I’ve been thinking a lot lately about sincerity—and some of that thinking has been directed at place, and its potential effect on the ability to be comfortable in one’s skin, whether alone or with others. Sometime down the line, I might expand upon what follows. For now, though, I’ll let the little meditation sit for a while.
A football-loving friend informed me this week that trouble was brewing over at my alma mater over its school song. Knowing I may be my country’s most ignorant citizen when it comes to the sport, he was floored that I could sing an entire verse—and was then sort of relieved that I hadn’t been possessed by the spirit of a gridiron fanatic; I revealed that those lines were still lodged in my brain because we’d had to translate the thing into Spanish one semester, with predictably laughable results.
But as the lyrics came out of my mouth, I was reminded of the sense I’d had long ago that the song was pretty creepy. Observe:
The eyes of Texas are upon you,
All the live long day.
The eyes of Texas are upon you,
You cannot get away.
Do not think you can escape them,
At night, or early in the morn.
The eyes of Texas are upon you,
'Till Gabriel blows his horn! (1)
Those few lines would apparently have you believe the entire state is one transcendent Big Brother, nailing down you and your behavior, your beliefs, your commitments, with its all-seeing eye—which, if touted in the same fashion everything else is in the state, is probably bigger than all other all-seeing eyes in the universe, and therefore, apparently, better.
After our conversation, I realized it’s not just the state trying to keep you in line; most of my formative years were spent in its capital city, which is a different variety of panopticon. At some point, the goofy Austin that saw me through my teens and early twenties turned into what felt like the headquarters of a hipster marketing campaign. Every item of clothing, musical selection, or drop-in at a coffee shop would be noticed and recorded—but, you know, casually. I only grasped after leaving the place for good that the most subversive thing I could’ve done would have been to walk down the street in a suit and heels.
I’ve been spoiled in the past few years in Chicago, where (at least when a deadly virus is not raging) no one even notices your presence, even when you’re glued to some portion of their body in a packed morning train. I’ve settled into the curious calm tucked into the frantic storm of packed streets and sidewalks. But it took a couple of years to find that still point, to believe in the permission the city grants to be invisible. When I moved out here, I threw myself right into the artsy hustle, from tiny theater performances to a park full of fire twirlers, symphony rehearsals to little ensembles making surprising music with kitchen appliances. I caught all the obscure films at equally obscure locations, fought with retirees for seats at lunchtime concerts. Until one night, it all became too much.
There I was in a packed art space, watching a woman who’d been flown in from France and given a grant to treat everyone to the sight of her rolling on the floor and grunting while one hand held her nostrils in that way elementary school kids do to pretend they’re pigs. The wild look in her eyes proved she was giving this performance her all, that she’d long ago busted through any barrier of doubt and was close to some realm of savage beatitude. But I was already fully convinced of her commitment by the sight of the single boob she’d removed from her tank top and allowed to flop perilously of its own accord as she writhed and oinked before us all. I kept panning over the spectators’ faces; were those nods and frowns of concentration signs of the viewers’ understanding and sincere appreciation of this show? Attempts to look like they knew what was going on—or massive efforts at not laughing or screaming?
The friend who’d accompanied me just went ahead and stormed out; I followed, admittedly glad to get out of there and not have to sit around for Q&A as everyone tried not to look at the performer’s bruised breast. We had to get the shrieking and the feral visuals out of our minds; for some reason, that meant roaming through the aisles of a nearby Salvation Army and savoring all the middle-class castoffs arranged by color in neat rows: collared t-shirts, blouses you could wear to even the squarest office, mom jeans. This was in no way one of the hip vintage stores of my hometown, decking itself out in irony and somehow believing anyone would pay $40 for a pair of unwashed Polyester trousers from 1973. But best of all? John Denver flowing through the tinny sound system, just there to tell us that “Sunshine on my shoulders makes me happy.”
Augsburger Wunderzeichenbuch, ca. 1552. Public domain image courtesy Wikimedia Commons.
Yes. Yes, John Denver, I thought, closing my eyes next to a rack of worn handbags. Sunshine does make me happy. I kept listening, leaving behind me a lifetime of scant attention paid to this or any other of his songs; I’m of the generation that probably got to know the guy through his appearances on the Muppets and his comically lame “Plant a Tree” jingle. For the next week, “Sunshine on My Shoulders” was on heavy rotation, and I let that sincere voice croon about just wanting to make the person he’s singing to happy, hand over the wish for a day just as perfect as the one he’s experiencing, and sun so great it makes him high. The allure of the song was its complete lack of coercion. The sun just is, man, and it’s good. Neither sun nor singer is demanding anyone’s attention, or making sure you never get out of its sight. If you duck under a tree for some shade, that ball of flame won’t take offense and think you’re trying to escape it, or acting improperly or betraying your roots. I could only assume John Denver didn’t give a damn what you were wearing, and I’m guessing if you didn’t like his songs, that was OK, too. Whatever makes you happy. Maybe plant a tree if you feel like it.
Here was the live-and-let-live goodwill that my hometown, so eager to prove itself a casual mecca, had turned into an imperative. Maybe it’d spent too much of its life hearing the university’s loyalty jingle floating through the air, and applied the song’s stern-eyed observation to the citizens at large. Whatever it was, that phone call made me glad I’d escaped it, or at least developed some resistance to peer pressure; made me thankful to be sitting in old jeans and sweater, talking to a good friend and feeling the late-fall sunshine through the window. I was happy to be in a place where I could, if I felt like it, dip into all manner of oddities, where people might truly dig the sight of an artist contorting herself on cold tile—but a place that also didn’t require proof of attendance an any event, or the right preferences in clothes or beer or sports or anything else, to certify me as a worthwhile person. This sense of ease, of belonging: maybe it would only last the morning. But it could almost make a person high.
(1) Lyrics on Demand also has the words to the fight song; thanks for teaching me what I should’ve known back in the mid-’90s.