday, I took a shared taxi to Zatara checkpoint where I received a call that a sick man named Jaber was being held at Huwwara checkpoint a few miles north. When I arrived I found Jaber and his wife waiting in the dark in a detention area next to the checkpoint. Jaber was clutching his stomach and coughing violently. When Jaber’s wife saw me, she sprang up and called out that her husband was very sick. I learned that he had been hospitalized in Nablus for over a week for serious chest and stomach problems, and he was on his way home to his village shortly after noon when the soldiers stopped them at the checkpoint. It was past 10 p.m. when I arrived. The couple had been held waiting for 9 and a half hours.

Jaber looked like he was ready to pass out. The soldiers manning the checkpoint yelled at me to stop talking to the detainees, but I ignored them. One soldier came over and asked who I was. I answered that I was a friend of the wife’s uncle (which is true) and that I had come when I heard her sick husband had been held without explanation or charge for more than 9 hours. I asked the soldier why they were holding him so long, and he said he’d tell me alone, away from Jaber and his family.

I told the soldier that I would not leave my friends and that I was afraid to talk to him alone. I said his gun and illegitimate power in the situation made me uncomfortable. I think it’s not a bad idea to remind soldiers that they are the biggest threat to my safety in the West Bank, after the settlers. They commit far more crimes in the area than Palestinians and have caused more serious injury to internationals than anyone else.

The soldier said he didn’t know why Jaber was being held but he was sure it was for a good reason. I was unconvinced. Meanwhile, Jaber had keeled over and was coughing. His wife was near hysterics. I told the soldiers that Jaber needed a doctor, and they responded by saying they were taking him away. Jaber’s wife began to cry. I stepped in front of Jaber and his wife to block the soldiers, who were coming with handcuffs. A relative asked if it was really necessary to handcuff a man in such agony, and they agreed not to. They pushed me and Jaber’s wife aside and threw him into a jeep. Jaber’s brother, who was standing with us, told me to let it go, that it was too late now. We all walked back to the car in silence except for Jaber’s wife, who continued to sob.

As we were walking away, two soldiers started chuckling and I turned to them, “Don’t tell me you think this is funny.” One soldier yelled out to me, “You’re just a little girl. You can’t do anything.” I turned and yelled, “I’m older than you, asshole” and felt ashamed immediately. It was the first time I had sworn in front of Palestinian friends. I apologized and they forgave me instantly. They thanked me repeatedly, which made me feel uncomfortable; this time I hadn’t been able to help, and for all we knew Jaber was on his way to interrogation.

I called the army’s humanitarian office for information, but as usual their “army” side was more pronounced than their “humanitarian” one. They would not tell us why Jaber was arrested, nor why he had been held at Huwwara for so long, nor when he would be able to contact his family. They knew, but they wouldn’t tell. I told them that where I come from you aren’t supposed to hold people without charge. I asked if Jaber had a lawyer and they didn’t understand the question. Most Palestinians don’t get lawyers or a fair trial; the army rules according to its best interests.

Jaber’s family and I drove together to the home of Jaber’s parents-in-law in Marda, where we drank tea under the moon. After perhaps the longest day of my life, it was finally time to go to sleep, but somehow I wasn’t tired anymore. I just sat there, thinking, watching the tired but resilient faces around me. One belonged to a good friend who invited me to stay the night with his family. I accepted. When I woke up the next morning, he announced that the family was throwing me a going-away party. I refused, but he insisted.

It is moving to know that I will be missed, and I am already wondering not if but when I will be back here. The truth is, I may be leaving Palestine in a week, but mentally I won’t be leaving Palestine for a long time. I know how hard it will be to readjust to “normal” life and social interactions—most people don’t want to talk or think about the atrocities that are being supported by their own government and permitted by their own apathy or inaction. Politically straightforward dialogue can be very socially awkward, and I know it will be a while before I can relate to most Western people of privilege in a normal way.

But the readjustment is not what scares me most. What I dread above all lies after I adjust, when I begin to—forget. I know it will happen. Of course I will keep Palestine in the back of my mind, but at the forefront will be my job, my boyfriend, and all the daily trivia that prevents most people from doing more to help those in need. And once I’ve slipped back into my ordinary way of doing things, what will make me different from the Israeli soldiers who serve because refusing would be too costly? I find inaction appalling in others, but most of all in myself. After all, like those Israeli soldiers and inactive citizens, or the Germans who remained silent during the atrocities in World War II, those with power and privilege are always, to some degree, responsible for that which they could help prevent but choose not to.

