Most of my family, friends, followers of this blog or readers of my books know that I was once a loyal and devoted fan of Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band.
I even named this blog for Springsteen. D Street was the only name I thought fit when I decided to give my blog a name. Sigh.
First, a little background. I became a listener of Springsteen’s music in my twenties, back before America began to polarize. I have many favorites in Classic Rock, but for some reason — most likely because the song The River seemed to describe my husband and myself, the birth of our first child, and our struggles to make ends meet early in our marriage — Springsteen became my favorite artist. We could have been the subjects of that song. We were the same age as they were, 17 and 19. The only difference was that my husband never had union card, and we got married in a church.
My love of Bruce’s music grew over the years. We saw Springsteen and the E Streeters for the first time back in the mid 1990s. We had no idea what the future would bring, and that America would be such a hotbed of hatred, lies and division twenty years later.
Life went on, and George W. Bush was elected President in 2000. Though I noticed the Democrats and their hatred of Bush during his presidency, I didn’t really understand how deep it went, or that those on the far Left who hated Bush with the burning of a thousand suns also hated us, the Americans who elected him.
After September 11, 2001, Springsteen made a tribute album, The Rising. I bought it and listened, not realizing that Bruce and the E Streeters hated Bush with a passion. Yes, I was naive back then, I admit. I still thought the best of people, no matter their political persuasion.
I don’t think there were as many haters back then. Family members and friends of differing political persuasions were still speaking to each other. And though the insults from Hollywood bothered me, and the comments on blogs I followed upset me because my son was serving under Bush in the War on Terror, I just figured we would mend fences somehow.
Then Barack Obama entered the consciousness of America.
That’s when it went bad. The day that man became a household name was the day that led to our present situation, where comedians, Hollywood stars, and even average Americans of the Democrat party think it’s okay to simulate our president being beheaded, and then cheer when his eleven year old son is traumatized by the sight.
We’ve all seen Kathy Griffin’s latest attempt at “comedy,” right? That’s when she took a fake bloody head of the president and posed for photos with it like an ISIS loser. Scott Adams says we’re all too triggered and we run the risk of becoming what we mocked — the perpetually outraged — for being upset about her fake decapitation of a sitting president (which his eleven-year-old witnessed and thought was real).
The above article was written by my friend, Megan Fox, a lovely person and mother of three. 🙂
Some Leftists in the twittersphere have voiced their opinion that Barron Trump lied, and that he didn’t actually see the head saw round the world. Some say he deserved to see what he saw because of “Obama’s daughters.”
*Note.* Barack Obama’s daughters never saw a comedian, a politician, an actress or actor, or anyone in the public spotlight hold up an effigy of their father appearing to be dead. It. Did. Not. Happen. A few racist nut jobs did cruel and hateful things, and also said cruel and hateful things about Obama, but not one person in the the public eye ever pulled a stunt like the one Kathy Griffin just pulled and then tried twist back on the Trump family.
The Obama girls had it no worse than the Bush girls did, or Chelsea Clinton before them. In fact, they probably had it better, since Conservatives were so scared of being called racists for disagreeing with Obama’s policies that barely anyone spoke out during his entire 8 years in office. Speaking out or going against Obama cost people jobs and reputations. Please google “Obama Rodeo Clown” for a lesson on what happened to people who did or said the “wrong” thing while Obama was in the Whitehouse.
So, what does this have to do with Springsteen?
In my case, quite a bit. For seven years of Obama’s reign of terror I continued listening to Springsteen and the E Streeters. I am an admirer of art, and I could keep the artist and his music separate, or so I thought. Every time Springsteen’s Leftist fans said something distasteful about Republicans online, I just shrugged, though it did make me feel bad to read what they thought of people like me.
But not all of his fans were like that. I know people who like Springsteen and are far from being haters, even if they don’t like Trump. So I understand that they don’t all hate us.
But I found out last year that Springsteen himself, his wife, the rest of his band, and many, many of those who consider themselves his biggest fans, do have a deep seated and visceral hatred for people like me.
(And, please, if any far Leftist is reading this, don’t even try to say it’s not hate. Because you’re lying to yourself if you believe it’s only Trump and his family and his cabinet that you hate. You hate the people who elected him, too. We know it, and unless and until your side stops the uncivilized behavior, we will continue to KNOW that you hate us, our families, our children and our friends.)
For more, check my posts regarding the Great Bathroom Sharing Injustice War of 2016 and its aftermath, described in my post “My Semi-Breakup with Classic Rock.”
