Aretha's "America" for a Patchwork America

It was amazing to see and hear Aretha Franklin, the 66-year-old Queen of Soul, the woman who sang "Respect" and "Chain of Fools," sing "America" during the inauguration ceremony today. As I watched and listened, I thought of how my mother might have reacted to Aretha's performance. I think quite possibly, as a classically trained musician, my mother would not have approved. I do not mean to cast aspersions on my mother, only to mark the change between generations, and the change I am relishing today.



My parents' America was most definitely a white America. Regardless of how open-minded and progressive and supportive they strove to be, they viewed colored people (the term we used then) as "other," and along with "other" were unspoken, powerful undertones: "less refined," "less well educated," "less advanced," "less capable," just less.

That was the America I grew up in. But the America I saw on the Washington mall today is a multi-America, a "patchwork" America, in which there are many varieties, all of us with so much to offer, all of us a gift, all of us precious and bright and capable and strong. A shift took place in the deep recesses of my mind and heart, a shift that has been in the works for many years: the "other" became "us," not assimilated into a melting pot, not an extension of white America. It was as if I could feel the patchwork being stitched together.

President Obama said in his speech today, "we know that our patchwork heritage is a strength, not a weakness." He himself embodies that patchwork heritage: the son of an African immigrant and a white woman from Kansas, he lived for a while in Indonesia when he was a child. He knows what it is to be an outsider, and yet he has benefited from some of the greatest advantages and privileges this country has to offer.

As I listened and looked around at what once would have been white America, I saw and loved the patchwork in all of its delicious diversity. Oooh, this is ever, ever, ever so much better. I don't feel embarrassed or tentative or apologetic to embrace Aretha as one of my own. She's not just an artist I have loved and admired all my life from afar. She is one of us, and I am one of her people, just as she is one of mine.

We are still distinct, each with her own heritage, his own flavor. There is much we have yet to learn from each other, many stories that still need to be told. But all the same, we are one people, we are one nation, we are brothers and sisters with a common vision and a common purpose, more closely allied with each other than we have ever been before.

I think the idea I am grasping at is bigger than my ability to express. I feel like I'm getting at only a shade of what's really happening. But I can feel it; I can feel the shift. It's big and it's important, and it's worth struggling to put it into words.

Much of my awareness of the shift is no doubt because of our new president. Our new sense of oneness is certainly a result of the message he has been driving home today.

What is required of us now is a new era of responsibility—a recognition, on the part of every American, that we have duties to ourselves, our nation and the world, duties that we do not grudgingly accept but rather seize gladly, firm in the knowledge that there is nothing so satisfying to the spirit, so defining of our character than giving our all to a difficult task. . . .

This is the meaning of our liberty and our creed, why men and women and children of every race and every faith can join in celebration across this magnificent mall. And why a man whose father less than 60 years ago might not have been served at a local restaurant can now stand before you to take a most sacred oath.

Barack Obama is our first black president; he is a joy and a treasure to black America. We rejoice today with our black brothers and sisters; we share their delight and their awe at what it took to bring us to this day. Seeing their reaction to this great day drives home to us how long and hard and painful a journey this has been. And we rejoice that Barack Obama is a president to every American of every skin tone, every culture, every language.

I felt so proud of Aretha today as she sang "America." She is not only a black artist, not only the Queen of Soul and a source of pride for black Americans. She isn't just their Aretha; she's our Aretha. She is a national treasure for all of us.

The wounds and weapons of racism are still with us. The weapons have not yet been utterly vanquished; the wounds not completely healed. We have overcome much, but we still have a long way to go. Nevertheless, progress has been made—real, tangible progress. Our hearts are being knit together, more deeply and more surely than ever before. The patchwork is being stitched together, and all the great treasures who in the past would not have been allowed to shine will grow and flourish and nurture the divine spark that lives in all of us.

