Now and Then (2 page)
Authors: Gil Scott-Heron
I want to make this a special tribute
since I am a primary tributary and
a contributary, as it were,
to a family that contradicts the concepts,
heard the rules but wouldn't accept,
and womenfolk raised me and I was full grown
before I knew I came from a broken home.
Oh yeah!
Sent to live with my Grandma down south
[wonder why they call it down if the world is round]
where my uncle was leavin'
and my grandfather had just left for heaven, they said,
and as every ologist would certainly note
I had NO STRONG MALE FIGURE! RIGHT?
But Lily Scott was absolutely not
your mail order, room service, typecast Black grandmother.
On tiptoe she might have been five foot two
and in an overcoat 110 pounds, light
and light skin 'cause she was half-white
from Alabama and Georgia and Florida
and Africa.
Lily Scott claimed to have gone as far as the 3rd grade
in school herself,
put four Scotts through college
with her husband going blind.
[God rest his soul. A good man, Bob Scott]
And I'm talkin' 'bout work!
Lily worked through them teens
and them twenties
and them thirties and forties
and put four, all four of hers,
through college
and pulled and pushed and coaxed
folks all around her through and over other things.
I was moved in with her.
Temporarily.
Just until things was patched.
'Til this was patched
and 'til that was patched.
Until I became at
3,4,5,6,7,8,9 and 10
the patch
that held Lily Scott
who held me
and like them four
I became one more.
And I loved her from the absolute marrow of my bones
and we was holding on.
I come from a broken home.
She could take hers and outdo yours
or take yours and outdo hers.
She may not have been in a class by herself
but it sho' didn't take long to call the roll.
She had more than the five senses
knew more than books could teach
and raised everyone she touched just a little bit higher.
Common sense became uncommon
and you could sense that she had it.
And all around her
there was a natural sense,
as though she sensed
what the stars say
what the birds say
what the wind and the clouds say
a sense of soul and self,
that African sense.
âAnd work like you're building
something of your own,' she'd say.
Full time. Over time. All the time.
No nonsense.
And she raised me like she raised four of her own
who were like her
in a good many good ways.
Which showed up in my mother
who was truly her mother's daughter
and still her own person.
And I was hurt and scared and shocked
when Lily Scott left suddenly one night,
and they sent a limousine from heaven
to take her to God if there is one.
So I knew she had gone.
And I came from a broken home.Â
So on the streets of New York
the family, me and my mother,
moved on through my teens
where all the ologists'
hypothetical theoretical
analytical hypocritical
will not be able to factor
why I failed to commit
the obligatory robbery, burglary,
murder or rape.
Nor know that I was
fighting my way out of the ghetto.
But I lived in the projects without becoming one,
shot jumpers in the park
instead of people,
went to a school that
informed instead of reformed
read books without getting booked
and had a couple of jobs
to help with the surgery on my broken home.Â
And so my life has been guided
and all the love I needed was provided
and through my mother's sacrifices I saw where her life went
to give more than birth to me, but life to me.
And this ain't one of them clichés
about Black women being strong
'cause hell! If you're weak, you're gone!
But life courage, determined to do more than just survive.
Say what? Of course she had a choice:
Don't do it! Work.
Raining cold mornings, dirty streets
and dirty Goddamn people
worrying her way up rickety-ass stairs
working for Welfare â¦
I'm sorry if I'm drifting on
but this is all I know about a broken home:
And she sings better than I do
and I listen to her and B. B. manhandle Handel. [Joke]
And hey amigo!
17th and 8th in the park.
13th and 9th in the dark:
congas, cowbells, bongoes and salsa,
beer cans, Ripple and good herbs.
Willie Bobo, Eddie Palmieri, Ray Barreto
and the Mayor of my neighborhood
long before he covered âThe Bottle,' Joe Bataan.
Mi madre estudia in
La Universidad de San Juan
y vivia en San Turce
y mi madre vivia en BarranquitasÂ
Yeah. Raised by women,
but they were not alone
because the chain of truth was not broken
in Bob Scott's home.