Up until a year ago I had no idea that Springsteen and E Street Band felt the same way as their Leftist fans do about people who differ from them politically. When it slapped me in the face it was such a shock that I could hardly believe it. But, I had to face it.
Bruce Springsteen hates me. There is no other way to see this, especially now that President Trump is in office. The terrible behavior of some of the people connected to his band, and also the statements of Springsteen himself about Trump, leave zero doubt in my mind. He and the rest of them, and also their hardcore fans, HATE people who voted for Trump. They may not say the words, but their tweets, interviews and even songs they write speak volumes, as do the comments on any social media post concerning Springsteen’s opinion of Trump.
How can someone become so attached to a certain artist that they need to “recover” when the artist’s behavior becomes uncivil?
If I knew the answer to that I wouldn’t be writing this.
But one thing I do know is that the past year has been painful.
While I was writing my first two books–from 2009 until 2014 when I published Tears of Paradox and then found other authors who shared my way of seeing the world–I would go running in the park 3 or 4 times every week. I always prayed the Rosary on my runs, and when the prayers were finished I listened to music on my iPod. The majority of the music was by Springsteen.
I knew all the songs and lyrics from his early works. The songs were like ballads, telling stories that I could relate to, me with a family who were hit hard by Obama’s policies. The songs described work, prayer, hard times, and a promised land that waited for people who didn’t give up.
When I went home to write, parts of certain songs found their way into my books. Nobody but a true fan would notice this. When Jason took Michelle to see “some chick flick she had been talking about on the phone the week before” and then sat through it with her while thinking about how much he loved her, no one would connect the scene with the lyrics of The Fever unless they were looking for it. Jason and Michelle were truly in love, and did not have sex until they were married, another thing the Left despises and ridicules.
Well maybe out to a movie show
Something that you like to see
Because you were my sun in the morning
You’re my moon at night
When I think about it, makes me feel alright
Well now the day grow longer
The love just grows stronger, baby
And the fever gets so bad at night
I got the fever for a girl
Even after seeing two more Springsteen shows in 2012, and hearing him say he hates the Catholic Church, I was still too naive and hopeful for the future to really understand how much some of the people in the stadium with me despised my family and myself.
That was during the Wrecking Ball Tour. I enjoyed the album. One of the songs, Jack of all Trades, described my deceased father almost to the letter. My father could and did do every single shitty job described in that song, for family, friends and neighbors. I used the song when I made a tribute video for my Dad on the first anniversary of his death.
Imagine trying to watch that video now, knowing that the man singing the song would have despised my beloved father, a lifelong Republican and devout Catholic. Or else Springsteen would have dismissed my father, a man he couldn’t hold a candle to, as a misguided fool who didn’t know what the hell he was doing to himself when he entered a voting booth. Nether of these attitudes are acceptable to me.
But, what’s done is done.
I haven’t listened to Springsteen in over a year. My husband turns off the radio when his songs are played. During the course of the past year, I removed the music from my life, little by little. All the CDs are out of my car and back in their cases, which are soon to be moved to a closet, since we don’t play them anymore.
Eventually we will probably offer them to anyone who wants them. Facebook friends who still like Springsteen might be interested if we decide we will never listen again at some point in the future.
That’s another painful and awkward development — I used to post about Springsteen at least once a week on my Facebook page. Now, when Facebook memories show up, especially those involving friends, it’s just no fun. The memories are ugly to me now, but the friends are still my friends, and they are nice people. One of them also purged Springsteen from her life because of what he’s become. I never share the memories anymore.
All of this musing came about because I went running in the park today. My most recent Springsteen purge was from my iPod.
Which leads to still more baggage.
My first two books were written when I loved Bruce and the band, but much of the final installment, Cadáin’s Watch ,was written over the past year. It just wasn’t the same. I could not write in a positive manner about Springsteen anymore. So, though I still mentioned the music, (Michael Sean, one of my favorite characters, was based on the subject of the song Hard to be a Saint in the City) it was very difficult to do.
The story ended up with Jason, the main character, being unable to listen to Bruce anymore. Just like me.
Following are scenes that describe this. Jason and his father have reunited after being separated for thirty years, but they are still in danger from the FEDHCA, a totalitarian bureaucracy.
It’s my version of the regressive Left, who try to erase American history by removing monuments of U.S. Generals from the public square, the way the Taliban removed the statues of Buddha because they did not want to look at anything but their own sick religious ideology. The same regressive Left that thinks it’s okay to punch another American just for wearing a MAGA hat. The same hateful and intolerant Left that is secretly laughing at Barron Trump’s distress behind closed doors.
