The Power of One Small Voice

No one can deny that we are living in a troubling time in the United States. There is so much to worry about, from the escalation of fascist ideas in our government to the increasing wealth gap in our economy to the terrifying potential of AI to render it nearly impossible for people to tell truth from fiction. For someone like me — someone with a fierce sense of right and wrong, someone with clinical depression and anxiety, someone with equal capacity for love and rage — trying to balance the conflicting but overwhelming desires to change the world and withdraw from it feels impossible.

I feel strongly that I can’t sit idly by and do nothing. When I contemplate that course of action, an endless loop of admonitions by my historical heroes echoes through my head.

I hear Emmeline Pankhurst in 1913 explaining to Americans that if a “legislature turned an absolutely deaf ear to their demands,” then people “would have to make a choice of two evils: they would either have to submit indefinitely to an unjust state of affairs, or they would have to rise up” and adopt revolutionary methods to force change.

I hear Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. in 1967 speak to a group gathered at Riverside Church, reiterating the opening statement of the executive committee of Clergy and Laymen Concerned About Vietnam: “A time comes when silence is betrayal.” Dr. King warns that even if I feel “pressed by the demands of inner truth,” I will likely find myself “on the verge of being mesmerized by uncertainty.” And he tells me, as he told his audience at the time, that I “must move on,” that “the calling to speak is often a vocation of agony, but we must speak. We must speak with all the humility that is appropriate to our limited vision, but we must speak.”

I hear Elie Wiesel in 1986 accepting his Nobel Peace Prize, recalling his confusion as he was rounded up with his neighbors, friends, and family for deportation to a concentration camp. Saying to his father, “This is the twentieth century, not the Middle Ages. Who would allow such crimes to be committed? How could the world remain silent?” And then I hear him vowing “never to be silent whenever and wherever human beings endure suffering and humiliation.” I hear him telling me that “[w]e must always take sides,” that “[n]eutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim.”

I think of these fearless men and women, heroes who spoke out against injustice, who fought for a better world — not just for themselves but for all of us — and I feel as defeated as I feel inspired. Who am I? What voice do I have? Who would listen to me? How can anything I say make a difference?

But then I think of another of my heroes, one from my own home state, and she gives me guidance. Leslie Marmon Silko told an interviewer in the 70’s that, “The most effective political statement I could make is my art work…The most radical kind of politics is language as plain truth.” In her profoundly moving novel Ceremony, written in 1977, she explains the concept further by emphasizing: “The only way to get change is not through the courts or — heaven forbid — the politicians, but through a change of human consciousness and through a change of heart. Only through the arts — music, poetry, dance, painting, writing — can we really reach each other.”

So, I will follow in this amazing woman’s footsteps. I will speak with my art, my writing. I may never reach the status of a Pankhurst or a King or a Wiesel; I may never be as profound as Silko. But I do have a voice, and maybe my voice will inspire someone else, someone with a bigger voice, a bigger platform, someone who can change human consciousness in a way I may not be able to.

Here is what I know:

I know that the United States of America has always held within its government the seeds of fascism for all and the practice of fascism for some. If that statement is shocking to you, I would urge you to look at historical records. Look at how the Nazi government of Germany and the Apartheid government of South Africa studied U.S. policies on Native Americans and Black Americans when they designed their own practices of oppression.

I know that the United States of America has always had selective amnesia about our past and selective blindness about our present. If that statement is surprising to you, I would urge you to look at historical records. Look at how the U.S. responded to Irish immigrants seeking relief from famine, to European Jews seeking refuge from extermination, to Indigenous tribes seeking redress for state-committed atrocities.

I know that the United States of America has always had a noble declaration of purpose in direct contradiction to an ignoble dispensation of power. We want to be a nation with “freedom and justice for all,” but we consistently support politicians who pander to special interest groups and repeatedly reject measures that would hold those in power truly accountable for their actions.

We — and I mean ALL of us — must do better. And I believe we can.

We can speak out against injustice. We can speak out against violence born of prejudice, ambition, greed, insecurity, and fear. For that is what we are witnessing, what we are living right now.

We can contradict those who claim that this or that group of people are less than. For no human being is more or less worthy of life, of rights, of respect.

We can descry those who claim that this or that identity “deserves” violence. For no human being deserves to be made a victim because of another’s lack of self-control.

We can rebel against those who claim that they are the only — or the only “true” — authority. For if I have learned anything irrefutable in my life, it is that neither power nor truth are singular.

I believe humans have an immense capacity for love. The reasons we more frequently choose to enact our equally immense capacity for violence are myriad and complex, but choosing to embrace violence rather than love is exactly that: a choice. So, let’s choose the other side of our nature instead. This website may be small; its audience may be few. But small things can make difference. After all, a single grain of sand can make an oyster produce a pearl.

Let’s make our small voices that piece of sand that creates a pearl of a future that will be precious to us all.

A Canto Hondo Pavoroso (A Singing Deep and Aw[e]ful)

            “Raech, let’s go in here,” my friend Liz suggests.

            I look into the small, windowless room and see a young man bent over a guitar, strumming half-heartedly.

            “I thought we were going to try to find some Flamenco,” I reply…okay, whine.

            This night is not going well so far.  It’s our first night in Madrid, my first time in Spain, and I don’t care about the delicious tapas or the beautiful architecture or the thumping dance music playing downstairs in this labyrinthine, old, mansion-turned-nightclub.  All I want is Flamenco.

