The Megaphone (Georgetown, Tex.), Vol. 80, No. 22, Ed. 1 Friday, March 21, 1986 Page: 5 of 8
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■i , . . M ■:
I'll be the
Judge of that
A weekly column
by J. Morris Huddleston
On
Billy Holiday
Sometimes, when I’ve been syllable she sings has its own
drinking, just the sound of Billie independent meaning, that she
Holiday’s music will make me suffered every storm of the
cry; sometimes the tears come saxophone’s shrillness, that the
out bitterly and all my sorrows sweetness of her voice could only
together seem to form a pattern, be propelled by a soul filled with
otherwise just one vague tear resignation beyond sorrow and
from each eye and the sorrows without bitterness,
remain in the distance, abstract, It is unusual that she would not
not too urgent. I derive almost be more bitter when her entire
the same feeling reading Dover life was spent in that ‘separate
Beach or The Buried Life by but equal’ time we now call
Matthew Arnold, the same apartheid elsewhere. She was
sublime emotions that still have vastly popular in her lifetime and
power enough over me to extort with all the recognition in the
tears of eternal self-pity. world could not check into the
I practically grew up with the Plaza or get a table at the Palm
music of Billie Holiday, so the Court. She was able to transcend
warm emotions may be associ- bitterness - somehow. I think I
ated in my mind with the gradual would have been a terrorist: I
loss of youth and innocence in this unfortunately react strongly
procession toward death which against oppression, not to men-
we call life for lack of a better tion that I know oppression when
word. Still I feel as though every I see it. She sustained defeat hand
-over-fist and still sang like an
angel; to give everything for
nothing in return How different
from our living performers and
entertainers from whom we
derive little yet who we still
esteem so highly and would never
shut out of doors nor force to eat
in the kitchen. Imagine the
contrast. It is inconceivable the
current epoch could produce
another martyr of her stature.
Superficially her tragedy, for
her drug abuse, resembles that of
Judy Garland and Edith Piaf, but
from them one can be overcome
with sensing a certain ennui. I
believe Miss Holiday’s voice is
devoid of ennui and even inspires
fascination again in our lives,
reaffirming the dual force of
love: violently painful, and
sweetly benevolent. The force
that drives the water through the
rocks definitely drove her red
blood.
But I think of all the honors that
men can bestow upon oneanother
and wonder how it was that she
didn’t sing the National Anthem
at football games nor President-
ial inaugurations. Is it only
Robert Frost that is so stirring?
I’ll take one of her songs over a
dozen of his poems any day. Hers
is the oppressed voice of women
andof blacks which strikes
universal chords of appeal to
anyone who suffers. One is
instantly accustomed to the
brush upon the drum, the tinkle
and ciatter of the piano and
before the lyrics even start the
saxophone has given it all away
foreshadowing the eternal note of
sadness which her voice will fling
like pebbles on a pebble beach
and then draw back out to sea
with a sigh so shallow it must be
her last - but no - it is only a
record and the ehanteuse is long
dead
As I have said I sense a
jadedness about Judy Garland
and Edith Piaf that weighs me
down without however the magic
power over my tears, that I
cannot forgive wholly as it gives
the impression they were merely
self-destructive Garland more so
than Piaf; however with Holiday
it is different: it is the distinct
feeling not that she destroyed
herself but that we have
destroyed her We are after all
Humanity and so let us admit
that in Billie Holiday’s heroin
addiction there is more sub-
limity, the recognition of which is
not perversity, than in the drug
abuse of the other two ladies with
which we do not sympathize so
much as in one whose tragic
flaw is the real Midas touch. Is it
so much to expect that in the
degradation of another we might
devote the sentiment to discover
our part, what we have in
common with the pharisaism that
allows such cruelties to exist
which invariably lead greatness
to disgrace and the gallows and
only recognizes that greatness
through the corrected vision of
hindsight after the murderous
deed is long finished.
Are there no temperaments
compatible with drug abuse?
That are ennobled by if'> T think
that there are when the alter-
native to destroying oneself out of
frustration is destroying some-
body else. Miss Holiday’s spirit is
of a nobler composition, though it
is susceptible to the storms which
rage against it to relent a little
not attempting to win the day al
times, than is capable of revengel
and if it fails fails because thel
forces of the world are arrayed|
against it.
Then again, knowing or notl
knowing her greatness as a]
performer, would you alas! have
been able to see beyond mere
human decree and ordinance to
the greater truth involved, the
deeper importance of whether
one human being can say to
another,‘It’s not you personally,
it is the quite unavoidable fact
that you’re black,’ to be able to
say to yourself,‘It is not this|
woman I am sending away only;
it is a part of myself, of myl
dignity that I am sending away if
I tell her no.’ In short, do we
retain enough solidarity as
human beings to love oneanother]
passionately that we are willing!
to defy human ordinance and
legal dictate in order to embrace]
oneanother as long allies in a
terrible struggle where might
always seems able to persevere
over right?
