Music, Psychology, and War
So right now, I’m reading a book for a term paper that I’ve borrowed from a friend of mine. That it is hardcover and autographed by the author makes it seem all the more awesome, and that the author seems like an older, male version of me makes reading it all the more exciting.
So I was not surprised when, reading this section a few moments ago, I began to cry:
I already had developed antiwar feelings when I was seven years old. I understood World War II - my grandfather had fought in that, and although the war was terrible, the reason for it was clear. A tyrant was trying to kill all the Jews; we were Jewish, and some countries came to our aid. That war made sense. But in 1965 the Vietnam War did not make sense. By October, the United States had sent nearly two hundred thousand marines to Vietnam. The leaves were starting to change color and we did a crafts project with them during art hour at school. Right after recess the teacher had shown us some news reports - young American boys dead on the battlefield. As soon as I got home, I told my mother that we needed to call the President of the United States on the phone and tell him to stop the war. “We can’t call the President,” my mother said, “he’s probably very busy. You know, like when your father is busy at work and we don’t call him there unless it is very, very important.”
“But this is important,” I insisted. “There is no reason that the killing should go on anymore, it can stop today!”
My mother picked up the receiver and called directory assistance to get the number, and then she called the White House. She spoke firmly but matter-of-factly to the receptionist, like calling the President was something she did every day. “My seven-year-old son wants to talk to the President,” my mother said, “about the war.” She was transferred several times. We got all the way up to the President’s chief of staff, W. Marvin Watson. My mother held the receiver against her shoulder. “He said that the President can’t talk to you right now, he’s in a meeting. But he said that he’ll pass on the message if you tell it to him.” She handed me the phone. He introduced himself, then asked my name and where I lived, and what I knew about the war.
“That the North Vietnamese and the South Vietnamese are killing each other and we went over to help, and now they’re killing us. We heard in school about teenagers that went there with the army, and they came back dead. Please - tell the President that he has to talk to them. He has to tell them to stop killing each other. They’ll listen to him.”
He sighed and I remember hearing that eerie noise of long-distance connections in those days, the clicking and crackling static on the line. He took a deep breath. “We’ve tried that,” he said, his voice cracking. “They won’t listen to us. We don’t know what to do.”
“But tell them,” I said, “that we’re all just like brothers and sisters. We have to stop fighting!”
“I’ll tell the President,” He said. “I’ll tell him just what you said.”
Daniel J. Levitin “The World in Six Songs” (65-66)
(Why he mentions this at all is an integral part of his book and I won't explain it since I want any readers I may have to enjoy his work themselves.)
We have not learned, have we? We have not learned from the stories of our parents. Will our children learn from the stories we tell them?