Feeding Bodies, Sustaining Souls

Many years younger, fairly well-traveled but still impressionable, I arrived in Berkeley during the 1970s: a relatively peaceful decade sandwiched between the tumultuous events of the University of California’s Free Speech Movement and the slightly less shattering Livermore earthquake.

Despite the unfortunate closures of the original Fillmore and Fillmore West prior to my arrival, there were consolations to be had. Afternoons, I lingered at Caffé Espresso, breathing in the scents of eucalyptus and French roast. Weekend trips across the Bay allowed for exploration of San Francisco’s tourist sites (Fisherman’s Wharf, North Beach, Chinatown) as well as increasingly confident forays into neighborhoods filled with fabulous architecture, tiny galleries, and expansive views.

Atop the Berkeley hills, views were as varied and compelling as anything available across the Bay. To the east lay Mt. Diablo, wheat straw dry or dusted with sunlit snow. To the west, San Francisco’s skyline shimmered by day and sparkled by night. In season, tendrils of fog twined their way around and through the Golden Gate, wrapping the Bridge in silence and the easy breath of dreams.

Surrounded as I was by art, natural beauty, a vibrant, polyglot culture, and more good live music than I’d ever experienced, surprises were inevitable. When friends discovered that Pete Seeger, Joan Baez, and Mimi Farina would be appearing live in San Francisco, we couldn’t believe our good fortune. There was no question we’d attend.

At the time, I didn’t realize the concert had been designed as a fund-raiser for an organization called Bread and Roses.  Founded by Ms. Farina as a way of bringing live music to people confined in hospitals, juvenile facilities, nursing homes, half-way houses and prisons, it was a direct result of her disillusionment with the music industry.

For some time, she had considered giving up her art, saying:

It really pains me to see people who were inspired when they were young, who got chills all over at the sound of music or a piece of art, something that inspired them to want to do it themselves…to watch that go down the drain for the sake of the industry, for the sake of money. That is uninspiring to me, and takes away from the value of the art.

Aware of her struggles, her cousin Skipper Henderson, who happened to be a social worker, suggested she make use of her talents by performing at his halfway house. After some hesitation, she agreed.

In the course of a later interview, Farina said:

The visit [to the halfway house] was depressing, but it revealed a great need, and made me think about the potential value of performing in places like this. Music is powerful; it can relieve pain and inspire. The things that music once meant to me were beginning to come to life.
It took me about a year to formulate an idea. Then, one day at the end of a tour, I was sitting alone in my living room, my life in front of me once again, with no planes to catch, no gigs to make. I found myself picking up the telephone and calling some institutions and saying, ‘Hi, I’m an entertainer. Would you like to have some free entertainment at your hospital?’

More often than not, the answer was a resounding “Yes!”  Over the years, her organization flourished, supported by some of the brightest and best among musicians and entertainers.

The name she chose for the organization, Bread and Roses, came from a poem written by James Oppenheim, published in American Magazine in 1911.  Oppenheim’s working-class sympathies were reflected in his writing, and led to his poem becoming associated with a 1912 textile strike in Lawrence, Massachusetts.  Martha Coleman set the poem to music initially, but Farina gave it new music in 1976, and her version is the one most well-known today.

As we go marching, marching, in the beauty of the day,
A million darkened kitchens, a thousand mill lofts gray,
Are touched with all the radiance that a sudden sun discloses,
For the people hear us singing: Bread and Roses! Bread and Roses!
As we go marching, marching, we battle too for men,
For they are women’s children, and we mother them again.
Our lives shall not be sweated from birth until life closes.
Hearts starve as well as bodies: give us bread, but give us roses.
As we go marching, marching, unnumbered women dead
Go crying through our singing their ancient call for bread.
Small art and love and beauty their drudging spirits knew.
Yes, it is bread we fight for, but we fight for roses, too.
As we go marching, marching, we bring the greater days,
The rising of the women means the rising of the race.
No more the drudge and idler, ten who toil where one reposes,
But a sharing of life’s glories: Bread and roses, bread and roses.

