When I started this practice, I intended to talk about what was on my mind, what the song brought up for me. As it has evolved, I have incorporated a lot of history, literary criticism, and musicology, along with my thoughts and feelings.
My thought today is that this song, thought to be a response to the Emancipation Proclamation, must speak for itself.
Oh, freedom, oh, freedom, oh, freedom, over me;
and before I’d be a slave,
I’d be buried in my grave,
and go home to my God and be free.
No more moaning, no more moaning, no more moaning over me;
and before I’d be a slave,
I’d be buried in my grave,
and go home to my God and be free.
There’ll be singing, there’ll be singing, there’ll be singing over me;
and before I’d be a slave,
I’d be buried in my grave,
and go home to my God and be free.
A final note: while today is a general strike, A Day Without Women, I recognize that actually striking is a privileged position, and most women will not be able to completely strike, even if it’s just their work at home for family. For me, I signed up for events before the strike was announced that I cannot back out of, nor should I. Instead, I will wear red, and I will remember that at my worst I have more freedom than most, and that my work must be in part to ensure all who identify as women are free.
Today’s post will be very short, as I have succumbed finally to the respiratory crud going around. But I do have a thing or two to say about this song, which I could not sing, physically or emotionally.
First, I am glad we have a chance to see some of the less cheerful, less hopeful spirituals – this more than any other song that I’ve encountered shows the realities and cruelty of slavery, and the sadness of all who died because of it.
But also, this is more evidence that the hymnal isn’t a book of songs to sing, it is a collection of music that speaks to our living tradition, some of which are preserved (I suspect) for historical purposes. This song speaks to the dark realities of slavery, which some Unitarians and Universalists fought against and some Unitarians and Universalists fought for. Ours is an ugly and complicated history around slavery, colonization, and race relations.
This song sits in our hymnal as a stark reminder.
No more auction block for me. No more, no more.
No more auction block for me, many thousand gone.
No more driver’s lash for me. No more, no more.
No more driver’s lash for me, many thousand gone.
No more peck of corn for me. No more, no more.
No more peck of corn for me, many thousand gone.
No more pint of salt for me. No more, no more.
No more pint of salt for me, many thousand gone.
But for god’s sake, unless you have a very particular context and very particular performers, don’t sing this. Let it speak without singing.
Oh the things you learn when you challenge your assumptions…
In late January, I co-led an interfaith service focused on resistance, which featured the support of the local AME Zion choir; thus, while music came from several sources, we did lean heavily on the gospel genre, and we chose this song as our sending call. I was surprised to hear the choir sing “stayed on Jesus” – because I had only ever heard “freedom” and I thought “huh” – I guess this is their adaptation of this spiritual to fit their religious needs. I was, in fact, pretty certain that the lyric was changed TO Jesus at some point.
When I opened the hymnal today, I again read “Words and Music: African American spiritual (1750-1875). Assumption confirmed.
Or not.
Even as I sang this, seeing it as a powerful song speaking to the call of freedom and justice through the ages, I wondered about that Jesus line. So… I trotted over to the internet, and discovered this: “Reverend Osby of Aurora, Illinois created this revamp of an old gospel song ‘I woke up this morning with my mind stayed on Jesus’ while spending time in Hinds County jail during the freedom rides.”
And so, while it might have roots as a spiritual (I can’t find anything to confirm or deny this at 8:15 on a Sunday morning), it is – as we have it today – a song of the civil rights movement.
Oh, I woke up this morning with my mind stayed on freedom.
Woke up this morning with my mind stayed on freedom.
Woke up this morning with my mind stayed on freedom,
Hallelu, Hallelu, Halleluia.
I was walking and talking with my mind …
I was singing and praying with my mind …
Oh, I woke up this morning with my mind …
And it’s a song we need today, because we are fighting the same fights and we can’t ever forget.
—
The image is of the Freedom Singers at a 1963 event.
Hurrah for the Hymnal Commission, who noted at the bottom of the page that this was a code song used by the Underground Railroad, much like Wade in the Water and Swing Low, Sweet Chariot, to communicate the map to freedom.
I won’t go through the whole song – there are plenty of sites that do that for you. Of course, the drinking gourd is the big dipper, ‘when the sun comes back and the first quail calls’ is springtime; the second two verses are remarkably explicit.
