I am not bound, this year, by the chains of romantic love. I'm not "in love" with anyone; more important, no one is in love with me. So, I am without Valentine's Day responsibilities. Having been married, betrothed or--yes--cocooned in cohabitation for all but a few seasons of my adult life, I'm still getting used to this delicious freedom. No one is expecting anything from me--not even a card, much less a Godiva sampler. I need lay no sacrifice on the altar of love.
St. Valentine himself (and, actually, there was more than one) had little to do with romantic love. Historically, Valentine was a Christian martyr, jailed for his religion by pagan Roman emperor Claudius II. In conversations, Claudius II tried unsuccessfully to convert Valentine to his gods, but Valentine instead tried to convert Claudius to Christianity, and for this was executed. Before his execution, he is said to have performed the miracle of giving sight to the jailer's blind daughter. Hence his sainthood.
Since there's little romantic fodder in this, the history has been embellished and may or may not be true. Claudius II, believing that married men made poor soldiers and wishing to grow his army, ordered that young men remain single. Valentine, a priest, subverted this law, secretly marrying young men and women. It was this romantic outlawry for which Valentine was supposedly imprisoned in the first place. Nevertheless, don't blame St. Valentine's Day as we know it on St. Valentine. Blame Geoffrey Chaucer.
In Parliament of Fools (1382), Chaucer wrote: "For this was Saint Valentine's Day, when every bird cometh there to choose his mate." The poem was written to honor the first anniversary of the engagement of King Richard II to Anne of Bohemia (they were both 15 when wed). Shortly thereafter, in 1400, a High Court of Love was established in Paris to deal with violations of the code of courtly love, specifically betrothal contracts, betrayals and violence against women. The judges of this court were chosen by women on the basis of a poetry reading, and things haven't been the same since.
The notion of courtly love itself grew out of medieval knighthood's code of chivalry. Sir Knight carried Milady's favor--a scarf or scrap of cloth--into battle, as often as not tied around his lance (any Freud-inspired jokes that might blossom here in a reader's mind are entirely the reader's responsibility, but we might assume this is also the root of what we today call "sexual favors"), to remind him of whom and for what he was fighting. Hence the phrase "undying love." Sir Knight is vowing that the only way his love will die is if he does. If then. Milady will wait, faithfully, forsaking all others, yearning for his return and warming herself with the torch of his love until he does. And if he does not, their love is bound in heaven.
Which, somehow, transports us to the mall, where you are a man, wondering what the hell to buy. Unless you have the talent to design one yourself, complete with customized sentiments and perhaps a coupon redeemable for something that is your business, a simple card won't cut it. And even if you have the talent, you can only get away with that once. Most don't, and "Love Ya, Honey" scrawled in crayon on a construction paper heart is only cute in kindergarten. Flowers are a reliable stand-by, but don't rely on them. Or at least not solely. As a man of some experience in these things, save the flowers for occasions when they are not expected. (Note: as a substitute for flowers, do not get her a potted plant, calling it a symbol of the sturdiness of your love. I know--plants don't wither in a week--but a plant requires regular care and she's already taking care of you. Don't remind her of that. Wrong message.) Do not get her a filmy construction of sweet nothing from Victoria's Secret. She may admire it and even enjoy modeling it, but deep down, she knows it's really for you. And so do you. For goodness' sake, do not buy her chocolates. Of course she likes chocolate--who doesn't?--but plan ahead. Do you want this to be you? "Here's a big old heart--just like mine--full of chocolates. Next year, I'll buy you a WIDE LOAD sign and a little beeper so you can let folks know when you're backing up." And never mind the sales pitch tsunami--do not get her a teddy bear. Sure, she likes things that are cute and cuddly and remind her of babies, but she herself is not an infant. Do not get her pajamas--they're nothing more than Appalachian-style long johns with feet--but if you do, make sure they also have a trapdoor seat for those extra cold mornings in the outhouse. Basically, you're left with jewelry, which for most men is like being marooned, incommunicado, on a barren planet. With jewelry (where even the cheap stuff costs more than candy), the line between good taste and bad is invisible and the odds do not favor you. Nor can the salesclerk be trusted, so proceed at your own risk and be prepared to leave behind a limb.
Here's a better idea. Remember her in some small way, of course, but this St. Valentine's Day, give her back yourself. With the flowers that die, give her a man that never quits. With the see-through teddy designed to get your attention, give her a guy that pays attention. With the candy, give her sweetness; with the teddy bear, tenderness; with the footie pajamas, security. More than a costly investment of a bauble of rare stone, she wants to know that someone exists that is fully invested in her. Don't give her words on a card, give her facts on the ground.
