Playlist Choice Week #2

American Skin–Bruce Springsteen

I used to joke that we only went three places for vacation as a kid; either the Jersey shore, the coal regions of PA to visit my uncle, or to my aunt’s house –which happens to be in Ireland. We loved to visit family in Ireland but hated to get there not because of the travel or roads but because we had to go through the North.

Back in the 1980s and early ’90s, there were no highways from Dublin Airport to Donegal. None. If you were lucky, you got a winding country road barely wide enough for two sheep and a prayer. Add medieval hedgerows, potholes deep enough to legally qualify as lakes, and the occasional donkey cart, and you get the idea.

The fastest route meant cutting through Northern Ireland—which, during the Troubles, was about as relaxing as sunbathing on a landmine. Especially if you were a bunch of teenagers or young adults crossing the border midday, which to the British Army screamed, “Please search us thoroughly and with suspicion.”

Sure enough, as we rolled up to the border crossing, a British soldier came into view. He was manning a watchtower and looked like he’d just finished his high school equivalency test—pimples, peach fuzz, the works—but he was gripping a mounted machine gun with a barrel big enough to swallow our car. He squinted at us like he wasn’t quite sure if we were tourists or a boy scout troop gone rogue.

My uncle, who had picked us up, told us, “Just act natural.”

Now, “act natural” means different things to different people. To my younger brother, it meant slouching down and casually whistling the theme from The A-Team. To my cousin, it meant clenching the door handle like he was preparing for launch. To me, it meant stuffing my copy of Ireland for Dummies under the seat like it was contraband.

A military Land Rover pulled in behind us with flashing lights. Then another. A soldier in full camo stepped out and waved us over, pointing what looked suspiciously like a leaf blower. It wasn’t. It was some sort of high-powered rifle that could probably launch a watermelon into orbit.

“Out of the car, lads,” he said. “Nice and slow.”

We obeyed. Largely because of the leaf blower.

They lined us up like suspects in a poorly cast boy band. One of them squinted at us and asked, “Where you headed?”

“Donegal,” my cousin croaked, like it was a confession.

So, yes—they patted us down. Thoroughly. I’m fairly certain one of them found the snickers bar I lost in my coat pocket back in 1979.

Eventually, they let us go. But not before one soldier, clearly enjoying himself, leaned in and asked, “Yanks, are ye?”

“Yes, sir.”

He shook his head, grinning. “Figures. Only Americans would try sightseeing through a border checkpoint. During lunch.”

Springsteen wrote this song in response to the February 1999 police shooting of Amadou Diallo, a 23-year-old unarmed immigrant from Guinea. Four NYPD officers from the Street Crime Unit fired 41 shots at Diallo in the vestibule of his Bronx apartment building, striking him 19 times. They claimed they believed he was reaching for a gun, but he was pulling out his wallet. The song centers around fear, misunderstanding, and the deep racial tension between with the governmental systems meant to protect.

Playlist Choice Week #1

The Monkeys Theme Song

The monkeys theme song is not a great artistic piece of music but it’s a lot of fun – a light-hearted piece that serves as a musical calling card, introducing the band’s carefree, offbeat vibe right from the start. It was one of the first theme songs to function as a character introduction on TV. It became something of an anthem when I was a kid.

Early in my time at the seminary, a class competition was held.  Each class year at the seminary was asked to compete against each other in a three-mile run around the seminary grounds. Our best runner had just sprained his knee, so we had no chance. Rather than giving up, I had the bright idea to recreate the Monkees’ opening credits, where they push a bed through town.

We couldn’t find a wheeled bed, but we did find a wheelchair. We sat him in it, gave him a newspaper and a cigar, and entered the race. When we passed the judges on the front road, we were in the lead pack.  Then we took a shortcut around the back and rejoined the race near the stands. We placed—but no medal.