...And We'll Go Look for What We Need

“Injustice flourishes because those who love justice are singularly lacking in creativity, content to denounce the structures we see causing harm, inept in producing other forms of art, other economic structures, other political systems.” 

In light of this week’s reading from Sharon D. Welch’s After Empire, I was eager to take up the challenge of finding a favorite art piece that has the potential to challenge injustices creatively. Welch explores the Euro-American genocide of Native Americans and, in part, the ways in which modern-day Americans can learn from this devastating pattern to become authentic promoters of human rights today. The question of full humanity emerges as a critical issue that has important implications for all people. In 1754, Benjamin Franklin, among others, denied the full humanity of the Native American League of Six Nations, entirely disregarding their integrity and wisdom (37). Since then, numerous groups have been discounted due to race, ethnicity, and gender, among other characteristics. The question remains then, how can Americans today support human rights, while also navigating different understandings of self-sufficiency, autonomy, and social interdependence (39)?

I also was struck by the importance of community in Native culture. Welch writes, “How else do we discover who we are than by examining who were are in relation to others?” Though various kinds of community exist for Native Americans, the larger group, not the individual, is always most important (51-52). A crucial component of being in community is responding to the suffering of our sisters and brothers. Americans are called, then, to observe and be moved by the plight of those people in our national and global communities who continue to be oppressed to this day, despite the greed for which we are infamous (85). William Schulz asserts that in order to be fully alive, we must acknowledge people’s suffering. He writes, “To look on human agony and consistently remain unmoved is to be dead in all the ways that truly matter, dead to the mystery of pulse and breath, dead to the gifts of grace and kindness, dead to the fragility of Creation” (79). Schulz suggests that perceived moral and political limitations contribute to Americans’ overall resistance to engaging human rights issues (Ibid.). In short, we are afraid to face the possibility of our complicity and helplessness in the face of injustice.

When I consider creatively responding to these issues of humanity, community, suffering, and fear, I am reminded of the song “What You Need,” a musical theatre piece with music and lyrics by John Bucchino:

The saxophone across the hall screams for harmony 

Another voice, a counterpoint, some company.

Sing those blues, lonely saxophone.

I’ll try to give you what you need.

Sing those blues, lonely saxophone.

I’ll try to give you what you need. 

Bucchino begins by identifying a neighbor by her instrument, which is longing for connection and accompaniment. Our character seems to be responding “I know what you need, and I’ll try to give it to you.”

The derelict flags down the cars on the Bowery

With a dirty rag in his paper bag for company, oh

Sing those blues, brother down and out. 

I’ll try to give you what you need.

Sing those blues, brother down and out. 

I’ll try to give you what you need. 

The character deems another man, “the derelict”—not a person who is homeless, or a person who is materially poor. Seemingly out of habit, the character nonchalantly defines this man by his situation. There seems to be an automatic assumption of understanding, again with the idea that our equipped main character knows what our “derelict” needs.

If you tell yourself you’re satisfied,
then nothing better will be found

But when it grows so dark, that you howl for the moon, well at least it gets your eye up off the ground 

The bridge seems ambiguous: is our character talking about the “saxophone,” the homeless man, or about himself? Perhaps he is advising our derelict to work for something better, to get his needs met; or perhaps he is telling himself to do the same. Though the howl-inducing darkness of poverty is unique, we begin to suspect that our character is living in the darkness of isolation. What happens when our eyes are off the ground? We can see and be seen. Regardless of who he is talking about, our character is beginning to connect and invest in this derelict’s plight.

Love, I don’t need my windshield cleaned, 

You can have it all for free.

Another voice, a counterpoint, some company.

But, sing those blues, will you anyway 

‘Cause I can’t give you what you need.

Oh will you sing those blues with me?

Take my hand, and we’ll go look for what we need.

He calls the derelict ‘Love’—an intimate term of endearment, or perhaps even a reference to the Divine. He invites the poor man to take it all, his whole self, and listeners witness our character’s transition from self-centeredness to other-centeredness. He does not explicitly reference money; he says, rather, “I will give you my company, my presence.” Our main character also acknowledges that he cannot fix this complexity of the derelict’s situation alone, but in solidarity, they now can sing the blues together. And maybe together, they can find what they each have been looking for—community and connection.

© 2012 Katie Davis