the SIREN'S SONG of NOSTALGIA

the SIREN'S SONG of NOSTALGIA

(originally published in the old Nashville City Paper early 2000s)

When I hear bad economic news about those multiscreen theater corporations, it makes me happy. My apologies to those who may lose their jobs, but I detest those multiscreen monstrosities. 

Multiplexes provide about as much atmosphere for the experience of cinematic art as a fast-food restaurant does for a five-star haute cuisine dinner. But that may be appropriate because much of what is now on the screen is more like fast food than fine dining since special effects and superfluous violence, sex and profanity now masquerade as character development, plot and dialog. 

I miss the big four on Church Street in Nashville: the Tennessee with its sweeping staircase, the old Lowe’s with draped box seats, the balconies of the Paramount and the curved screen of the Crescent for the cinerama that never caught on. Even after the house lights went down, you still knew in which unique architectural entity you were sitting. These theaters had style. Now they are extinct in Nashville, but I understand a few survive elsewhere. 

Ah, the good ole days. Where are my rose-tinted glasses? The siren's song of nostalgia is playing in my ear...wafting across the oceans of times past.

Oops! I almost forgot. That siren's song is a deceiver. It is a sweet lullaby of partial truths, making us ignore the rocks of jagged reality beneath the surface which will wreck our ships of precious memories. Lest we drown in the murky sea of self-delusion, we must be like Ulysses and lash ourselves to the mast of accuracy so we may resist the temptation of the siren’s enticement to convenient memory. OK, I’m ready now. 

I attended Morny Elementary School in the days before teacher-lead organized prayer was banned. It was closed recently (sadly, it is now a vandalized shell), but I remember the unquestioned order in the classrooms and the after-school functions that most of the parents attended. The teachers were dedicated and given the respect they deserved; they were far more to us than mere pawns in a political fiscal debate. 

One of the best teachers I ever had, taught the fourth and fifth grades in the same room, about 60 kids in all. Amazing, isn’t it? She taught; we learned. She began every day by reading Bible stories to us. Looking back, it all seems rather idyllic. 

Except for the rocks lurking beneath the surface. 

I remember a sad show-and-tell day in this superb teacher’s class. One girl’s family performed gospel music, and she brought a 45-rpm record they had made in one of those small vanity studios. But she was not allowed to play it for the class. In this teacher’s opinion, religious music was not supposed to have any instrumental accompaniment. The girl did not cry; it was worse than that. Her body quivered, and her lips trembled as she fought back the tears. Seeing this girl’s pride in her family’s devotional music crushed into embarrassment made it clear to me why religious opinions and public schools do not mix. 

I also remember my school did not need the “White Only” signs on the restroom doors like the public facilities downtown. Black children were not allowed in my school. Jim Crow segregation will forever be a shameful stain on my beloved South. 

It saddens me beyond measure that Jim Crow sentiments still darken the hearts of some people. 

You’ve had the misfortune of being around people like that, haven’t you? They make statements that are not overtly racist, but you know where they are coming from. They are the same people who make snide remarks about the MLK Jr. holiday. They despise affirmative action. And the predominance of black athletes galls them because in the world of sports the only
qualification is ability. Sports are a true meritocracy.  It must be hard for them, being white in a society controlled by whites and yet still being so insecure. I don’t know whether pity or anger is the appropriate response to their bigotry. 

It is equally disheartening to me that much of the music of a black generation never oppressed by institutional Jim Crow is dominated by hip-hop "gangsta" rap and its association with street gangs and urban violence. If this music seeks to dissuade from violence through an ultra-stark realism, it has failed. 

But I cannot grasp why black musicians also produced so many MTV images of their women as nothing more than booty-shaking sex toys with no regard for the fuel it gives those who are predisposed to negative stereotypes of black people. I cannot believe these degrading images of black women created by black men were part of the dream of Martin Luther King Jr.  Most certainly, irresponsible fatherhood by several women was NOT part of Dr. King's dream. 

Nor do I believe Dr. King’s dream even remotely considered a form of street slang — so-called ebonics — being accommodated as a separate language in the classroom. Part of Dr. King’s legacy is his struggle to gain equal access to quality classrooms for black children so that they could learn to command standard English language skills that slavery and Jim Crow sought to deny their ancestors. 

At Joelton High School, I was privileged to have several exceptional women as teachers. The freshmen English teacher had a master’s degree from the University of Chicago; she also taught French and Latin. The two ladies who taught Algebra and English were also extraordinary. 

Since rural Joelton High was not a premier teaching assignment, I often wondered how this little school had such qualified women on its faculty. I found the answer among the rocks under the surface. When these women were maturing, few career opportunities were open to women outside of teaching and nursing. Who knows what those women could have achieved with the opportunities available to women today? Their students’ good fortune was due to the repression of half our society’s talent. 

The cost of being seduced by the siren song of nostalgia is living in self-inflicted ignorance of the ugly aspects of the past. So please remember the old adage, “Those who do not remember the past are condemned …… .”
Thirty years from now, I wonder what lullabies of partial truths will be in the siren's song of nostalgia about these times.

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