And my mother's name is Bob, Robert,
Bobbie Scott-Heron
and saying thank you, I love you ain't enough.Â
My life has been balanced on that razor's edge of God's
rolling dice
and it seemed as though they had a job for me to do:
Because the Rambler got totalled in Avondale and
Geoffrey's Ford four o'clock soloing
through a D.C. slalom when the brakes locked
steel and wheels à la lamppost.
Good morning!
And the white preacher, Reverend Cockcroft,
who grabbed me when I treaded on the bottom of Lake
Kiamesha.
And I am small remembering how
she showed me more caring and sharing than I deserved;
more courage and daring than I have.
The ONLY ONE who has ALWAYS been on my side.
And too many homes have a missing woman or man
without the feeling of missing love.
Maybe there are homes that are hurt,
but there are no REAL LIVES that hurt will not reach.
But not broken.
Unless the homes of soldiers stationed overseas
or lost in battles are broken.
Unless the homes of firemen, policemen, construction
workers,
seamen, railroad men, truckers, pilots who lost their lives,
but not what their lives stood for.
Because men die, lose, are lost and leave.
And so do women.
I come from WHAT THEY CALLED A BROKEN HOME,
but if they had ever really called at our house
they would have known how wrong they were.
We were working on our lives
and our homes and dealing with what we had,
not what we didn't have.
My life has been guided by women
but because of them I am a Man.
God bless you, Mama. And thank you.
In February 1981, I went on a
Black History Month
tour that took me to some of the nation's most prominent campuses and communities.
There were two things in particular that people everywhere wanted to talk about: First, I had just completed a most enjoyable and successful four-month tour with the #1 entertainer-composer-musician Stevie Wonder, which had included, on January 15th, a rally in Washington, D.C. in support of Dr. King's birthday becoming a national holiday.
âWhat were the chances? How many people were REALLY there? What sort of a brother was Stevie to just be around?'
Second, what were my feelings about the election of President Reagan?
Discussions concerning the second question started to become my first topic during the February lectures. A description of the conditions that paved the way for Mr. Reagan's election AND what I viewed as the conditions created by his victory.
In April, while working with a man I also consider a creative genius, musician-engineer Malcolm Cecil, the idea of recording the poem (âPart Two') without setting the stage, so to speak (with an introduction), didn't feel right. And there was also a line from a tune I kept hearing that I felt needed to be included:
âThis ain't really your life, ain't really your life, ain't really, ain't really nothing but a movie.' The tune became âPart Three' on the album
Reflections
.
And armed with a bunch of words, a vague structure and my ace-in-the-studio, Malcolm, âB Movie' was born.
And, in 1984 when it became clear that the President would be running again, it was time for another round. However, I felt as though my friends, and even my enemies, would be let down if we decided to do âB Movie II', or even âB Movie Also (Too)'. I was glad to find that art can imitate art, even when âit ain't really your life' â which is why II, 2 or TOO became âRe-Ron'.
The first thing I want to say is âMandate, my ass!'
Because it seems as though we've been convinced that 26% of the registered voters, not even 26% of the American people, but 26% of the registered voters form a mandate, or a landslide. 21% voted for âSkippy' and 3 or 4% voted for someone else who might have been running.
And yes I do remember (in this year that we have declared to be from âShogun to Raygun'), I remember what I said about Raygun: âI called him “Hollyweird”. Acted like an actor. Acted like a liberal. Acted like General Franco when he acted like Governor of California. That's after he started acting like a Republican. Then (in 1976) acted like somebody was going to vote for him for President.'
Now he acted like 26% of the registered voters is actually a mandate. We're all actors in this I suppose.
What has happened is that in the last 20 years America has changed from a producer to a consumer. And all consumers know that when the producer names the tune the consumer has got to dance. That's the way it is. We used to be producers and were very inflexible at that. Now that we are consumers we find things difficult to understand.
Natural resources and minerals will change your world. The Arabs used to be in the Third World. They have bought the Second World and put a firm down payment on the First one. Controlling your resources will control your world.