Reflections on a World Gone
A weekly column
by Joey Gimenez
Infatuation
Kittenism: A relationship started
on the horizontal never gets off the
ground.
Fr. Marvin Kitten, S.J.
He stood on a concrete dam spann-
ing a little more than three-fourths
the width of the Comal River that
Saturday of the Labor Day Weekend.
A thirteen year old daredevil slightly
self-conscientous of his blue jean cut-
off clad body stared up river at the
multitude of inner tube riders steadily
flowing downstream to cheap thrills
on white water rapids. From his posi-
tion the bank was accessible by Fif-
teen feet but required a strong dive
forward up-river into the current and
fast, frantic swimming to combat the
waters carrying him down. The ob-
ject of this nonsensical effort would
be to grab a metal rod embedded at
the ends in concrete as one was being
sucked down by the current and thus
to safety. Otherwise a swimmer
found himself whisked downstream
to peril rocks, currents, and
innertubers enjoying the ride.
The adolescent awaited a break in
the flow of tubers. His goal was not
to swim to the other side. His goal
was a hole at the bottom of the river,
one right in the center of the gaping
torrent, one slick with algae and
water wear, one he could hold on to
for an instant and feel the water rush
over him and watch feet, tubes, peo-
ple, and ice-chests go above him.
He had accomplished this only a few
times before as it was a real test His
growing strength and virility made
him need this kind of test. Successful
completion rewarded him with a feer-
ing that he had conquered the river,
the hole, the torrent.
He arched out and down, hands
frantically grabbing for a hold in the
hole, successful, the pull of water
snapping him like a parachute open-
ing. Elation stirred in him, the feeling
overwhelmed him, compelled him to
strain breath and might before releas-
ing, letting his hold go, and then
down. Flowing to the peril after-
wards. Rocks and cross-currents and
whirlpools tried his swimming but he
-overcame and caught a back flow to
the dam. Three minutes had passed
before he resumed his wait in line for
the position at the top of the dam,
the position of dominance. Surely so-
meone had seen him.
Six years later he stood leaning
against his Kawasaki Ninja 900 in
Levi 501s and second hand leather
jacket, black, watching the flow of
traffic on Westheimer in Montrose,
the heart of Houston’s red light
district. Bumper to bumper cars
crawled east and west to the tune of
four different radio stations and
assorted tapes, all turned up to
dangerous decibel levels. Pretty girls
and hungry boys paraded past him
another wild Friday night. He check-
ed his appearance, his hair, in the
rear-view mirror, casually, out of
habit.
He mounted his trusty mechanical
steed, revved it up, and kicked it into
gear. Cruising amongst tin tanks, like
a small fighter plane amongst heavy
bombers, was now his call and duty
and enjoyment. A made-up blonde
_groover passed in a Chrysler Conver-
tible, red of course. His mission’s
• decision made and all systems go, an
anxious pulse throbbed in and
through him. He plunged into the
traffic taking a right, east, and
followed.
His red and black Ninja zigged and
zagged through stop and go traffic.
Frustration, desperation, and fantasy
filled his mind. Confidence sprouted
from mastery of Ninja and imper-
sonal forces smugly seated behind
Daddy’s wheels. Darting in and out,
like a small, brightly colored fish
mishappenly fallen in with a school
of larger fish, he pursued his quest.
He saw her park and walk into a
nightclub.
Desire proved insatiable. Sprin-
—ting, stopping, shifting, turning he
traveled west, then east, then west
again mindlessly passing police cars
poised to pull him over, like a salmon
at spawning time mindless of bears
ready to scoop one out of the cur-
rent, do his job, and feed his family.
His business still incomplete, un-
satisfied, and unfilled he returned to
his vancant parking lot where other
bikers hung out while not busy.
The night slipped by. He headed
home at a leisurely pace. The traffic
thinned to normality around three in
the morning.. He had conquered the
street, the traffic, the law, and fulfill-
ed his physical thrill seeking appetite,
partially, superficially, routinely. He
had seen some pretty girls, the kind
they put in magazines, but they had
evaded his efforts. He went home
alone. He wondered when... He
wondered if...
_He’d be out there again tomorrow
night.
All tl)at jazzl
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The Megaphone (Georgetown, Tex.), Vol. 80, No. 22, Ed. 1 Friday, March 21, 1986, newspaper, March 21, 1986; (https://texashistory.unt.edu/ark:/67531/metapth634545/m1/5/: accessed July 17, 2024), University of North Texas Libraries, The Portal to Texas History, https://texashistory.unt.edu.; crediting Southwestern University.