Veterans Day, apartheid, and the Hymn of Thanksgiving.
TRANSCRIPT
The Friday before last, my family - as well as my wife’s three sisters - all went to the home of my mother-in-law for dinner and an evening of cookie baking and crafting. At some point, a hockey game made its way onto the TV in the room where the crafting was happening. I didn’t watch much sports growing up, but I developed an appreciation for hockey in high school, as it was the sport of choice for a schoolmate of mine with whom I was developing a new but very close friendship; and hanging out with him often meant that a hockey game would be on. Recently, my older son has also come to enjoy the idea of watching hockey, as he too has a friend and an aunt who both play.
The day happened to be Veterans Day, and the hockey game was preceded by a ceremony honoring those who have served in the US and Canadian militaries. Having grown up in a household that was decidedly anti-war, I’ve always held a rather ambivalent view on the military and, by extension, members thereof. Both of my grandfathers served in WWII, and yet the story of military participation that I recall being told more frequently as a child was that of my cousin who, when drafted during the Vietnam War, refused to handle a weapon and was given a desk job instead.
As chance would have it, two days after the gathering at my mother-in-laws, I happened to hear a talk shared by a pastor of the Unitarian Universalist church who was reflecting on how her religious denomination - also anti-war as a rule - has also had a stilted relationship with veterans for that reason. She went on to tell the story of a Unitarian pastor who, having taken a commission as a military chaplain, made a meaningful and lasting impact on how she understood the relationship between her church and the military - most importantly, perhaps, how one could be anti-war but still be pro-soldier.
The part of the talk that made the greatest impression on me was the pastor’s story of being in attendance at the funeral of that chaplain. She described standing in Arlington Cemetery - a place that, as she put it, she never thought she’d be - watching a military flyover perform what is known as the “missing man formation”. In this type of aerial salute, a formation of four jets flies in tight formation until one abruptly pulls out of the formation and flies into the western sky. At this point in her talk, the pastor explained that, upon witnessing this military funeral ritual, she felt rising up within - perhaps for the first time - feelings of genuine patriotism.
The pastor’s story reminded me of my own, perhaps first-ever experience of patriotism. The center figure in my story - rather than being a military chaplain, however - is a musician from South Africa who I’ve had the chance to work with on two different occasions: the first over a long weekend during which I hosted the singing group, Thula Sizwe (which he leads), in the town where I was living; and the second, two years later, when I brought him into the school where I was teaching for a two week artist-in-residency. His name is Jabulani Dlamini, but he goes by Abel. He belongs to a lineage of Zulu master musicians and performs a style of music known as isicathamiya, the performance of which involves rich four- and five-part vocal harmonies, tight choreography, and the exploration of themes like love, spirituality, indigenous life, and social issues.
Although I’ve only interacted with Abel over two extended occasions, I consider him a dear friend who has made a profound impact on my music-making and how I think about culture, politics, work, teaching, and human relationships. The song that has served up to this point as the opening theme music for this podcast was actually inspired by Abel and the way he taught the thematic content of “Shosholoza”, a well-known South African song, to my students. I’ve actually been waiting for the right occasion to write an episode about Abel, and hearing the Unitarian pastor share about her feelings of patriotism in Arlington Cemetery seems to have been the impetus I needed.
As I mentioned already it was Abel who helped me to experience my own first feelings of patriotism, despite his being from a different country altogether. His second visit to Williamsport (where I lived at the time), happened to coincide with a high school choir festival I had been invited to conduct. Having worked with Abel and Thula Sizwe two years prior - and having spent much of the interim time arranging Abel’s songs to be taught to American student choirs - I knew that I wanted to include one of Abel’s songs on the program. It came as a great delight then, when I later discovered that his visit would occur during one of the preparatory rehearsals for the festival, and that I would have a chance to introduce Abel to the singers and have him work with them.
The festival was located in a rural area about one hour outside of the already small city of Williamsport, and I had the (perhaps stereotypical) notion that a song sung almost entirely in the Xhosa language would be a bit of a stretch for the ears of at least the audience in that area, if not the singers themselves. Wanting to have a cultural counterbalance in the program, I thought to include something with its roots in the Christian tradition and/or American patriotism, knowing that these themes would be well-received by the audience. The festival happened to take place just before Thanksgiving, and so what came to mind was a hymn I had become fond of in college called the “Hymn of Thanksgiving”. For reasons I will elaborate on in a moment, I had never been especially drawn to patriotic songs. However, the hundred-year-old “America the Beautiful” was an exception to this; and I ended up writing an arrangement woven out of these two songs and called it “Gathered Together”, a reference to the first line of the hymn: “We gather together to ask the Lord’s blessing.”