–Anna Baltzer

This piece was originally published on Anna Baltzer’s website: AnnaInTheMiddleEast.com on 4/22/05.

COMING CLEAN ABOUT MRS. ROBINSON

Posted on October 8, 2009 by asitoughttobemagazine

ASK LADY ESQ.

Relationship advice from a divorce attorney.

Dear Lady Esq.,

My girlfriend’s widowed mother has made several sexual overtures to me over the years. At holiday get-togethers and family outings. I certainly would not act on them, but my girlfriend has started to notice her mother’s behavior and asked me directly if her mom was hitting on me. I lied and told her no. She doesn’t believe me. Should I tell her the truth?

– Tony M.

Dear Tony,

It is the age of the cougar! A loose definition of the term “cougar” is an older woman with a taste for younger men. And I like it. Older men have been dating younger women for years. Thanks to Demi, to Cameron, to Samantha from Sex and the City – thank you ladies for making it sexy to be an older woman, and for empowering us to date whomever we want, irrespective of age.

Now, hitting on your daughter’s boyfriend is an entirely different story.

Whatever her reasons, whatever her true intentions, no matter how innocent she may believe her flirting to be in her mind, it is inappropriate to hit on your daughter’s boyfriend. It would be inappropriate even if you and she were the same age.

Your girlfriend has picked up on what her mother is after. She asked you outright if her mother was hitting on you, and you lied. I don’t know your reasons. Maybe you were embarrassed. Maybe you were trying to protect your girlfriend or her mother or both. But honesty and open communication are at the heart of any healthy functional relationship, and your girlfriend deserves your honesty.

Tell your girlfriend that you think her mother may have been hitting on you. Tell her in whatever delicate way you have to to be respectful of your girlfriend and her feelings, and of her mother and their relationship. And the truth is, unless her mother has laid her hands on you or directly offered to be intimate with you, you only think her mother was hitting on you, you can’t say for sure. So phrase it in those terms – tell her you think her mother may have been hitting on you, or tell her that you were confused by her mother’s behavior and were uncomfortable with it.

If your girlfriend’s mother is hitting on you, and you’re lying about it, then you’re making the situation look far more conspicuous for you in the long run. Your girlfriend is bound to wonder what reasons you may have had for denying it if it was true. I am sure your reasons for denying it were honorable, but your girlfriend deserves your honesty. So tell her the truth, as delicately as is appropriate, and stick close to her at future family functions!

– Lady Esq.

askLadyEsq.com

Share this:
X
Facebook
Like Loading...

2 Comments

THELONIOUS MONK

Posted on October 6, 2009 by asitoughttobemagazine

Thelonious Monk Quartet’s 1963 album on Columbia Records.

LAYIN’ DEAD

by Rachel Hoiem

Playing and Performance Style

Thelonious Monk is always mentioned with Charlie Parker and Dizzy Gillespie as a founder of modern jazz, but Monk’s style is not at all like the other musicians of his time. Unusual approaches to harmony, melody, and rhythm give Monk a particular asymmetry that continues to be a heavy influence on the music scene.

Many of Monk’s harmonic ideas were influenced by Art Tatum, whose chords were strengthened by the use of varied voicings, added notes, passing chords and substitutions. While Parker and Gillespie liked to hear these types of chord sequences as background for their solos, Monk seems to have taken Tatum’s approach to another level. By using uncommon substitutions and displacing the harmonic rhythm, Monk’s chords have a sense of deliberate conflict. Some people speculate that a reason for his sour harmonies are a result of early attempts at playing stride when his hands were still too small to hit a clean octave.

Monk’s artistic vision was very strong. He knew exactly what he wanted to play and how he wanted to play it. His playing was so unique and so self-contained that many jazz musicians and listeners didn’t know what to make of it. Many bebop players of Monk’s time were playing fast, smooth rhythms, trying to fit in the maximum number of notes. Monk, in contrast, embraced space and simplicity in his playing and was able to outline his pieces with a minimal amount of notes. His playing sounded rough and angular in comparison to someone like his friend Bud Powell. It took nearly a generation for Monk’s more obscure pieces to become a regular part of jazz repertoire.

