New Found Glories
New Found Glory
I own hundreds of CDs. Maybe you do too, maybe even more? But the CDs I am talking about are specifically Christmas CDs. Mahalia Jackson, Blind Boys of Alabama, Barbara Streisand, Nat King Cole (and marvelous daughter, Natalie), Burl Ives, Motown, Kathleen Battle, Bing, Frank and so many others fill my ears each season from Friday after Thanksgiving until the TWELVETH (12th!) day of Christmas in January. And now Spotify has added thousands more to the potential list.
I am a white, married guy in his sixties. I grew up in a lower middle class racist white neighborhood. The culture that white people don’t think of as culture because they do not view themselves as privileged (a sure marker of privilege) included listening to many of the CDs I own (and love) and we certainly have a special place in our hearts for White Christmas. We remarked on how much improved race relations were shortly after hearing a Black person sing this song. We liked Ray Coniff, Mitch Miller, Andy Williams, the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, the Boston Pops, and the like. We listened to Ella and Ertha and James and Joe in shopping malls and at parties, but not at home.
And on Christmas Day, perhaps the most segregated day of the year, we gleaned spiritual inspiration from Handel’s Messiah, while gazing at our chicken boy Jesus nativity displays, complete with their host of white supporting actors. I suppose a few families had the token Black wiseman. Christmas Day is a day that will not likely get folks in my neighborhood, back in the day, thinking about, maybe, the single Black person they may have known.
But this blog post is not specifically about race relations at Christmas time. I’ve included this background information to clarify that my culture may, at its best, tolerate exploration of others, including their music, but it does not signify that exploration as anything to be valued. And over the years, much of the Christmas music I truly enjoy is directly related to this constant repetition. Once a song moves past the years of boredom and indifference, we begin to hear things in the song that speak of more than simple lyrics. It becomes iconic, a cultural marker, regardless of the objective merits of the music. Not just music. Scrooge McDuck is NOT one of our great literary movie characters and yet he is, for many, the definition of Christmas. [For the record, I am NOT a fan of ANY version of A Christmas Carol and if I never see that movie or play, including any of the spinoffs, or read the Dickens’ book again, I will not be sorry].
So imagine my surprise, two years ago, when I discovered New Found Glory on a brand new Christmas CD. Well, the surprise is NOT finding them on a CD — I have over 200 Christmas CDs, but in discovering that their song, Nothing For Christmas, may well be my favorite Christmas song ever! They are a white, male, pop punk group from Florida and let me just say that back in the day simply using the word “punk” would be an automatic disqualification, regardless of any adjectives in front of it. And for me, even more difficult is the word “pop.” That word has a wide range of meanings, none of which do much for me. But “pop” as in music is especially difficult. Ever been traveling in a new area and trying to find music on the car radio to listen to? My car flashes a very brief two-line description of stations. When “Pop” shows up, I cannot hit the “Scan” button fast enough. And here is a white male pop punk group touching my Grinch-like heart with a Christmas song that makes me cry (and I love my mother’s tear ducts that I inherited).
If you know me, you know that Christmas is a difficult time for me. My family lived through bricks through windows, gun shots, police called over to our house, humiliation over totally inadequate gifts, forced smiles over gifts that you actually hate, horrible food, family fights, and being told regularly, “for a smart boy, you sure are stupid” by your drunken father (who is actually your step-father because your biological father deserted you when you were three and did not make an appearance of any kind until Christmas when you were 9 or 10 and then announced he would not ever come back because you were not sufficiently grateful for the slide rule that you did not know how to use and the truly horrid blue grandpa sweater — but I digress). During the holidays, anxiety and depression are more than casual acquaintances. I suffer from Seasonal Affective Disorder. I cannot tell you how many people tell me things like, “You are in charge of how you feel. You choose how you feel.” or “Think happy thoughts and eventually you will be happy.” AND. MANY. MORE! Please do not be one of these people. “Oh really? All these years and all I had to do was think happy thoughts? Damn! I wasted my life.”
I have an improving way of dealing with this mental illness, which is writing about it. Sharing it and staying busy thinking about it. But writing is a way for me to managing the stomach acid. When you are me, you UNDERSTAND much of your privilege, which often exacerbates the problem. The internal tape plays, “Why are you whining to your friends about your trivial little problems. For a smart boy, you sure are stupid. Others have it so much worse. You have a wife you love. A nice house. Two great children. Family that you love. You have enough money. You had a great career. You have a lot of people who say kind things about you. And here you are a privileged whiny white dude who should just shut the hell up. For a smart boy, you sure are stupid.”
“Christmas is coming, so don’t buy me nothing. (Christmas is coming)
I got what I wanted, I got what I needed. (Don’t buy me nothing)
And Christmas is coming, so don’t buy me anything.
I got what I wanted, I got what I needed, it’s you, it’s you, it’s you, it’s you.
Christmas is coming so don’t buy me nothing.”
But staying silent has you thinking about how you have lived long enough and wondering why it isn’t over now. And that is not healthy. So I write and I live and I find New Found Glory all around:
I got what I needed. It’s you and you and you and you and you. Please VISIT or call or email. And if you want my Christmas In Mordor playlist (rated R), please comment. I’d also love comments about your “new found glories.” #newfoundglories