The question, of course, is whether they’re too explicit, and was this version written after the Civil War? There’s some evidence to suggest that might be the case, although it’s also possible that it’s not at all contradictory to have some lyrics codified in various forms long after the original was sung, thanks to oral tradition.
(Chorus)
Follow the drinking gourd,
follow the drinking gourd,
for the old man is awaiting for to carry you to freedom,
follow the drinking gourd.
When the sun comes back and the first quail calls,
follow the drinking gourd.
The old man is awaiting for to carry you to freedom,
follow the drinking gourd.
(Chorus)
Now the river bank makes a mighty good road,
the dead trees will show you the way.
Left foot, peg foot, traveling on,
follow the drinking gourd.
(Chorus)
Now the river ends between two hills
follow the drinking gourd.
There’s another river on the other side,
follow the drinking gourd.
(Chorus)
Whether or not we believe that exactly these verses are what was sung in 1860, this song is a potent reminder of the bravery of Harriet Tubman and those – white and black – who worked the Railroad. It’s a potent reminder of the strength and power of music. And it’s a tribute to the enduring heart and soul of the oppressed.
Again, we must sing it with care. Of course. But I think we have been left enough breadcrumbs that we’re unlikely to enter this one without some care.
I think I know why white people don’t sing this song well.
I may be late to the party on this, but it dawned on me as I was singing: we don’t know what it’s like to NOT be free.
Sure, we get close if we’re female, or queer, or live with a disability, or trans. We know the hard, scary restrictions and compromises to our rights. But if we’re one or more of those things and we’re white, we get a pass. Because we don’t have, in our living memory, a deep, soul-rooted knowledge of what it means to be in chains. We just don’t.
We white people can sing this all day long, and groove to versions of this song by John Legend and the Roots, and Nina Simone, and Natalie Cole (who sang it at the White House in 2010), or even the original, by NYC jazzman Billy Taylor– but the truth is, we can only listen to the deep, soul-rooted longing of the African Americans for whom this is reality.
I wish I knew how it would feel to be free.
I wish I could break all these chains holding me.
I wish I could say all the things I could say,
Say ‘em loud, say ‘em clear for the whole world to hear.
Say ‘em loud, say ‘em clear for the whole world to hear.
I wish I could share all the love in my heart,
remove all the bars that still keep us apart.
I wish you could know what it means to be me,
then you’d see and agree everyone should be free.
Then you’d see, and agree everyone should be free.
I wish I could give all I’m longing to give.
I wish I could live like I’m longing to live.
I wish I could do all the things I can do,
though I’m way overdue I’d be starting anew.
Though I’m way overdue I’d be starting anew.
I wish I could be like a bird in the sky.
How sweet it would be if I found I could fly.
I’d soar to the sun and look down at the sea,
then I’d sing ‘cause I’d know how it feels to be free.
Then I’d sing ‘cause I’d know how it feels to be free.
For what it’s worth, I love the song, and I have sung it with gusto, because in my heart of hearts, I wish everyone could be free. But I can’t sing it the way it’s meant to be sung, because I can’t pretend for a second that I understand the longing in my deep, soul-root.
It was spring 2011, and a small committee of Unitarian Universalists from four NY Capital Region congregations were planning our third joint service. We had moved to a new venue, which features an historic tracker organ, and we decided to do a hymn sing before the service, featuring the organ. Thus, we were selecting familiar, rousing hymns we thought would sound especially good on the organ, and I suggested this one.
One of the committee members, colleague Viola (Vee) Abbitt, recoiled, feeling some shock that I had cavalierly suggested this hymn be used without context. Vee explained her concerns, namely that this piece is considered the African American National Anthem and is not to be thought of as just another hymn, especially when it would be so casually sung by a predominantly white crowd greeting each other and finding their seats.
Of course, I quickly eliminated it from the list, and later went home to learn more.
I learned that this song, originally written as a poem by James Weldon Johnson and set to music by his brother John Rosamond Johnson, was sung by a group of young black children at a segreated school in Jacksonville, Florida, to honor Booker T. Washington. It became popular almost immediately, and by 1919, the NAACP dubbed it the African American National Anthem. It is said that this was one of Martin Luther King, Jr.’s favorite hymns.
And thus, we must be careful about using it.
Yes, these powerful lyrics could be sung about, by, and for many today – and yet it is specific enough that we should not consider for a moment adopting it or colonizing it for other needs. I think back to the lesson I learned in seminary, that we cannot make a presumption of sameness or else we run the risk of normalizing events, attitudes, and experiences that are not shared, not universal, not normal.
