MUSINGS

I never listened to Fleetwood Mac before moving to Augusta, GA. In my early CSRA years, Jackie—my best friend, who died in a car accident I still blame myself for, even though I wasn’t there, which is why I blame myself—wasn’t surprised by my reaction to the opening riff of The Chain.

Once the song ended, she simply said:
“Every man has a place,” to which I sang back instantly,
“In his heart, there’s a space,” picking a key that matched both our voices.
She followed with, “And the world can’t erase his fantasies.”
Me next: “Take a ride in the sky, on our ship, Fantasy.”
She added, “All your dreams will come true, right away.”
Together, in perfect two-part harmony (I was high, she was low), we completed the first verse:
“And we will live together until the twelfth of never.
Our voices will ring forever, as one!”

Jackie’s theory was that Fleetwood Mac was to white kids growing up in the ’70s and ’80s what Earth, Wind & Fire was to Black kids. Both albums dropped around the same time, and though I doubt many sixth graders in the late ’80s chose The Chain as their graduation song the way mine did with Fantasy (or The Greatest Love of All, forever tarnished back then by Eddie Murphy’s Sexual Chocolate), I can just picture a Midwestern sixth-grade class singing Landslide to their weeping parents.

But The Chain has been stuck in my head all week. And Fantasy…
“Listen to the wind blow… watch the sun rise…”

As an amateur singer, I never really paid attention to lyrics. Since people are used to hearing words and not just tones, they’re a necessary evil. I can’t remember song lyrics, but I can remember the melody, the harmonies, the key changes—and if I really know a song, I will always (or used to be able to) sing my part in tune and never waver. Even now, after all this time, I hear music and want to break it down like a musician.

But I can’t seem to ignore lyrics anymore—partly because singing along to music without knowing the words gets you mocked (even if you’re oohing a perfect third above) here in Augusta. And since my singing voice is subpar compared to the virtuosity most people expect, it’s never been in style. It’s not Broadway, it’s not R&B, it’s not pop. My voice never really changed (premature!). It was stunted, like my height and my emotions.

Americans place such a high premium on youth. Only recently could a parent reasonably expect children to make it past two. Premature children grow up kind of messed up—heart conditions, pigeon-toed, astigmatism, weird, tilted vaginas, and fetus-killing blood. That’s me! So many miscarriages during the Quarantine as my body gave it the old college try.

I wonder how long it will take before miscarriages become criminalized. Changes in the law have already emboldened Emory University to keep a corpse alive because there was a six-week-old fetus inside. Though they swear it’s because of the law, I truly believe it’s for research—this after the hospital ignored the woman’s headache, as they do whenever a person of color is in pain.

Did you know some people still believe Black people don’t feel pain as badly as white people? I’ve heard it as recently as a few months ago—from another Black person in Augusta. Is it any wonder I’m reluctant to age here? The level of pain I must be in has to be fatal before receiving any care from the hospital.

Emory may fear being sued, but really, they lucked out on this case. Imagine the prestige—the research paper, the data—if they prove they only need our dead bodies to incubate a baby. The rights of the child override any rights a woman has once conception occurs.

In fact, wouldn’t it just be easier to lobotomize little girls when they get their first period? It’s just like circumcision—women don’t need brains to give birth. We’d be happier. And these woke social justice warriors or liberal educators trying to change society to make boys cut off their wieners will no longer victimize the hearts and minds of the greatest beings that have ever walked the Earth, made in GODS image to rule Divine RIGHT. I can just see it now:

TBC