In addition to teaching his own song to the festival participants, Abel also taught them the traditional song, “Shosholoza”. Coincidentally, “Shosholoza” is often called the unofficial national anthem of South Africa, and I’ve since learned that there have been several efforts in the US to give “America the Beautiful” legal status as an anthem equal to or replacing “The Star-Spangled Banner”. Because you cannot understand Abel’s life and music without also understanding the political context within which he grew up, Abel always talks about South African apartheid when he teaches. He describes the ways in which individuals belonging to the Black majority were systematically barred from establishing themselves financially, professionally, and politically, ensuring that the White minority would maintain the social, economic, and political power ceased during the age of colonialism.
Like many Black men, Abel worked in the mines, performing the dangerous, strenuous work of removing from the earth the iridium ore and other minerals that would generate high profits for the White-owned mining companies. Abel managed to win the favor of his managers and was the first Black man in his company to be promoted to the role of foreman. Before apartheid had ended, however, he was compelled by the calling of his musical ancestry and began teaching and coaching a group of high school boys who had convinced the local police to allow them to meet for 30 minutes every day after school and sing together, even though apartheid policies forbid Black individuals from holding such meetings. When apartheid ended, Thula Sizwe (the group the Abel had now become the leader of) sang at the celebration that marked Nelson Mandela’s release from prison; and the group was also sent around the world to perform at the opening ceremonies for the South African embassies that were now being established by the newly democratic nation.
When Abel teaches about apartheid, he always paraphrases the words of Nelson Mandela, spoken at his inauguration. Mandela spoke of healing wounds and of bridging divides. And he said, “The time to build is upon us… We enter into a covenant that we shall build the society in which all South Africans, both black and white, will be able to walk tall, without any fear in their hearts, assured of their inalienable right to human dignity - a rainbow nation at peace with itself and the world.” I like the way that Abel would paraphrase it; he says, “We must now forgive, and we must all make ourselves busy with the work of building the Rainbow Nation.”
When I was growing up as a White boy in smalltown America, my mother often shared with my sister and I her interest in and respect for the culture of America’s First Nations peoples. Moved by the beauty she shared, I also became keenly aware of the destructive impact that European colonialism has had (and, truly, continues to have) on that culture. This is why I was never particularly roused by songs like “Proud to be an American”. But Abel helped me to see that the persistence of fear, anger, and shame - all expressions of scarcity - only work to further degrade the human dignity that Mandela spoke of, as do both the denial of and the loathing of our problematic past and present. Abel helped me see that reconciliation, reparation, and healing require us to move through our feelings of scarcity, transforming them within ourselves so that we may build a world that is cast from a truly different image… a reflection of something that has changed within us as individuals.
Being witness to Abel’s story - and reflecting upon what the archetype of the Rainbow Nation might look like in America - gave new meaning to the title I had given my arrangement: “Gathered Together”. When I conducted the piece on the Tuesday evening before that Thanksgiving, I felt a sense of gratitude and meaning - and perhaps even pride - welling up inside me at the thought of being a part of the American ‘rainbow’.
I am reminded again of my older son, who has recently become intrigued with the ninja and other noble warrior types; and he counts fighting among his top skills. While I’m sure he’s never actually been in what most would consider a real fight, his enthusiasm for the idea has forced me to consider the role a noble fight plays in our healthy adaptation as individuals and as a society. So, just as Abel, many years ago, helped open me up to a sense of belonging within my own country of birth, today as I reflect upon my feelings on Veterans Day, I recognize an ongoing development in my appreciation for what it means to defend what is good and true (and, I’ll add, that I personally believe what is good and true includes our right and responsibility to hold civil debate regarding how we define and pursue what we understand to be good and true).
I’ve been reading The Lord of the Rings to my son, a story that I read myself as a boy and that continues to shape the way I view my place in the world. In the latter chapters of The Two Towers, Faramir, the young captain of Gondor speaks words that I feel sum up my thoughts about the military, with both poetry and precision: “War must be, while we defend our lives against a destroyer who would devour all; but I do not love the bright sword for its sharpness, nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the warrior for his glory. I love only that which they defend.”
So, with love for that which they defend, and an appreciation for their courage, dedication, commitment, and sacrifice, I offer a respectful salute to our veterans, as well as the following improvisation that ties together the “Hymn of Thanksgiving”, “America the Beautiful”, and a Zulu gospel song - the first song I ever heard Abel sing - that reminds me of his faith in humanity and in the divine. Until next time, I wish you all things best and beautiful.
Photo by Alex Motoc on Unsplash