Resist the urge to use this song for purposes other than talking about racism, Jim Crow, the NAACP, and the incredible, bittersweet, angry yet hopeful expression of resistance that I see reflected by my African American friends and colleagues.
Lift every voice and sing, till earth and heaven ring,
ring with the harmonies of liberty;
let our rejoicing rise high as the listening skies,
let it resound loud as the rolling sea.
Sing a song full of the faith that the dark past has taught us;
sing a song full of the hope that the present has brought us;
facing the rising sun of our new day begun,
let us march on till victory is won.
Stony the road we trod, bitter the chastening rod,
felt in the days when hope unborn had died;
yet with a steady beat, have not our weary feet
come to the place for which our fathers sighed?
We have come over a way that with tears has been watered;
we have come, treading our path thru the blood of the slaughtered,
out from the gloomy past, till now we stand at last
where the white gleam of our bright star is cast.
God of our weary years, God of our silent tears,
thou who hast brought us thus far on the way;
thou who hast by thy might led us into the light,
keep us forever in the path, we pray.
Lest our feet stray from the places, our God, where we met thee;
lest our hearts drunk with the wine of the world, we forget thee;
shadowed beneath thy hand, may we forever stand,
true to our God, true to our native land.
Do not colonize this song. Let it shine in the context in which it is intended.
This is a Kwanzaa hymn. The only one we have, apparently.
It is placed in this second source section, between In Time to Come and Freedom. I understand, from a sources point of view, why this isn’t slipped in between the Christmas and Epiphany hymns, but still.
Its lyrics (which are shockingly generic UU, except for “the lights of Kwanzaa”) are from an anonymous source, without even a clue from Between the Lines where they were found.
Its tune a very lovely little piece written by UU Musicians Network stalwart Betty Jo Angelbranndt (may she rest in peace), but definitely, if I may be so bold, a white people’s tune. For Christmas.
I am so confused. Kwanzaa is a celebration of African heritage in African American culture. And all we can manage is an anonymous lyric set to a white composer’s Christmas hymn?
I’m very confused. And awfully ashamed of us.
When all the peoples on this earth know deep inside their precious worth
when every single soul is free, we’ll earn the name Humanity.
The choice to be the best we can begins the day we say, “I am.”
The unity for which we sigh will never come through hate or lie.
The lights of Kwanzaa now proclaim that when we share our inner flame
and nurture root and branch with pride, we’ll harvest peace both far and wide.
Dear Anyone who might be on the next Hymnal Commission:
Y’all, this song brings up the same commentary about aspiration, and the same commentary about cultural appropriation, and the same commentary about gender inclusion, and the same commentary about zipper songs that I’ve offered before and will be compelled to offer again.
And the truth is, I’m too tired to make the same arguments again. I fear this is one of those times when “ditto” is exactly the right answer, resolving in a predictable “use it with care and caution” and, more often than not “I’m not inclined to use it.”
So… all that being said about this spiritual, let me share two thoughts:
First: There’s a different version of this song that is embedded in the old-time gospel tradition that has been covered by countless gospel singers and choruses. It’s rousing and cheery and definitely old school. This is one of my favorites:
Second: I was trying to read a bit about the imagery of Zion in spirituals, and while my first google search didn’t result in much, I did run across Thomas Wentworth Higginson’s piece for the June 1867 Atlantic Monthly, entitled “Negro Spirituals.” A Union officer (and a Unitarian minister), Higginson was instrumental in the success and survival of the Port Royal Experiment (Later the Penn School, now the Penn Center) which taught the three R’s and other skills to the runaway and later newly freed people.
Now if you read the article, you will, of course, be confronted with the attitudes of the time – even the most enlightened white person of the day still carried with them a tangible systemic racism. But if you can get beyond that, you’ll find something quite amusing:
Remember when I talked about the encoding of spirituals – that they carried important information about the Underground Railroad? It was key to their survival, even while the white ears who heard the songs just thought they were religious in nature. Well…. Good ol’ Thomas had himself a moment with one of these songs:
“O, Jordan bank was a great old bank !
Dere ain’t but one more river to cross.
We have some valiant soldier here,
Dere ain t, &c.
O, Jordan stream will never run dry,
Dere ain’t, &c.
Dere’s a hill on my leff, and he catch on my right,
Dere ain’t but one more river to cross.”