Monk was indeed eccentric, both in his playing and social habits. He made no distinction between seriousness and humor in his musical statements, and critics easily dismissed him. During interviews he seemed aloof and would often go for days without speaking to a soul. He was criticized for dressing unusually, wearing strange hats, eyeglasses and topcoats (even when indoors).

During gigs, Monk often got up and danced while the rest of the band was playing. “…he would rise from the piano to perform his Monkish dance. It is always the same. His feet stir in a soft shuffle, spinning him slowly in small circles. His head rolls back until hat brim meets collar, while with both hands he twists his goatee into a sharp black scabbard. His eyes are hooded with an abstract sleepiness, his lips are pursed in a meditative O,” describes Barry Farrell in his 1964 Time Magazine article.

Some suggest that Monk’s dancing was almost as great as his writing or playing. When asked about it, Monk replied, “I get tired of sitting at the piano. I can dig the rhythm better.” The media had a tendency to report on his bizarre habits more frequently than his musical endeavors.

Each of Monk’s compositions have a personality that can be difficult for a perfomer to bring out, despite their seemingly simple qualities. He was an absolute master of the AABA form. Some of his contributions include : ‘Ask Me Now’, ‘Little Rootie Tootie’, ‘Evidence’, ‘Rhythm-A-Ning’, and ‘Well You Needn’t’.

Monk didn’t give much instruction or direction to his band, and musicians sometimes had a hard time following. So complicated are some of Monk’s space-filled, harmonically advanced compositions that very few musicians are able to truly represent them. Orrin Keepnews, from an interview on NPR explains, “…the problem that musicians had, right along with me, is that this was incredibly difficult music and Monk was a man who I believe sincerely did not understand that it was difficult music.”

COMPOSITION ANALYSIS

‘ROUND MIDNIGHT (1947)

Monk composed this well-known jazz ballad when he was in his teens. The version I have included is based on his 1947 Blue Note recording, as transcribed by Lionel Grigson. He notes the following alterations from the recording:

“1) The overlapping alto sax and trumpet phrases of the recorded intro have been replaced by a single top line, above the piano part as played. Bars 7 and 8 of the intro a double bass break.

2) The theme, taken by piano, is given as played, but th harmony parts played by trumpet and sax have been omitted. As played by Monk, the theme soon turn into a paraphrase/improvisation. An ‘average’ version of the melody has been added as a top line above the piano part for comparison.

3) The recording finishes, oddly, with an 8-bar piano solo after the theme. Empty staves and chord symbols have been added to make up a full chorus.

4) This version is rounded off with the coda used in various non-Monk recordings of ‘Round Midnight, e.g. those by Dizzy Gillespie, Charlie Parker, and Miles Davis. (This coda may be by Gillespie rather than Monk).”

Original Key: Eb minor

Form: AABA 32 bars (8+8+8+8) plus intro

Tonality: Primarily minor, with a parallel major tonic chord at the end of A2 and B.

Movement: A mixture of arpeggiation, leaps, and chromatic movement in both direction

Harmonic Analysis

Intro: Gm-Fm-Ebm descending progression.

There is a segment of the intro melody that bares a striking resemblance to Dizzy Gillespie’s solo in ‘I Can’t Get Started.’ (Ken Burns Jazz Series, track 4, 2:38). It’s possible that the melody was a common riff of the period, or perhaps it was borrowed from an even older song. Also interesting to note are the overall similariteies in the melodic contour and pacing of these two compositions. See index.

The initial harmonic progression is i – vi – ii7 – V7. The next two measures are unique; the progression leads to a brief key change to Ab (subdominant). This modulation provides some nice descending guide-tones. The progression is Bm7- E7 – Bbm7 – Eb7. The Bm7 and the E7 are upper embellishments of the V7 – I7 (V7 of IV).

The B-section sounds more confusing than it is. It’s based on a vi7(b5) – II7 – V7 progression. There is a tritone sub for the II7 so that the bass line can descend chromatically. This repeats twice then continues down.

On the ending of A2, Monk has condensed the harmonic rhythm, most likely so that he has room to resolve to Eb in measure 16. This play on compression and expansion is a common trait in his compositional style. It’s also evident in the melody of ‘Straight, No Chaser,’ and the rhythm in ‘Blue Monk.’