Whether the song was included in the first Bread and Roses fundraiser, I can’t say. I did hear Mimi Farina perform it live in 1978, and for years I kept Judy Collins’ recording of the song on tape, until the tape disappeared, and the song was forgotten.

Then, in June of 2001, tropical storm Allison rolled through Houston. After making short work of the Texas Medical Center, Wortham Theatre, the Alley Theatre, Jones Hall, the University of Houston and the downtown tunnel system, she swept through individual homes, offices, and businesses with a breathtaking lack of discrimination.

In the aftermath of the disaster, as the shock of seeing four feet of water roll through the neighborhood subsided and cleanup began, it became obvious just how difficult the job was going to be. Mud and debris, the stench of flood water, fire ants, snakes, rats, and looters: all conspired with a lack of electricity and fresh water to make each day worse than the last.

If we had known what yet was to come — months of living in RVs or camping out with family and friends; waiting on contractors, permits, and adjusters; attempting to combine employment with the process of rebuilding; coping with assorted  surgeries, illnesses, and death — it would have been unbearable.  But we didn’t know, and so life went on, putting one foot in front of the other, over and over again.

From the beginning, one of my jobs was to travel to a restaurant outside the flood zone and fetch hot dinners for the work crew.  The food was good, but the ambience wasn’t.

One evening I found myself thinking, Who wants to eat from a styrofoam carton in the middle of hell?  The next day, I pulled out some good china, and served dinner as though nothing had happened.

In the midst of the chaos and filth, the porcelain gleamed. Looking at the plates, one fellow walked outside, washed up with a bucket and hose, and put on a clean tee-shirt.  Paper-towel napkins were folded. Ice chests were transformed into tables, chairs were pulled together, and we sat down to eat, instead of balancing ourselves on window ledges or sawhorses. 

As silverware clinked and rattled against porcelain, we ate, and talked, and regained a bit of our humanity. Only later did Oppenheim’s phrase come to mind and take on new meaning.  Bread, and  roses.

In the midst of the struggle for bread– in the midst of every struggle for the basic necessities of life – the human hunger for beauty and graciousness may seem secondary, or even irrelevant.  Nevertheless, the need is real.  Hearts grown weary with suffering or struggle can become hard, or hateful. Even when the body is fed, hearts can wither away, becoming desiccated by cynicism or fear.

Mimi Farina understood it well:

One of the things that strikes me most about the prison shows is the realization that each of us has the potential of being an unlucky one.  Jon Hendricks put it very well. All of us share the universal fear of being locked up. We’re all prisoners of this planet, and we instinctively comprehend what that means.

After Allison, many of us shared that instinctive comprehension of what it means to be trapped, overcome by events, no longer in control of our own destiny.

Prisoners of a natural disaster, locked up by circumstance, lying sleepless in borrowed beds, we were most concerned with bread: with the necessities of life that required restoration and replacement. 

And yet, as people reestablished routines, rebuilt structures, and moved beyond the destruction of their lives, the instinctive yearning for a bit of beauty couldn’t be denied. In those days, any rose would do. A song or a smile, a slant of sunlight, a patch of blue or a freshening breeze could lift and feed hearts still hungering for the fullness of life.

For now, the floodwaters have receded, and the Massachusetts sweatshops are gone. Still, the realities of Oppenheim’s “million darkened kitchens, and thousand mill lofts gray” continue to exist, whatever form they may take.

The world is filled with struggling survivors of every sort. Victims of earthquake or crippling drought, displaced by war or genocide, overcome by waves of disease or sexual trafficking, many do require bread: the physical necessities of life.  But while food, water, clothing and shelter can sustain the body, truly human life requires more.

Decades ago, my grandmother often admonished: “A loaf feeds bodies. A loaf shared with love feeds body and soul.”  I’ve no reason to believe she knew Oppenheim’s poem, but in the end, it makes no difference. The spirit of her proverb is the spirit of the poem, and in this world, so often obsessed with bread and forgetful of beauty, the message of the song endures.