I could get no explanation of this last riddle, except, “Dat mean, if you go on de leff, go to ‘struction, and if you go on de right, go to God, for sure.”
For sure. Nothing to see here, white man. I know you’re on my side, but there’s nothing to see here. Move along now. For sure.
Heh heh.
Anyway… here’s the lyrics. Make of this song what you will, but be careful and cautious in its use.
I’ve got a new name over in Zion,
I’ve got a new name over in Zion,
I’ve got a new name over in Zion!
It’s mine, it’s mine, it’s mine,
I declare, it’s mine!
I’ve got a mother over in Zion,
I’ve gat a mother over in Zion,
I’ve got a mother over in Zion!
She’s mine, she’s mine, she’s mine,
I declare, she’s mine!
I’ve got a father over in Zion,
I’ve got a father over in Zion,
I’ve got a father over in Zion!
He’s mine, he’s mine, he’s mine,
I declare, he’s mine!
I’ve got a new life over in Zion,
I’ve got a new life over in Zion,
I’ve got a new life over in Zion!
It’s mine, it’s mine, it’s mine,
I declare, it’s mine!
Photo is of a path near the Sea Islands, Georgia. No idea if it looked like that 150 years ago, but it’s awfully pretty.
This is traditionally a cheery piece – one of the few songs Unitarian Universalists feel comfortable clapping to. Everybody knows it and harmonizes to it and it feels sweet and simple and fun.
This morning, after a Saturday full of the unreasonable ban against some of our Muslim neighbors – which, despite a stay from a federal judge, is still being enforced; the dire predictions of war from China; and this morning’s news that the National Security Council no longer has any military members but only ideological sycophants… this morning, “This Little Light of Mine” is a call to arms.
It can be so easy to hide under the covers in fear, or be paralyzed by the overwhelming need, or sit back and say “my days of activism are over.” But we cannot. To quote Bernice Johnson Reagon, “we who believe in freedom cannot rest.”
And this song – again from the African American spirituals tradition – reminds us to show up. Despite the pain and fear and anger, we have to let our light shine – a light of freedom, justice, equality, openness, courage, compassion, peace, love.
Let us turn this song from a sweet, light, happy song to a song of defiant protest and resistance.
This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine.
This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine.
This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine.
Let it shine, let it shine, let it shine.
I don’t know where to begin with this one – while it is a joyful song of determination to sing, there are so many layers of complexity, and as a middle-aged white woman, I feel uncomfortable making any assumptions or proclamations about the things that make me go “hmm” here. So I’ll pose some questions and let those be my reflection.
According to Jacqui James in Between the Lines, the Hymnal Commission decided to rename the tune “Ethelred” to honor pioneering African American minister Egbert Ethelred Brown. Yet this is a traditional spiritual. So… cool? Not cool because it is still white people making a change to a song of the enslaved? Shortsighted but decent? Or totally excellent? (I know a member of that commission reads this blog, so I hope he’ll jump in with some insight.)
Also curious: many of the spirituals in our hymnal are called “spiritual” but this one is called “folk tune” – and I wonder why it’s parsed that way.
A question for ministers and music directors – how freely do you change/shift zipper songs like this to be more inclusive? We’re coming up on some more soon that sing to brothers and sisters, which reinforces a gender binary we now know to be incomplete. So do you add a verse? Change a verse and leave out another? Sing it as is to honor its origins (not knowing for certain what the original words are anyway)?
And then, if you do make changes, are you colonizing another’s music, or following a time-honored folk tradition? Can a folk musician like Reggie Harris change it because he is black, but not Joe Jencks because he is white? What are the rules? Are there rules?
I guess my questions come up in my attempts to be better as an ally but not treat it all so preciously either. I know that no matter what your place of privilege, you never get allyship 100% right, but I’d like to always be doing a little better, and music is one place where I can tangibly enter the work.
I’m on my way to the freedom land.
I’m on my way to the freedom land.
I’m on my way to the freedom land.
I’m on my way, great God, I’m on my way.
I asked my sister, come and go with me..
I asked my brother, come and go with me….
If they say no, I’ll go anyhow….
I’m on my way, and I won’t turn back…
And… as a song for our times, this certainly is one. We’re taking up the call to resistance, and asking those around us to come with us, to resist oppression and be free. And for people with marginalized identities, it is a matter of life and death. Yet: I hesitate to use this song for a new purpose without interrogating it first.
THE ART OF MEANING 