Joan Baez's Roses
"She's a Capricorn. That's how she could deal with him and his craziness," my sister dissects an iconic relationship, warbling as it did through the music of our generation. Sandy alternates between her typical straining-at-the-bit or out-for-the-count rhythm as she emphasizes that it's earth that's solid, enduring. Curious coming from a Gemini, as unlike the Dylan she's analyzing that it proves astrology's claim as bogus.
I found Joan through Sandy's small pile of vinyl-club treasures. It was the black Vanguard with the sketch of her on the cover, a human image for the megapure silver dagger that stabbed me through the heart. She cycled round on the hi-fi, angel of emotions our parents could feel. The Oldsmobile Republican dad who threw Farina and Kerouac away as bad influences would hum to her Noel; mom's nice voice sang along on O Holy Night, a welcome break from her manifold fears of a world that did not mirror her Hummel collection.
As Joan and I became politicized together, I took her into the bedroom, imbibing the lyrics in the oasis of sound; I learned Spanish from El preso numero nueve and a world human rights watch of partisans, immigrants, prisoners, and how to carry on, not be moved nor turned around. The repressive isolation that Sandy and I endured would be released for me in this way. I met Little Moses, adopted like me, and the house of the rising sun, where they said I'd end up if I didn't watch out. Sandy later found Joan's Daybreak memoir of her ghosts, her demons. We were not alone, and could survive, spirited and soulful, making something out of it.
Sandy sang sweetly with perfect pitch, unaffected by the lows of life that have weighted it with sorrow over the years. I began to scribble poems, absorbing ballad content and assuming a structure, a long line, and images of protest against the news that came into our living rooms each night, blood and guts on our plate. From our sheltered perch, it was the only clue to the liars, deceivers, and fools out there.
It's forty years later and that hasn't changed. U. S. citizens are still only themselves "the Americans", deporting nutmeg browns back south of our border to certain struggle, slaughtering the darker brothers a world away in the name of liberation, ignoring the death toll on the darkest brother in the name of pharmaceutical self-interest.
So, this is why, on March 22, 2008 Joan is invoking God in a third of her repertoire. She has come to the "Z" in New Bedford, MA on a bus with her band, "the lads" who were unborn while she birthed a generation's attitude. They follow her lead, try sweet licks while she slowly tunes up. Her sets are shorter in places than we expect; she seems like one of the weary people of the world she memorializes. I hope that she too can finally rest.
I've waited in the frigid night snow for her to rejoin her van. I have spoken to a fan who followed her from Connecticut and will go on to Boston. It's not her first time. I resignedly hand a roadie a CD to take in for her to sign. He comes back minutes later with the discs signed to Monica. I decide then to outwait the entourage, the fans, the dilettantes striving for meaning in her eyes.
After this hours-long vigil, her still-small, lithe figure appears to float out the side door. Spotting my step in her direction, she beckons me forward: "you want an autograph, I suppose", no question.
"No, I just want to tell you how much I love you...and thanks for everything you do."
I admit signing would be nice, and we exchange gifts: she holds my discs and I her roses. She hands me the package back, properly signed, and taps lightly down the dusted pavement to the van.
"Honey, you forgot your roses".
I blurt this familiarity, thinking I was talking to a friend.
"No, you keep them. I want you to have them. Make good use of them".
Then she is out of my sight, through the van door.
Claudia Grace
2008 & 2009