            When I was little, after my parents divorced, my dad played guitar and sang in bars in Northern New Mexico to earn extra money to help support me.  My dad is a talented musician, and although we don’t have any Hispanic heritage, he grew up in New Mexico like I did, surrounded by ancient Spanish, Mexican, and Pueblo culture.  My “Grandpa” Eloy (my paternal grandfather’s best friend) taught my dad to play guitar, so he learned the songs Eloy played: “Cielito Lindo,” “La Rana,” “La Malagueña.”

            When I was a child, my dad played and sang for me all the time.  He played children’s songs and folk songs and Beatles’ songs, but what I loved listening to the most were the Spanish and Mexican songs.  Sometimes, he would take me to his gigs with him, and I would sip on a Shirley Temple as I listened to him play for the crowd.

            He’d play “La Bamba,” and the crowd would cheer, “¡Más rápido, Coyote! ¡Más rápido!”  They called my dad “Coyote” because he was white but had dark hair and eyes and could speak Spanish.  He wasn’t Chicano, but he wasn’t a lowly gringo, either; “Coyote” was a term of respect.

            I loved watching my dad play in these little bars.  He is a natural showman, and he knew how to draw everyone into his show.  He’d often play “La Malagueña” as the last song of his set.  “La Malagueña” was my favorite.  It’s a melodious, Flamenco-style guitar solo that pierces your ears, vibrating through your blood until it rearranges and transforms your soul.  Although in reality I probably only accompanied my dad to bar gigs a handful of times (or less), they are some of my favorite memories.  I think as a girl I loved my dad most when he was playing “La Malagueña.”

            And now I am in Span – the birthplace of Flamenco – and after wandering around for an hour in an area of Madrid that supposedly has bars showcasing traditional Flamenco, all we had found was this club.  The sign outside advertised live music; that music turned out to be a DJ – the one spinning the thumping music downstairs.  And now Liz wants to stay and sit in a room with a stranger.

            “You said you wanted live music,” Liz pleads with me.  “This is live music.”  

She nudges me toward the door. Then, the man in the room looks up, and I realize why Liz wants to stay.  He’s beautiful.

“Please??” she whispers.

I roll my eyes but follow her into the room and ask the young musician if we can listen to him play.  He assents, and we sit for fifteen minutes listening to him practice scales while he largely ignores us, and Liz stares at him as if naming their future children.

As I am about to physically pull Liz from the room, two older, very well-dressed men enter, escorted by an entourage of beautiful Spanish women who make me feel frumpy and old at twenty-four.

The men close the heavy wooden door behind them, greet the guitarist, and ask him if Liz and I are his friends.  When he says no, the men look at us in an interested, hungry way that makes me nervous.  I wish I had pulled Liz out of here ten minutes ago.

The older men ask us where we’re from.  When I answer, “America,” their lupine smiles grow larger, and they begin to ask questions so rapidly I have trouble understand them.  One of the men nods to the…waiter? bouncer?... brawny club employee hovering inside the door, and he leaves, closing the door behind him.  I have a bad feeling about this.

I stand up, grab Liz’s arm, and tell the men that my friend and I had better go, that our other friends are waiting for us.  This is a lie, of course; the other students on this trip are across town at an expensive, touristy nightclub.

As I try to pull Liz from her seat, she and the men begin to protest vigorously.  The older men tell me to sit, stay, drink with them.  Liz begs to stay here with the handsome young guitarist a little longer.  The beautiful Spanish women giggle and whisper to one another.  Reluctantly, I sit back down and look around the room.  No windows, thick stone walls, no exit other than the door.  I wonder if the whitewash hides the places where shackles were attached during the Inquisition.

The beefy worker returns, carrying a tray filled with glasses of deep red Spanish wine.  He gives drinks to the men, the cover girls, the guitarist, and us.  I politely say, “No, gracias,” but the waiter doesn’t take my glass away, and the men insist we accept their hospitality.  Liz eagerly takes her glass with her right hand, while elbowing me with her left arm.  I relent and accept the glass.  The Spaniards cheer as the waiter leaves, once again sealing our escape route.

The more talkative of the men raises his glass and makes a toast.

“What did he say?” Liz asks.

“He said, ‘To our new American friends,’” I reply, and we all drink.  

Well, I just pretend to drink; I’m still not convinced that the wine isn’t drugged.  Years of television news programs and my mother’s paranoia have convinced me that every man I don’t know (and maybe some that I do) wants to kidnap and rape me.

The men smile, satisfied, and start speaking to the musician in Spanish so swift that I can’t understand them at all.  He replies and tunes his guitar as the swimsuit models stop whispering.  

And then…ZAM! The guitarist plays a loud, strong chord, and the men begin to sing.

Only “sing” doesn’t describe it at all.  The men belt out music – a strong, ululating call and response that the women punctuate with staccato notes clapped in rapid syncopation as the guitarist strums chords, picks cascading melodies, and pounds rhythms on his instrument.  I have never heard Flamenco this powerful before.

When the song is over, I close my open mouth and fight back tears as Liz and I applaud furiously.  The men chuckle and ask, “¿Te gustó?” Did you like it?  I nod.

“This is what we came for,” I manage.

The men smile – warm, proud smiles – and when the women laugh, I can tell they’re not laughing at us.

Liz and I spend the next five hours drinking Tempranillo and laughing and flirting and experiencing the soul-transforming beauty of traditional Flamenco music performed by masters.  As we leave the club that night, long after closing time, we kiss our new friends goodbye (even the handsome guitarist and the Spanish supermodels), and I realize how grateful I am to Liz for making me venture into that tiny chamber for the sake of one beautiful man.