“Dad, I need to talk to you.”
He turned from the stereo and smiled. In his hand was his favorite album, Springsteen’s Darkness On The Edge Of Town. It was nearly fifty years old and didn’t have a scratch on it.
“All right, son. Let me drop the needle and we’ll sit down and talk.”
“No. Come outside. We can’t talk in here. And not while that record is playing.”
He was surprised. “Jason? You … this was always one of your favorites.”
I shook my head. “Dad, please. I can’t listen to it now. Come outside.”
He laid the album aside and followed me through the kitchen. Spencer jumped from his bed near the door and wagged his tail.
“Come on, boy,” Dad ordered as we went toward the mudroom. Spencer waited patiently for Dad to don his leather jacket. Then I opened the door, and the dog leaped out and began to walk the perimeter of the yard. He was a good watchdog.
We trudged through ice and snow to the tool shed and went inside.
“What’s this about?” Dad took his cigarettes from his pocket and shook a couple out of the pack.
“Something’s coming.” I flicked my zippo. The two of us leaned against the wall and smoked, side by side. “Have you noticed anything? The warrior is nearby almost all the time now.”
“I know something’s coming. It’s probably why I went to that album. I played it almost nonstop in the months before I left you.”
“I wanted you to. It was my favorite. But we can’t play it now.”
He turned to face me, squinting in the light from the open door.
Why? There’s a promised land. We’ve found it here. It’s the best thing we have this side of heaven.
Dad, please. I don’t want to listen to it now.
And again. This time Jason and Michael, his father, are discussing their hometown, which was overtaken by the bureaucracy.
My father was shaking my arm. “Son? Did you hear me?”
“Dad,” I whispered. “You know our town is covered by the darkness. That album… did we always know? I… did you think it might stay on the edge?”
“I did,” he answered. “I had some sort of understanding back then, but I thought it was all due to Leenie. And you’re right. Town is gone. Father says the residential areas are empty, and downtown looks like something out of Mad Max. I’m thankful he got to safety. We can thank Chippy for that.”
“Yeah. Most of our loved ones survived. But the darkness … it took a few, didn’t it?”
“I don’t want to hear that album again. It’ll make me think of town, and I want to forget.”
My good friend and fellow author, Marina Fontaine, has a theory about why music can become so important to people. It’s because you can feel music in your heart and soul. That’s why giving up on your favorite artist hurts so much.
Music is the universal language. It’s something humanity and civilization prizes. The reason the militant Islamists don’t allow music is because they are not civilized. Yet the regressive Left insists they are people of peace. Sometimes while emulating their butchery by holding up a severed head that looks like our president.
According to C.S. Lewis, Hell hates music and silence.
From the Screwtape Letters–the demon Screwtape speaks:
Music and silence — how I detest them both! … no square inch of infernal space and no moment of infernal time has been surrendered to either of those abominable forces, but all has been occupied by Noise — Noise, the grand dynamism, the audible expression of all that is exultant, ruthless, and virile … We will make the whole universe a noise in the end. We have already made great strides in that direction as regards the Earth. The melodies and silences of Heaven will be shouted down in the end. But I admit we are not yet loud enough, or anything like it. Research is in progress.
The above seems to describe the American media, and Hollywood, and Democrat politicians, and even a certain musician who has dismissed the very Americans he once wrote songs about. Now these people, the backbone of America, are known as racist, hateful hillbilly hicks because they differ from him politically and ideologically.
When I purged my iPod of Springsteen I decided to leave a few songs, favorites that remind me of writing. During today’s 3 mile run I listened to Fleetwood Mac, Steely Dan, Santana and The Eagles.
But when Springsteen’s Something in the Night (the song that inspired the character of Jason) began playing, I felt a twinge of anxiety. So I shuffled the iPod.
I forgot about it within a few seconds, and went on enjoying my run. I guess I’ll stick with my recovery, but I’ll keep those few songs on the iPod as a reminder that people–people who have never met me or heard of me–hate me because of my political choices.
This past year has shown that Leftists can and do dehumanize those who disagree with them. It’s very, very sobering. And it’s much more important to accept the truth, even though its almost too horrible to believe, than to pretend that everything is OK.
Everything is not OK. I just hope and pray the hatred will only be expressed in “art” or with words. I hope the Leftists will consider what happened to Kathy Griffin and back off of us.
Otherwise it’s only a matter of time until the shooting starts.