The choir had two more songs to sing. I'd seen tonight's program, and frankly, I'd been waiting to hear this one. The Cultural Center of Brazil and the United States celebrated the 238th anniversary of the independence of the United States of America, on this fine evening of July 3rd (Brazil played a World Cup match the next day, so let's be realistic here). For the event, a special choir of middle-aged Brazilian vocalists had memorized every sound of every line of several classic American tunes.
The moment I'd read the words "Down to the River to Pray" in the order of events, I pointed to it, turned to a fellow American sitting next to me and said, "Oh man, I'm gonna cry here." And believe me, I had a heart to. I was proud of the director for having chosen songs from some of the shadowy years of American history, and couldn't wait for the silent stage to be filled with the steadily-building, rhythmically soulful harmony in each verse.
But instead of anything resembling what might have been written and sung in a field or even in a church-for-colored-folks, the song epically cascaded with Baroque trills of harmony best suited for an evensong service at Westminster Abbey. In short, it was the whitest, most soulless Negro spiritual I have heard in my life.
I couldn't cry, and especially not for any of the nostalgic reasons I'd hoped to. I slouched into my seat, trying to stave off cynicism, trying to put on a grateful smile, but suddenly overwhelmed by a realization that's been boiling up for a long time: the colonial days are far from over.
I looked around, and nothing I saw didn't shine of European influence. The vocalists were all dressed "formally," which is to say, for example, that the men all wore collared shirts, ties, shiny leather shoes, and slacks with the seam in the front. Why, though? None of these things are even remotely of Brazilian origin (except maybe the idea of using leather for shoes). I couldn't help but ask the same type of question I've been asking at every turn while living here: how might northern Brazilian culture be different if it had been allowed to develop along its own path of human creativity? How might these vocalists have been dressed?
Hell, would they have been dressed? (Frankly, I don't think any sensing human being would wear clothes in this climate. How someone landed here, saw native people hanging out naked and didn't say "Genius!" is simply beyond me. How it became the cultural norm is absolutely inexplicable.) But this question of cultural permeation is one I've been wrestling with face-to-face since February. Would buildings here be at right angles? Cars four-wheeled with rubber tires? If Jesus had been born in this "Bethlehem," how would churches be shaped? What size would they be? Would they be buildings, boats, or treehouses? What would people do to celebrate, to remember? How would they entertain themselves? What human creativity will we forever lack because of the deference to what has been sold as "better," or more objective and sinister, "advanced"?
There's clearly no going "back," and so it's a fine argument to say that the question itself isn't really worth asking. It won't change the past. But in that moment, there in the theater made so obviously of curtains, a spotlight, a mezzanine, an elevated stage and raked seating, something real in me just needed it to ask it again. Keep considering it.
The choir began their final number: "Oh beautiful, for spacious skies, for amber waves of grain..." Closing my eyes, I remembered with saudades the one piece of America that will never yield to silly ideas like patriotism, immigration, and property. America itself: the eternal land, on which a union of states currently happens to rest. "...For purple mountain majesties above the fruitful plain..." The choir continued to sing praises to a country many of them had never seen in a language they didn't understand, and I fought to soften my sadness with gratitude. "America! America!" Now I tried imagining that their voices were all that of Joe Cocker, accompanying a midnight sandlot baseball game, the boys' awe-filled faces illuminated by the fireworks in the night sky. "God shed His grace on thee!" They swelled to a dramatic close: "And crown thy good with brotherhood..." Did these words, even in my own language, make any more sense to me than they did to those who had memorized only their sound? I couldn't say. But I knew this: that they were the words of the country that raised me. It's the land I come from, the land I've been, and the land I'll always go. It's where I have a home in deserts, forests, mountains and plains scattered over acres from coast to coast—or, as someone put it better some time ago, "from sea to shining sea."
The moment I'd read the words "Down to the River to Pray" in the order of events, I pointed to it, turned to a fellow American sitting next to me and said, "Oh man, I'm gonna cry here." And believe me, I had a heart to. I was proud of the director for having chosen songs from some of the shadowy years of American history, and couldn't wait for the silent stage to be filled with the steadily-building, rhythmically soulful harmony in each verse.
But instead of anything resembling what might have been written and sung in a field or even in a church-for-colored-folks, the song epically cascaded with Baroque trills of harmony best suited for an evensong service at Westminster Abbey. In short, it was the whitest, most soulless Negro spiritual I have heard in my life.
I couldn't cry, and especially not for any of the nostalgic reasons I'd hoped to. I slouched into my seat, trying to stave off cynicism, trying to put on a grateful smile, but suddenly overwhelmed by a realization that's been boiling up for a long time: the colonial days are far from over.
I looked around, and nothing I saw didn't shine of European influence. The vocalists were all dressed "formally," which is to say, for example, that the men all wore collared shirts, ties, shiny leather shoes, and slacks with the seam in the front. Why, though? None of these things are even remotely of Brazilian origin (except maybe the idea of using leather for shoes). I couldn't help but ask the same type of question I've been asking at every turn while living here: how might northern Brazilian culture be different if it had been allowed to develop along its own path of human creativity? How might these vocalists have been dressed?
Hell, would they have been dressed? (Frankly, I don't think any sensing human being would wear clothes in this climate. How someone landed here, saw native people hanging out naked and didn't say "Genius!" is simply beyond me. How it became the cultural norm is absolutely inexplicable.) But this question of cultural permeation is one I've been wrestling with face-to-face since February. Would buildings here be at right angles? Cars four-wheeled with rubber tires? If Jesus had been born in this "Bethlehem," how would churches be shaped? What size would they be? Would they be buildings, boats, or treehouses? What would people do to celebrate, to remember? How would they entertain themselves? What human creativity will we forever lack because of the deference to what has been sold as "better," or more objective and sinister, "advanced"?
There's clearly no going "back," and so it's a fine argument to say that the question itself isn't really worth asking. It won't change the past. But in that moment, there in the theater made so obviously of curtains, a spotlight, a mezzanine, an elevated stage and raked seating, something real in me just needed it to ask it again. Keep considering it.
The choir began their final number: "Oh beautiful, for spacious skies, for amber waves of grain..." Closing my eyes, I remembered with saudades the one piece of America that will never yield to silly ideas like patriotism, immigration, and property. America itself: the eternal land, on which a union of states currently happens to rest. "...For purple mountain majesties above the fruitful plain..." The choir continued to sing praises to a country many of them had never seen in a language they didn't understand, and I fought to soften my sadness with gratitude. "America! America!" Now I tried imagining that their voices were all that of Joe Cocker, accompanying a midnight sandlot baseball game, the boys' awe-filled faces illuminated by the fireworks in the night sky. "God shed His grace on thee!" They swelled to a dramatic close: "And crown thy good with brotherhood..." Did these words, even in my own language, make any more sense to me than they did to those who had memorized only their sound? I couldn't say. But I knew this: that they were the words of the country that raised me. It's the land I come from, the land I've been, and the land I'll always go. It's where I have a home in deserts, forests, mountains and plains scattered over acres from coast to coast—or, as someone put it better some time ago, "from sea to shining sea."