The resolution at the end of the B-section is an Eb major chord, or a “Picardy third” even though the previous theme has been minor. This is a common technique used in songwriting that dates back as far as the Renaissance. We see the Eb major again in measure 21, beats 3 & 4. In addition to making the end of the B-section sound more significant, it blurs the relationship between major and minor.

In measure 24, beats 3 & 4, the chords could be perceived as part of Eb major or Eb melodic minor, another example of Monk blurring major and minor.

Melodic Analysis

The melody in the first bar outlines a Bb-suspended chord.

Measure 3 outlines an Ebm7 with an added 6. The melodic contour of these two bars is the same, which is characteristic of Monk.

Measure 7, beats 1 & 2 make use of unstable tritones against the root note. In measure 8, things stabilize: the root and melody note are the same, emphasizing the resolution.

This whole pattern occurs again at the beginning of the B-section. The melody dances around the diminished 5th interval in measures 17 and 19. Both approach the root by [m7-3-R], but the second one descends to the root instead of going up. Monk likes to recycle melodic material.

The last 2 bars of A2 are different than than A1. Measures 15 &16 seem like inserted bonus material, delaying the measures we were expecting. The B-section then uses the missing end scraps from A2 as the beginning of the bridge, except that the first two beats have shifted rhythm.

The 32nd notes blooming in the accompaniment are most likely a result of Monk’s style and skill. His playing experience developed into a compositional tool.

Rhythmic Analysis

The rhythm in this piece is more song-like than the majority of Monk’s music. It utilizes repeated rhythmic fragments which gives the listener something predictable to grab onto. The rhythm seems to alternate between two contrasting feels: dreamy (due to the rolling triplets) and precise (because of the sixteenth notes on beat 2).

Another recurring pattern used is the long, lilting 32nd note runs to punctuate the phrase endings.

Monk plays incomplete triplets in measure 13, which makes it sound like the piano part is tripping over itself. The horn line, which doesn’t have a strong sense of downbeat itself, is further affected by the accompaniment. All this creates a floating, slightly disorienting feel, yet still maintains a consistent song structure. And then, as consistent with the pattern, the long descending runs slam into a heavy downbeat. (ex. measure 8).

WELL YOU NEEDN’T (1944)

Original Key: F major

Form: 8 measure phrases

Tonality: based on F6 riff

Movement: ascending and descending chromatically

Harmonic Analysis

In contrast to ‘RoundMidnight,’ this song is based on half-steps.

A:      F6 Gb6 F6 Gb6 F6 Gb6 F6 F6

There is an alternate bridge in the version I have included and it’s worth comparing it to the original. B-alt. is mainly composed of tritone substitutions, but the harmonic direction changes a half measure earlier than in the original. While the original version repeats the little 2-beat fragment in six descending chromatic steps, the alternate version descends for seven chromatic steps. What is the reason for this deliberate change? Monk might have started descending earlier in order to avoid playing an F (root) chord, which would not have had much contrast. Keeping the orignial pattern and continuing up to F would have worked fine spacially though.

B:          A7   Bb7   B7   Bb7   A7   Ab7   G7   Gb7

B-alt:     Eb7   E9   Eb9 D9   Db9 C9   B9    C7

Monk avoids playing an F; this keeps things fresh.

F9     E9    Eb9   D9 Db9   C9

This line shows B-alt. with all tritone subs, which would be more              predictable.

Melodic Analysis

The melody is is primarily based on chord tones. There is a two note riff that Monk moves up and down the keyboard. This piece is definitely performance based. The soloists dictate the feel. In a Columbia recording from February 1965, Monk’s solo sounds very earthy and primitive because of all the roots, thirds, and fifths he plays.

The re-harmonized B-section contains a lot of #7’s and b9’s.

Rhythmic Analysis

This tune has a repetitive phrase structure. There are three repetitions of the same rhythm, always starting on the upbeat of 2 or 4, followed by a short 2-bar turnaround after. The ‘answer’ section is carried on into the B-section. This creates a looping effect, further enhanced as the repetitions get closer together.

EVIDENCE (1962)

“Evidence” was sometimes called “Evidence Just Evidence,” in reference to the song “Just You Just Me” from which the A-section chord sequence was derived. This demonstrates how displacing the harmonic rhythm can completely transform the same chord pattern.

