I have a rare kind of friend. Jill has been a part of my life since my first year of middle school. She was that girl on the bus that would make sure a new kid like me felt welcome. I was shy back then. She made me feel a little more at ease. We became friends. As we transitioned from middle school to high school, we had only grown closer. I could tell Jill anything. She would never betray my confidence. She never judged me in any way that I could tell. You see, a rare kind of friend.
Jill was one of those lucky kids that had a "children's phone line" in her house. It was upstairs where she and her sister slept. I never saw that upstairs, even though I spent countless hours at her house. Late at night, after our parents had gone to bed, I would call Jill on the kid's line. She would scoop that phone up before one ring could finish, not wanting to wake her parents. And Jill and I would talk. For just a couple of kids, we talked about big things. We dared to ask questions about the nature of things and we could get pretty philosophical for two teenagers with very sheltered and limited experience. But we talked about the teen stuff too. You know, like who she liked, or who I liked. Or who I liked that didn't like me back. Jill would always console me when that happened. She'd say that the girl was the one who was missing out. I don't think I could do much wrong in Jill's eyes. She saw something in me that I'm not sure was ever really there. But that is what a rare friend is all about.
Jill and I shared a love for writing. She was and is the better writer. (She wrote such an amazing letter to Lee Smith that the author took her to lunch!) She was diligent and studied hard. I was disorganized and easily distracted. But we shared what we wrote and respected each others abilities. So, on occasion, I send her something and she sends me something. Earlier today, I sent her a recording of a song I wrote. This is something that I took up late in life, but knew I could count on Jill to be not only supportive, but a cheerleader! Even though one of her other closest friends is a nationally known musician, it never occurred to me that she might judge my amateurish attempts at this new endeavor. And true to form, she replied enthusiastically! "OMG that is so awesome! ... What inspired this song???"
Note the multiple question marks! I do that too!!
"When can I see you play in a club???"
I decided to send Jill an email with a link to the whole song and write a little about my inspiration to answer her three-question-mark inquiry. And I found myself opening up about my feelings that had insisted I write something about them. Just like all those late nights on the kids phone line. I hope she does not mind, but I am sharing what I wrote here:
I hope this link will work for you.
So here is the deal. It all has to do with vacation coinciding with tragedy.
But it starts with just a vacation. I had never been to the Outer Banks until several years ago. So, I decided one year that instead of our usual beach trip to SC or Ocean Isle, we would go to OBX. I loved it down there. Watching the sunset from Jockey’s Ridge on Kill Devil Hills was amazing. A total calm washed over me, watching twirling kites silhouetted by the sun’s descent. Magic.
I had brought books with me all about the Outer Banks. The legends, the myths, the ghost stories. The pirates, the Wright brothers. I fell in love with the mythical, romantic idea of this harsh and yet, beautiful place. I became fascinated by the local obsession with Virginia Dare. Her claim to fame, as you well know, was simply being born. First white child born in the new world. And then of course, tragically lost forever along with the rest of the colony. The legend is that Virginia somehow was cursed and turned into a deer. A “white doe” that roams Kill Devil Hills and Kitty Hawk to this very day.
I don’t know, but I really got caught up in these stories. I think because they represent the mythological America. This harsh land, braved by those early settlers. We came and made it a beacon of freedom to the world. But that is not really the whole story, is it? Maybe Virginia Dare represents innocence lost. Maybe she represents European civility delivered to the Indian savages. Maybe she represents the Eurocentric superiority complex that haunts our country still.
So a couple of years later, we were at Carolina Beach (your old stomping grounds) when we heard about the church shooting in Charleston. A young white supremacist prayed with parishioners before using a gun to kill them all. I was sickened. I had felt like that kind of hatred was losing its place in the United States.I thought that bigots were old and dying off. This horrific event flew in the face of my complacency.
A couple of summers later, back at Carolina Beach, and Heather Heyer is killed by a white nationalist just for participating in a protest that simply said that black lives matter.
I was distraught, so I went for a walk on the beach. I sat on the sand. Every beach trip since that Outer Banks trip, I had this feeling like I was connected back to that place and to the mystical legend of Virginia Dare. I sat in the sand looking at the ocean. I thought about Jockey’s ridge in Kill Devil Hills. The words kill and devil rang in my ears. I remembered how it felt when the wind whipped stinging sand at my skin on that giant sand dune, Jockey’s Ridge. I thought about the sting of the whips that landed on the backs of slaves. That sting that has been a part of the American experience from the start. I envisioned the African slaves in chains, in the cargo hold of a ship crossing the Atlantic. I thought about the captains of those ships being enslaved to a way of life that was cruel and rotten at its core. I thought about all of America being held captive by a system dependent upon the most unholy of sins: denying other humans their very humanity.
And I thought , “What right do I have to stand on this beach and look at that ocean?” I thought about never having to know what it feels like to be treated like chattel. Or to have to fight for the right to vote. Or to have to teach my kids to fear the police. And I thought about how me and you and all the other white folks here have benefitted from the systemic suppression of black people. We could own land. They could not. We could use whatever toilet or water fountain we wanted. We were given the benefit of doubt by the police. So I thought, I am the devil’s beneficiary. Whether I like it or not he made a plan and named us the beneficiaries of his evil deeds. And we gladly accepted the privilege it afforded us.
The song is simple. A love story. A man betrayed by self-deception as to the purity of the woman he so desired. Or a people betrayed by self-deception as to the purity of their own country. A people that one day will wake up and realize that they have been lied to. And they will understand that they overlooked the “white lies” Virginia had told them and that they did so because it was to their benefit.
I know that seems like I think this simple song is some huge revelatory work. But I am proud of this song. And all of this is the answer to your question about what my motivation was for writing it.
Thanks for listening Jill. You have always been someone who gets me. I appreciate that.
Love, Scott
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