The Most Durable Power in the World

When I was a little girl, my father sat the family down one night to watch the Chicago Sunday Evening Club, a weekly religious broadcast from Orchestra Hall in downtown Chicago. My parents often watched that program on Sunday nights, but this was the only time they insisted that we watch it with them. I remember my dad said it was important; there was an earnestness in his voice. That was the first time I ever saw Martin Luther King Jr. on television.


My sister, six years my senior, still remembers what Dr. King spoke about that day and actually found the text of his sermon online: "Paul's Letter to American Christians," what he called "an imaginary letter from the pen of the Apostle Paul." Here are a few excerpts:

There is another thing that disturbs me to no end about the American church. You have a white church and you have a Negro church. You have allowed segregation to creep into the doors of the church. How can such a division exist in the true Body of Christ? You must face the tragic fact that when you stand at 11:00 on Sunday morning to sing "All Hail the Power of Jesus Name" and "Dear Lord and Father of all Mankind," you stand in the most segregated hour of Christian America. They tell me that there is more integration in the entertaining world and other secular agencies than there is in the Christian church. How appalling that is. . . .

As you press on for justice, be sure to move with dignity and discipline, using only the weapon of love. Let no man pull you so low as to hate him. Always avoid violence. If you succumb to the temptation of using violence in your struggle, unborn generations will be the recipients of a long and desolate night of bitterness, and your chief legacy to the future will be an endless reign of meaningless chaos.

In your struggle for justice, let your oppressor know that you are not attempting to defeat or humiliate him, or even to pay him back for injustices that he has heaped upon you. Let him know that you are merely seeking justice for him as well as yourself. Let him know that the festering sore of segregation debilitates the white man as well as the Negro. . . .

I still believe that love is the most durable power in the world.

No wonder my sister remembers Dr. King's sermon, and no wonder it was so important to my father that we listen. I was 11 years old when Dr. King was shot, so I could have been anywhere between, oh, say, five and ten or so the night we watched that program. If not for my sister's memory, I wouldn't have the faintest notion of what he spoke about. But I think I still got the message my father was hoping for. It was my dad's sense of urgency that made me pay attention and remember how important it was to him that we listen.

Today my husband, Tom, and I went to the state capitol in downtown Madison to the Martin Luther King Jr. Day Observance at noon. My sister was there, sitting among the VIPs, right next to Mayor Dave. We had lunch together afterward, and we talked about the night we watched the Chicago Sunday Evening Club.

I'm so proud of my father for knowing how important it was—and is—to listen to the words of Dr. King. I'm proud of my sister for remembering the sermon we listened to together those many years ago.

Tom and I went to show our support for the Soles (pronounced "So-lays"), a Mexican mariachi trio whose members attend our service in Spanish at Grace Episcopal Church and who were part of the program lineup. We got there early because the Soles told us 11 a.m. instead of noon, which was good, because we had great seats and time to greet my sister beforehand. I hope we go early again next year.

It was a beautiful gathering and celebration, a wonderfully mixed crowd of young and old, of many races and cultures. We sat in the capitol rotunda, under the the portrait of Lady Justice.


We sang "We Shall Overcome" together and did a brief community greeting, during which I met Geraldine Reed, who was sitting in the row in front of me. When she greeted me, she gave me a hug and told me that she had come here from New Orleans three years ago. I could tell that being there meant so much to her. She proudly introduced her grandson and his fiancee (or was it her granddaughter and her fiance?).

It didn't even occur to me until later that Geraldine is black and the young couple she introduced me to are white. I love that it didn't seem strange to me at the time. I'm grateful to Geraldine for her kindness and for her enthusiasm for the occasion. It felt like we were all family, all of us with Katrinas in our past, all of us with a lot to celebrate and a lot to be grateful for.

So now at the end of this beautiful day of remembrance, I'm thinking of how far we have come and how far we have to go. I'm thinking about my father and my sister and Geraldine and the Soles. I'm thinking about Dr. King and St. Paul and what they would say to us today if they could.

I think Dr. King would tell us to continue pressing on for justice with dignity and discipline, to shun segregation and violence, and he would reassure us that love is still the most durable power in the world.