Original Key: Eb

Form: AABA 32 bars

Tonality: Begins in Eb major, with temporary key changes

Movement: A section uses I-iii-VI-ii-V, B section cycles II-V progression

Harmonic Analysis

The progression in the first 8 bars is quite standard : I – iii – VI – ii – V (no resolution here, half-cadence).

During the A-section, the ii – V progression shifts down chromatically. Monk ends the A-section on a V7/V chord, which projects the movement to the B-section beginning on Bb minor. The F7 is therefore acting as a pivot chord.

The B-section consists of a series of descending II-V sequences. Although the quality of the chords don’t remain consistent with the key signature, the consistent perfect fourth root motion holds it together. Measure 19 is the first example of Monk changing the quality of the predicted ii-minor to a dominant chord. This occurs again in measure 23.

Melodic Analysis

The melody of the B-section is ascending chromatically. This could potentially sound quite atonal, but it doesn’t since it’s supported by ii-V harmonies. Another example of this is the simplicity of Johnny Griffin’s solo. He’s probably referring to the ‘Just You Just Me’ changes, whereas Monk is all over the map. Many players of the time would superimpose one melody over another, which engages the listener.

Rhythmic Analysis

In the A-section, there are many accented upbeats and tied notes. The downbeat seems to be intentionally hidden. In the B-section, the melody strikes on the upbeat of beat 4, which gives the tune a feeling of anticipation.

IN WALKED BUD (1948)

Monk copied Irving Berlin’s descending line on this tune, which is based on the changes of ‘Blue Skies.’

Original Key: F minor

Form: AABA, 32-bar form

Tonality: F minor

Movement: A-section utilizes element from F natural and melodic minor, B-section follows typical minor blues turnaround (bVI-V)

Harmonic Analysis

Monk seems to be exploring the diatonic chords within F-melodic minor as well as F-natural minor in the A-section. Measures 1 and 3 are in natural minor, whereas measure 2 and 4 are in melodic minor:

Fm (I in natural minor) – Fm/M (I in melodic minor) – Fm7 (I in natural minor)

Bb7 (IV in melodic minor) Eb7 (IV7 in melodic minor) – Ab6 (III in natural minor/I in relative major)

Measures 6 and 7 are:

Bbm7 – Eb7 – Ab6 (ii – V – I in the relative major, Ab). The chord on Measure 8 on the first ending is Gm7b5, which occurs in natural minor.

Measure 8 and 9 are a ii-V-I turnaround in F-natural minor.

Use of both types of minor scales continues in the B-section:

Fm7 (I in natural minor) — Db7 (VI in natural minor)

In measure 15 the Db7 leads to the C7 (V in F-minor), creating a turnaround back to the A- section.

Melodic Analysis

The first three measures of the A-section are simply 3-note riffs moving in oblique motion. Monk uses a lot of skips in this part. The first note descends by half-step while the top note remains a C.

In measure four, the top note starts to descend as well. Although the intervals are changing, the contour of the line stays the same. The melody continues in a downward motion and contains many major and minor 6ths.

Section-B has a lot more stepwise motion. Monk seems to be emphasizing Cb. Not only is it the highest note in the line, but it is a conflicting non-chord tone used as an upper neighbor in measures 9, 10, 13 and 14. In measure 11-12, the Cb appears again, but since it’s supported by a Db harmony, it’s a b7 which fits right in. The pattern repeats in measures 15-16.

Rhythmic Analysis

For a Monk tune, the rhythm here is considerably more straight-forward. The A-section has short, 3 note riffs consisting of eighth notes, beginning each bit with a staccato note. The harmonic rhythm speeds up and starts to move in half notes in measures 4-6.

In the B-section, the harmonic rhythm slows down and changes every 2 measures as the melodic rhythm becomes more active with quarters, eighths, and sets of triplets.

–Rachel Hoiem

Rachel Hoiem teaches children at Blue Bear School of Music. She received her BA in jazz piano at SF State University and plays keyboards in the band Bellavista.

Share this:
X
Facebook
Like Loading...