Hearts starve, as well as bodies….
Give us bread, but give us roses.

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The Power of Imagination

While in the process of completing a post on quite a different topic, I happened across this photo, taken after the recent “closing” of the Lincoln Memorial.  I found the photograph distressing and inexplicably haunting.  Surely I hadn’t written about these events – or had I?

I awoke this morning remembering a post from my earliest days of blogging. Written in 2008, it seems equally relevant today, though not in any way I could have imagined at the time.  I’m reposting it here with only an edit or two for clarity and the addition of these two quotations from an 1859 letter from Abraham Lincoln to Henry Pierce. The first is both relevant and amusing.

I remember once being much amused at seeing two partially intoxicated men engage in a fight with their great-coats on, which fight, after a long, and rather harmless contest, ended in each having fought himself out of his own coat, and into that of the other. If the two leading parties of this day are really identical with the two in the days of Jefferson and Adams, they have perfomed the same feat as the two drunken men.

The second is merely relevant.

Those who deny freedom to others, deserve it not for themselves.

(Re-posted from June, 2008)  In recent weeks, Cuban policies limiting citizens’ access to certain goods and services have been liberalized.  Farmers no longer are required to purchase materials from state-run stores, and it’s now possible for more individuals to rent cars.

Restrictions on personal cell phone ownership have been eased, and bans lifted on the purchase of electronic or electrical consumer items of all sorts, including computers, televisions, pressure cookers, rice cookers, electric bicycles, microwave ovens and car alarms.

Raul Castro’s reforms have been scrutinized closely for practical as well as political significance.  While apparently desirable, they are filled with a certain irony.  In a nation where most individuals are not allowed to purchase a car, car alarms seem somewhat beside the point.  The scarcity of many basic food items and the prohibitive cost of others make the possibility of possessing an electric rice cooker or microwave seem just slightly amusing. (more…)

Published in: on October 3, 2013 at 1:19 pm  Comments (65)  
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Cuban Gold

Children of the Cuban missile crisis, we bear within ourselves certain visceral memories unimaginable to students today. Sitting in our classrooms, watching the clocks tick off the implacable hours, we awaited a word from our President and cast sideways glances at one another as we began to wonder – Have we celebrated our last birthdays? 

In 1962, I knew less of Havana than I did of death. Most of what I knew had come from television and film – especially Desi Arnaz and his Babalú- or from adult gossip about cigars, rum and fishing the jewel-like waters that separate Cuba from the Florida Keys.

Even as an adult visiting Key West, my exposure to that “other world” just ninety miles away was limited to enjoyment of Cuban coffee and pastelitos, the lilt of the music and the entirely kitschy “buoy” that claims to mark the southernmost point of the U.S.  It’s not a buoy, of course, and several locations are farther south. While the claim of “90 Miles to Cuba”  is correct, you still can’t get there from here as an ordinary citizen, and it’s extraordinarily difficult to get here from there. (more…)

Published in: on April 16, 2013 at 10:22 pm  Comments (99)  
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A Time to Make Our Own Groceries

She hangs in my kitchen, this woman with no name who holds a chicken in her lap.  She watches me at my stove and sink, and I return the favor. Over time, I’ve come to know a thing or two about her. The directness of her gaze suggests she isn’t afraid of being seen. The dog, more wary, presses against her protectively but they’ve been together for his lifetime, and her hand is enough to calm his fears.  She’s a busy lady – her apron tells you that, and her distinctly un-done hair. She didn’t mean to be posing this morning, but someone came along and she cooperated, perhaps happy to have a moment’s rest.

In the original artwork, a monotype collage created by Debbie Little-Wilson, she’s surrounded by bits and pieces of her life. Above her is a letterhead from A.E. Want & Company, at the turn of the last century one of Ft. Worth’s premiere wholesale grocers. The invoice is dated 1921, nine years after the company gained a certain noteriety by suing the Missouri,  Kansas & Texas railroad over a carload of frostbitten Minnesota potatoes, total value $155.87. (more…)


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