This country has been surprised by the way the world looks now. They don't know if they want to be diplomats or continue
the policy of nuclear nightmare diplomacy. John Foster Dulles ain't nothing but the name of an airport now.
America wants Nostalgia. They want to go back as far as they can, even if it turns out to be only last week. Not to face now or the future, but to face backwards. And yesterday was the time of our cinema heroes riding to the rescue at the last minute; the day of the man on the white horse or the man in the white hat, coming to save America at the last moment. Someone always came to save America at the last moment.
And when America found itself having a hard time facing the future they looked for one of their heroes. Someone like John Wayne. But unfortunately John Wayne was no longer available, so they settled for Ronald the Raygun.
And it has turned into something that we can only look at like a âB' movie.
Come with us back to those inglorious days before heroes were zeros. Before fair was square. When the cavalry came straight- away and all-American men were like Hemingway, to the days of the wondrous âB' movie.
The Producer, underwritten by all the millionaires necessary, will be âCasper' the defensive Weinburger. No more animated a choice is available.
The director will be âAttila' the Haig, running around declaring himself âIn charge and in control!' The ultimate realization of inmates taking over at the asylum.
The screenplay will be adapted from the book called
Voodoo
Economics
by George âPapa Doc' Bush.
The theme song will be done by The Village People. That most military tune âMacho Man'. A theme song for saber rattling and selling wars door-to-door. Remember, we're looking for the closest thing we can find to John Wayne.
Clichés abound like kangaroos courtesy of some spaced out Marlin Perkins, a Raygun contemporary. Clichés like:
âTall in the saddle.' Like âRiding on or off into the sunset.' Like âQadafi, get off my planet by sunset.' More so than âHe died with his boots on.'
Marine tough, the man is Bogart-tough, Cagney-tough and Hollywood-tough, the man is John Wayne-tough, the man is cheap steak-tough and Bonzo-substantial.
A Madison Avenue masterpiece. A miracle, a cotton candy politician: âPresto Macho!'
Put your orders in, America, and quick as Kodak we duplicate, with the accent on the dupe!
It's a clear case of selective amnesia: remembering what we want to remember and forgetting what we choose to forget. All of a sudden the man who called for a bloodbath on our college campuses is supposed to be Dudley Goddamn Do-Right?
âYou go give them liberals hell, Ronny!' That was the mandate to the new Captain Bligh on the new Ship of Fools.
Obviously based on chameleon performances of the past: as a liberal Democrat. As the head of the Screen Actor's Guild. When other celluloid saviours were cringing in terror from McCarthy- ism Ron stood tall!
It goes all the way back from Hollywood to Hillbillies, from liberal to libelous, from Bonzo to Birchite to Born Again.
Civil Rights. Gay Rights. Women's Rights. They're all wrong! Call in the cavalry to disrupt this perception of freedom gone wild. First one of them wants freedom and then the whole damn world wants freedom!
Nostalgia. That's what America wants. The good old days. When we âgave them hell!' When the buck stopped somewhere and you could still buy something with it! To a time when movies were in black and white and so was everything else.
Let us go back to the campaign trail before six-gun Ron shot off his face and developed Hoof in Mouth. Before the free press went down before a full court press and were reluctant to view the menu because they knew that the only meal available was âcrow'.
Lon Chaney, our man of 1,000 faces got nothing on Ron.
Doug Henning will do the makeup.
Special effects by Grecian Formula 16 and Crazy Glue.
Transportation furnished by the David Rockefeller Remote Control Company. Their slogan is: âWhy wait 'til 1984. You can panic now and avoid the rush.'
So much for the good news. As Wall Street goes so goes the nation and here's a look at the closing stocks:
Racism is up. Human Rights are down. Peace is shaky. War items are hot. The House claims all ties. Jobs are down, money is scarce and Common Sense is at an all-time low with heavy trading.
Movies were looking better than ever and now no one is looking because we're all starring in a âB' movie. And we would have rather had John Wayne. In fact, we would have done better with John Wayne.