Tagged Art Tatum, Ask Me Now, Barry Farrell, Bellavista, Blue Bear School of Music, Blue Note, Blue Skies, Charlie Parker, Dizzy Gillespie, Evidence, Evidence Just Evidence, I Can't Get Started, Irving Berlin, Johnny Griffin, Just You Just Me, Lionel Grigson, Little Rootie Tootie, Miles Davis, Orrin Keepnews, Rhythm-A-Ning, Straight No Chaser, Well You Needn't1 Comment

THE INBORN AUTHORITY

Posted on October 5, 2009 by asitoughttobemagazine

Cover of Edward Said’s memoir Out of Place (1999). Said is also the author of Orientalism (1978), Covering Islam (1981), and The Word, the Text, and the Critic (1983) among other works.

THE INBORN AUTHORITY

by Yahya T. Ali

In a video produced by the University of Southern California, a group of students from different backgrounds were brought together to discuss Arab and American films. The students were truly diverse, Arabs of different nationalities, Asians who were born and raised in Arab countries, an Iranian-American, and Americans from “Middle Eastern” backgrounds. It is important to note that these students were put in a position where they were thought of to be representatives of the everyday Middle Eastern person watching American movies. They spoke with loud-voiced authority on everything related to the greater Middle East (extending from Morocco, adn to India); while white Americans were very careful how to work their opinions of what they watched of, for example, Egyptian movies. While some of the Middle Eastern students were born and raised in Arab countries, many were born and have lived their entire lives in the United States.

When an Iranian-American, a girl named Layla, whose views were generalizing and never specific, was asked about how she obtained such knowledge of the Middle East, she simply replied “my readings; I spend a lot of my time reading about the Middle East”. To break this down, she has lived her entire life in America and has only been to Iran for a few vacations with her family. Aside from limited knowledge of Farsi, if any (sociologically speaking), her knowledge of the Middle East is the same as any American who has read similar books that she had; yet what privileges her over the white girl sitting next to her is that her name is Iranian and her complexion is immigrant-dark. What is alarming is that Layla is acting on a second-hand constructed knowledge of the Middle East that could have been acquired by anyone; however her ethnic/cultural background unfairly privileged her over others. It is fair to mention that an ethnic/cultural background does help, yet it would not justify grotesque generalizations that project the greater Middle East as all culturally homogenous.

Edward Said, in examining the media coverage of the Middle East (and/or Islam) observes many defects that discredit the knowledge and scholarship of the experts usually resorted to by the media. Two of the many shortcomings are:

Essentialism (and thus, Racism). Many of the experts opinion on the Middle East as a culture, people and religion often portray an image of unchangeability and the existence of an essence from which negative actions are derived (anti-Semitic/American/West, undemocratic, despotic, misogynist, repressive, extremist, fanatic… etc).

The non-existent representation from the Middle East. The absence of self-representation. And/or the lack of first-hand long significant experience in the Middle East.

Much has changed since the publication of Covering Islam, however. The number of immigrants from the Middle East surged in the 80s and 90s; from different countries, for different reasons, but generally from the area recognized by the media as unchanging and “all the same”. These Middle Eastern voices, however, lacked the academic background to support their statements which echoed Western Orientalist views. Rather than narrating personal experiences of despotism (and/or patriarchy, xenophobia, racism…etc), their narration has been used (interpreted as, and lead to become) a sweeping generalization that eliminates the peculiarities and uniqueness of each small community within the Middle East, and renders it and its people unchangeable. These experiences become further proofs for Orientalist views that dehumanize the Middle East to the public.

These personal experiences were used to assert a claim of racial/religious essentialism, whereupon oppression of women is not part of a world phallocentricism, but is instead an integral essential part of being Middle Eastern (Arab, Turkish, Persian, Pakistani…etc) and/or of being a Muslim. This has been established through the misleading channels and their audiences. These experiences by the “natives” of the Middle East would be directed by abrupt TV hosts and Orientalist western experts to draw the static image they desire to crystallize of the Middle East.

This could be either an honest mistake by the Middle Eastern “expert”, or a simple indifference about the way they are perceived. Some believe in Western superiority which makes them willing to be “native informants”; to inform the White Man of the atrocities committed by the Brown Man against the Brown Woman, as well as the brown minorities, (the brown gays, the brown unconventional religious groups…etc). So while Irshad Manji “Thank[s] God for the West”, Nawal El-Sadaawi vehemently and harshly rejects the White Man’s (represented by the Bush administration) calls for the West’s intervention in the Middle East to liberate it’s women; “We do not need you!”.