Do you like being a man? Then be one--in full--but it takes courage. You want to wear the pants? Then put them on, one leg at a time, and get busy. Do you want to lead a family into the future? Then lead. No one's stopping you but yourself. A woman will follow--and fight ferociously alongside--a righteous man (and here I am not speaking of religion). Are you saddened by the cheapness of sex, the emptiness of promises made by vendors, politicians and lovers, and the godawful gaudy tawdriness that suddenly seems to lie at the heart of things? Then make a difference, as an army of one. Do you wonder why all the ladies seem to have vanished from the world? Do you wish that chivalry wasn't dead? Then stop your crying and be a knight. The world does not lack for dragons. Nor women who would love to be ladies.
All that said, my best wishes go out today to all who are in love. Love is a madness every bit as potent as its evil twin grief, taking us out of ourselves and persuading us to behave oddly and do things out of the ordinary--and sometimes outside our interest. But it is a fine madness. Like grief, love shatters mundane existence and tells us the truth: we are not meant to be alone. We're not made that way. Indeed, we are made for heaven, of which romantic love provides a taste and vision. What's love got to do with it? Everything--and I don't care what it is. So, lovers, I salute you. Use this day to remember the passion and promises that brought you together. And what God has made, let no one rend asunder. I am not in love today. I am free of chains. I have no promises to keep. But I wish I did, and I wish I was.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Six Rules for the Singing of "The Star-Spangled Banner" (An Open Letter to Christina Aguilera)
1. Don't try to be a singer that you're not. Roseanne Barr--and yes, Christina Aguilera--I'm talking to you. Christina, you are not Whitney Houston. Roseanne, you are not Josh Groban, and if I were you, I'd steer clear of even Happy Birthday.
2. Francis Scott Key wrote specific lyrics 200 years ago. Don't try to improve on them. And if you don't know the words to the first commonly sung verse--and call yourself an American--you ought to be ashamed. There's a time in life when these lyrics should be learned. We call it second grade. If, in the middle of singing, you draw a blank (Christina, you are only the latest, not the first, to suffer this shame. It happened to Robert Goulet, too, back in the day.), do not simply repeat the line you last remember singing. Which, for all you know, might be from a different song. (Imagine, for instance. "Imagine there's no countries..." does not fit well into any national anthem.) And don't try to make people forget your mistake by gargling gibberish or by adding a bunch of notes that aren't there (see Rule 3) or by doubling down on the drama (see Rule 4). Most Americans know the words and are not as stupid as you think they are. You're better off humming until the lights come back on.
3. Mr. Key also wrote specific notes. Sing his, not yours. Again, you can not improve on them. If you think you can, with all the emotional freight they carry, you are delusional. The time (Christina) for self-indulgence is when you are by yourself--perhaps in the shower--when you may feel free to mangle any song as you see fit. You are not Jimi Hendrix's Stratocaster and the Super Bowl is not Woodstock. Aim for the note--and only that one note--as written, not a riff of six or seven of them that are sort of in the neighborhood.
4. The Star-Spangled Banner carries all the necessary emotional baggage all by itself. It's a simple song, really--however tricky to sing well (as you now know, Christina)--conveying one simple image: the flag of the fledgling nation, flying over a beseiged fort at twilight, survives a tumultous night of battle and still flies when morning comes. Metaphorically, it suggests that that banner, the symbol of the nation, will keep flying, unconquered, come what may, because it is infused with the American spirit of freedom and courage. Your job (Christina) is to deliver and renew that message of faith and hope. It's a strong message. It doesn't need your help--only your sincerity.
5. It is the National Anthem, not a cattle call. To be asked to sing it publicly is an honor. It is not an audition for American Idol, wherein one feels the urgency to show J-Lo all one's chops in ninety seconds. It's all about dignity and passionate restraint, not love gone wrong. Plus, it is a song for all Americans, not just white people (note to narcissistic black singers and their pale imitators (Christina): it's your song too. As a percentage of the population, there were at least as many black Americans at the time it was written as there are today, so stop mucking it up.) Nor is it a war song (note to the dovish: yes, rockets glare and bombs burst--as they are wont to do--but it is about an indomitable people and the ideals they live by, not an ode to violence). It is a hymn asserting that we will rise above all obstacles and should be sung in that spirit.
