I thought I’d take a break from the politics to justify the the genre of this blog, which is ostensibly a “travel diary.”
So Cambridge is a lovely old town with gorgeous architecture and august traditions. It is at once regal rustic, grand and quaint. Now that Spring has sprung, the sun deigns to greet us in the day and it is occasionally warm. Especially when the weather is nice, I find myself making excuses to take longer strolls. And whenever I walk, I whistle.
Often it’s old favorites like the Battle Hymn of the Republic. In high school band, we played a version that had a few extra flourishes, and I like to throw those in and my own as I make my rounds.
I’m also very fond of what has been called the Black national anthem, Lift Every Voice and Sing. It’s really one of the most beautiful songs I know. It was written at the turn of the 20th century and it is filled with so much heartache and hope. There is an exhilaration at the end of slavery, but a recognition of the challenges of freedom; it is a strong song, full of resolve in the face of arduous trials. You can hear it in the melody, too, the way it rises up and back down, major to minor, tinged with both sadness and joy. I like Amazing Grace, too, many of whose most moving renditions have been performances by African Americans and which became an important song spiritual liberalism in the 19th Century. (It is ironic, of course, that it was written by an Englishman inspired during his work in the Transatlantic Slave Trade.)
So when I’m not singing civil rights standards, I might dabble in a little classical music–Canon in D or the Four Seasons or Water Music. Otherwise, just snippets of things I’ve played. Most everything I whistle, I’ve played on the flute; I couldn’t even manage to whistle until after I learned to play.
Now a song I avoid whistling is Dixie. Its tune is sweet, nostalgic, and old-timey, and when I was growing up, an immigrant without full cultural context, I didn’t quite know its history. Living in the South, I learned it, though. I learned that for millions of people, it represents the very worst kind of sweet nostalgia for a time that is shameful, but integral, to Southern history. Actually, until I just looked it up on Wikipedia, I didn’t know that Dixie’s original lyrics were written by a white man in the voice of a black slave praising his own enslavement. Awful stuff.
Dixie is a pariah, but in American culture, it is a beloved pariah. It’s everywhere! Most vividly for me: It sets the stage for Foghorn Leghorn’s entry on Looney Toons. It’s a song that is almost on the lips of a lot of people, but without the words and without the terrible import. It’s just that quintessentially American tune they remember. Still, most of those people have the good sense to keep it to themselves. It’s a catchy song, but it’s probably better not to go around whistling it.
So I don’t really stroll around Cambridge whistling Dixie. But it doesn’t mean that ol’ Dixie doesn’t reach the aging cobblestone of the Cantabrigian streets. Someone near the Department of Chemistry has a car horn that plays Dixie. If you’re American, you can hear it in your head. You know exactly the sound. It’s from the Dukes of Hazzard, the timeless horn of General Lee.
I understand that Dixie is an heirloom in a wicked tradition. I understand that I shouldn’t be whistling it. But the idea that someone is driving General Lee by the University of Cambridge Department of Chemistry, honking it loudly for us all to hear Dixie in the streets, is amazing to me.