The native informant is thus created. This is not to speak of all scholars in the west with Middle Eastern ethnic/cultural background, but of those that are often quoted and interviewed by xenophobic, racist media as they serve as proofs of the brown uncivilized world in desperate need of the White Man’s missionary work.

The strength and authority these “experts” gain are direct results of their ethnic/cultural background. It is thought that this background is of significance because, the knowledge of those experts are supported by the advantage of:

Having lived in the Middle East or at least have lived in a Middle Eastern immigrant community.

Language (Considering the fact that Arabic is seen to be one of the most difficult languages to learn).

However, it is difficult to decide whether these factors could be advantageous or disadvantageous.

The views of these “experts” would be regarded highly as they are given the status of eye witnesses, and their words are not mere theories or second-handedly taken from books, but “testimonies”. (Everybody thought of Layla’s words to be first-hand and testimonial of nature).

Here I am questioning the significance of these “testimonies” when they are obviously personal, yet serve as the basis for a generalization that encompasses the whole of the Middle East geographically and historically. This only means that the generalization of the testimony is a result of institutionalized methods through which such “testimonies” go through and are processed to become further proofs of the unchanging essence of the Middle East. The way the Middle East is negatively projected in the media has been thoroughly discussed in many works, most notably in Edward Said’s Covering Islam.

As mentioned above, the ethnic/cultural background could and could not be advantageous. Here, I see there are two types of “experts” on the Middle East:

One whose ethnic/cultural background has been involved significantly in their life and was a vital integral part of their academic scholarship.

One who’s ethnic/cultural background served as an excuse for lacking any significant genuine academic scholarship.

Scholars of the first category may or may not assert reductionist views of the Middle East. However, those who do, are not doing it out of an uneducated ignorant generalization or reduction, but out of an approach to polarize and consequently reduce the Middle East’s cultural, religious, national, political and historical diversity to one. In this one, there aren’t Islams, but one Islam practiced since the 7^th century in ancient Arabia and continues to exist statically in the 21^st century; “Arabs” is not a loose term applied to loosely connected ethnic groups with different histories, dialect-languages, backgrounds, nationalisms and sub-nationalisms, but they are one single “race” of turbaned people. This is done through a belief in a universality that prefers and places the West as the example of the best of what humanity could achieve. Thus, it is the West’s role to alter different world systems of belief to comply with the Western notions of democracy, liberty and freedom. In this case, their knowledge of the diversity of the Middle East’s culture and its complexity is intentionally disregarded as unimportant, due to their belief in a Eurocentric (Americocentric) universality. It is simply willed ignorance/unawareness.

This universality is not always western-oriented. It could be an Islamic universality. Al-Qaeda’s plan for world domination is based on Islamic universality. In the work of many Wahabi/Salafi groups, the different sects of Islam are either dismissed as non-Muslim (and automatically anti-Islamic), or merely as simple-minded Muslims albeit diverted from the true path of true Islam, and are in need of missionary work to guide them from the darkness of their ways, to the brilliant light of Islam.

Both are engaged in a process of reduction for the sake of a single universality. Both willingly and intentionally disregard the diversity of the Middle East in order to polarize and hierarchize. They practice willed intentional ignorance/unawareness. Both are truly aware of the complexity of the greater Middle East.

The second category experts would reduce the Middle East ignorantly as they generalize their experiences and support their generalizations with readings of simplistic reductionist views by Orientalists, simply because they do not negate their generalized personal views, but attest them. They are angry and frustrated with the problems that infest the Middle East, to which they have fallen victims; the calm and critical analysis that treats these problems as produced by a set of complex historical socio-politico-economic reasons, simply does not cut it for them. Good-Guys-Bad-Guys polarized analysis (reduction) appeals to them as it compliments their experiences, and gives them the flattering sympathetic, damsel-in-distress treatment, or as put by Spivak, the White Man saving the Brown Woman from the Brown Man. In addition, their “testimonies” are processed by the fear-inducing and xenophobic media. An appearance by Irshad Manji on The O’Reilly Factor established that the Middle East is all the same and that the Salman Rushdie affair is simply a product of the feeble-minded violent Muslims. Her concluding sentence, which probably could not have been any more pleasing to O’Reilly, the cherry on the top of her feeble analysis is: “It is we, Muslims, who are the problem”. (Other Irshad Manji writings and videos on youtube.com are as pleasantly reductionist as the previous statement).

