the fascist in me

Smoldering somewhere....

When I was about four, my Dad was watching a World War II movie with my older sister. There were German soldiers, with armbands, and my Dad pointed them out to my sister. I couldn’t hear what he said, but it seemed important. The symbols on those armbands seemed like a big deal.

Wanting to impress my Dad, the next day I drew a swastika on a piece of paper. “Daddy look!” I said, expecting praise.

Instead, he reared in horror. “A swastika!” he gasped. “It means to kill the Jews!”

He knew what it meant. His whole family, save him and one brother, had been killed in Lithuania under the terror of the swastika.

I burst into tears. My Mom tried to soften it. “Look, you drew it backwards,” she said.

Backwards or not, that little symbol has remained imprinted on my soul, a little blotch that I know is there, somewhere, lurking.

To be guarded against. A little pilot light, smoldering somewhere, that could rage out of control, if, what—the fear ever got too great?

A few nights ago I had a dream. I had just played a show at some festival. There was a long line of people, mostly teens, waiting to talk to me. Usually these receiving lines are fun. “You were great! Good job!”

Not this time. “You were terrible.” “That was the worst.” “That was horrible.”

It was hard to hear. We all like to be liked. We all want approval, a pat on the back,

Sometimes it doesn’t come. Sometimes we aren’t popular. What then?

Once I was in Jerusalem. I wrote two songs while I was there. I played a little show for a group of young rabbis and cantors-to-be.

One was “Jerusalem.” It’s a fun, rambling song that leads up to the chorus, “I am the Messiah.”

They went nuts. They loved it. To this day, it’s one of my more popular songs.

Then I played my second song. I had a notion that one could reclaim bad symbols, symbols of hate, and remake them so as to diffuse their power. With the power of art.

This second song was called “My Little Swastika.” The idea was to recast the symbol, change its meaning, rob it of its dark power.

“It stands for John, Paul, George and Ringo

“It stands for Groucho, Harpo, Zeppo and Chico

“It looks like four 7’s, which is 28

“Which is half of Joe Dimaggio’s hitting streak

“My little swastika, My little swastika,

“You can do what you want, but I’m taking it back

“It’s not yours anymore, it’s mine now….”

They hated it. They were horrified. Whatever good will I had done with “Jerusalem” was negated by “My Little Swastika.”

We can’t all be popular all the time. Sometimes we will be liked. Sometimes we won’t. Sometimes we may even be hated, reviled. What then?

I’m still aware of that little swastika, somewhere inside. Am I happy at someone else’s misfortune? If someone else is booed, do I shine brighter? If someone else loses, do I win? If someone else is singled out, made fun of, shouted down, sent away, do I breathe a little easier? In dark times, are we relieved when it’s someone else that takes the heat?

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“The Fascist in Me”, recorded at KPIG, with the great Utah Phillips sitting alongside:

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