In 1970, I was in Paris, broke, and 19 years old, so I answered an ad in the International Herald Tribune for a job as a secretary. Otherwise, I'd have to go home. Got a job in Switzerland. Went there. Witnessed this conversation, in French:
Guy 1: “You say jazz is black music because you don’t like
jazz and you don’t like blacks.”
Guy 2: “You say jazz isn’t black music because you like jazz
but you don’t like blacks.”
Then they turn to me and say, “Hey, Patricia, you’re
American. Is jazz black music?”
Okay, I’m 19 years old, broke, and in the middle
of god-knows-where-Switzerland, and have just realized that my new employers are totally nuts. But I say, “Well,
I have been to New Orleans, and I’m pretty sure that without black people, we
wouldn’t have jazz.” Then they started talking about how they were neo-Nazis and, yeah, they were definitely racists.
That was just creepy, to have people openly admit that they were racist, proud of it, and arguing about what that meant about their musical tastes.
I didn't personally feel fear, and, yeah, I did get out of there, but I felt apprehension about what that meant to the world. Kind of like now.
No comments:
Post a Comment