“Experts” of this sort are genuinely ignorant of the diversity of the Middle East. Many do not have a significant strong academic background in Islam, Islamic history, Middle Eastern political history, Arabic language and literature, yet they speak with authority given to them by the media and whoever assumes that a knowledge of the Middle East and whatever is related to it, is essentially inborn in anyone of a Middle Eastern ethnic/cultural background.

I am not entirely dismissing the significance of an ethnic/cultural background. I am rather calling on a close examination of how it becomes significant or not to who is given the authority to speak on the Middle East. To assume that someone of a certain ethnic/cultural background has an authoritative knowledge of that culture, a knowledge that doesn’t need to be supported by an academic background, would be as preposterous as taking any John/Jane Doe off the streets of Anytown, USA to speak as an authority on, for example, the history of the Supreme Court. One should keep in mind that Mr/Ms Doe could even have some education on American history (e.g., a BA in history) that could be rephrased in his/her CV as “expert on American history”. In this case, we need to assess the level of education to determine whether it qualifies as an authoritative voice.

Usually, the person in the above example would never be considered qualified to speak on American History, but as Edward Said points out, a comparable example of Middle Eastern descent would be qualified if it’s the Middle East we’re talking about. While many Middle Eastern voices are now speaking up in the West, the media is still resorting to the ones that affirm the reductionist polarized image of the Middle East. The ethnic/cultural background could be completely irrelevant, yet it is established to be a (better) substitute for substantial significant academic scholarship. What we need is a reassessment of authority on every level of this process.

–Yahya T. Ali was born in Kuwait. He is a short-story writer, has a BA in English Literature, and is currently working on a MA thesis in Comparative Literature at the University of Kuwait.

Share this:
X
Facebook
Like Loading...

2 Comments

CINDY SHEEHAN’S SOAPBOX

Posted on October 3, 2009 by asitoughttobemagazine

PRESIDENT OBAMA: GIVE PEACE A MEETING

by Cindy Sheehan

September 30, 2009

President Obama,

I know that you are only fulfilling your campaign promises to increase the violence in Afghanistan and Pakistan and I notice that not a significant amount of troops have been withdrawn from Iraq. However, even with your hostile rhetoric and promises to escalate the violence, many people voted for you because they believed you were the peace candidate.

Since the election, you have betrayed the progressive base that gave you victory on many occasions already, but the cause that keeps many of us motivated is the continued carnage in the Middle East. What bothers me even more, especially, is the fact that the so-called anti-war movement has given you a nine-month free pass and thousands of people have died, including hundreds of our own troops.

Since you took office, 125 of our irreplaceable young have been killed in what you called a “dumb war” in Iraq and 223 in what I call the “other dumb war,” Afghanistan. I have been waiting for a mother of one of those needlessly killed troops to demand a meeting with you to ask you: for “What Noble Cause?” her child was sacrificed.

No such mother has come forward and since your rhetoric is eerily similar to the Bush regime and you are reportedly considering strategies for Afghanistan before you condemn more than the 21,000 troops you have already condemned, I am requesting that you meet with a contingent of the true Peace Movement that will be assembling outside your house this Monday, October 5^th at noon.

You are listening to your “Afghan War Council.” McChrystal, Clinton, Gates, Mullens, and Petraeus who have all fully demonstrated their Hawk credentials, and what do you really think they will tell you? It is a War Council after all and will inevitably lead our country further down the path to ruin.

Many people supported you because they say you are “smarter than Bush.” Bush would never meet with voices of reason and it appears that the voices you are listening to are extremely unreasonable, also.

President Obama, meet with us and show the country and the world that you are at least willing to listen to opposing view- points.

Give Peace a Meeting.

Peace is the only logical solution to the human made diseases that plague our planet and Peace never gets a seat at the table.

Peace will heal the economy.

Peace will heal the environment.

Peace will heal the geo-political tensions.

Peace is the only way out.

Our Peace Contingent will be ready to meet with you any time on Monday the 5^th. Just say the word, we’ll clear our calendars!

Cindy Sheehan

Peace Contingent Representative

This piece first appeared on Cindy Sheehan website: Cindy Sheehan’s Soapbox on 9/30/09.

Share this:
X
Facebook
Like Loading...

4 Comments

Posts navigation

Older posts
Newer posts