6. Unless you are Whitney Houston or Josh Groban (or comparably gifted), do not go for the Big Finish. (Sadly, yes, Christina, this means you.) Our anthem ends with an upbeat, dramatic, emotional flourish as written, without embellishment, but if you can jump an octave on "free" (as in "o'er the la-and of the free-EEE")--a feat that's usually managed by an accompanying trumpet, by all means do so. People love that and it's in good taste. But if you are not sure you can hit that note, because you are an alto (Christina), do not gear up for it and then lose your nerve at the last possible second. This is anti-climactic and makes you look foolish--and the wrong note can be held until you turn blue and still sound like a siren.
The tragedy, Christina, is that you are not without talent like so many of your peers. The truth is that I feel kind of sorry for you right now--humiliation is a heavy cross to bear. And the up side is that your talent may well bring you another opportunity. When it comes, I hope these simple rules help you knock it out of the park.
2. Francis Scott Key wrote specific lyrics 200 years ago. Don't try to improve on them. And if you don't know the words to the first commonly sung verse--and call yourself an American--you ought to be ashamed. There's a time in life when these lyrics should be learned. We call it second grade. If, in the middle of singing, you draw a blank (Christina, you are only the latest, not the first, to suffer this shame. It happened to Robert Goulet, too, back in the day.), do not simply repeat the line you last remember singing. Which, for all you know, might be from a different song. (Imagine, for instance. "Imagine there's no countries..." does not fit well into any national anthem.) And don't try to make people forget your mistake by gargling gibberish or by adding a bunch of notes that aren't there (see Rule 3) or by doubling down on the drama (see Rule 4). Most Americans know the words and are not as stupid as you think they are. You're better off humming until the lights come back on.
3. Mr. Key also wrote specific notes. Sing his, not yours. Again, you can not improve on them. If you think you can, with all the emotional freight they carry, you are delusional. The time (Christina) for self-indulgence is when you are by yourself--perhaps in the shower--when you may feel free to mangle any song as you see fit. You are not Jimi Hendrix's Stratocaster and the Super Bowl is not Woodstock. Aim for the note--and only that one note--as written, not a riff of six or seven of them that are sort of in the neighborhood.
4. The Star-Spangled Banner carries all the necessary emotional baggage all by itself. It's a simple song, really--however tricky to sing well (as you now know, Christina)--conveying one simple image: the flag of the fledgling nation, flying over a beseiged fort at twilight, survives a tumultous night of battle and still flies when morning comes. Metaphorically, it suggests that that banner, the symbol of the nation, will keep flying, unconquered, come what may, because it is infused with the American spirit of freedom and courage. Your job (Christina) is to deliver and renew that message of faith and hope. It's a strong message. It doesn't need your help--only your sincerity.
5. It is the National Anthem, not a cattle call. To be asked to sing it publicly is an honor. It is not an audition for American Idol, wherein one feels the urgency to show J-Lo all one's chops in ninety seconds. It's all about dignity and passionate restraint, not love gone wrong. Plus, it is a song for all Americans, not just white people (note to narcissistic black singers and their pale imitators (Christina): it's your song too. As a percentage of the population, there were at least as many black Americans at the time it was written as there are today, so stop mucking it up.) Nor is it a war song (note to the dovish: yes, rockets glare and bombs burst--as they are wont to do--but it is about an indomitable people and the ideals they live by, not an ode to violence). It is a hymn asserting that we will rise above all obstacles and should be sung in that spirit.
6. Unless you are Whitney Houston or Josh Groban (or comparably gifted), do not go for the Big Finish. (Sadly, yes, Christina, this means you.) Our anthem ends with an upbeat, dramatic, emotional flourish as written, without embellishment, but if you can jump an octave on "free" (as in "o'er the la-and of the free-EEE")--a feat that's usually managed by an accompanying trumpet, by all means do so. People love that and it's in good taste. But if you are not sure you can hit that note, because you are an alto (Christina), do not gear up for it and then lose your nerve at the last possible second. This is anti-climactic and makes you look foolish--and the wrong note can be held until you turn blue and still sound like a siren.
The tragedy, Christina, is that you are not without talent like so many of your peers. The truth is that I feel kind of sorry for you right now--humiliation is a heavy cross to bear. And the up side is that your talent may well bring you another opportunity. When it comes, I hope these simple rules help you knock it out of the park.
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