No matter who won or lost the last big game you attended, chances are, Ozzy Osbourne was there in electronic chains, locked inside a brain-rattling sound system, unnoticed, unnamed, misunderstood, a voice crying in the wilderness of crowded rows of fans desperate for a win, cheering for their heroes while jeering at their opponents, paying too much for unnecessary carbs and calories, possibly on the sabbath day.
When Ozzy cried, “All aboard!” you stood with hundreds or thousands of tangential warriors singing along with the fatalistic chorus, air guitaring with the riffs, nodding with the rhythm, but you weren’t there for music. You were there to shout, thump your chest, flex, thrust hands with fingers contorted into symbols of specific allegiance, or claim you’re #1, convinced that the song, the battle cry, and the power behind it all were on your side. The words didn’t matter. Your heroes were fighting for you, to give you hope. You’d fight for them if you could, if you had to, against whoever stands in your way, to win at all costs.
But what if that’s not what Ozzy wanted? How do we know what he wanted?
He screams, “You’ve got to listen to my words!”
Below is a paraphrase of the “Crazy Train” lyrics:
“It’s crazy, but it’s always been like this — we’re all living as enemies. But maybe it’s not too late to learn how to love and forget how to hate. We’ve all got mental wounds that aren’t healing. I’m losing it. I’ve listened to everyone — fools, preachers, anarchists. Nothing helps. There’s always a system run by someone who’s a product of the system and has been conditioned to run the system, which is sold to us by rich people who get richer by keeping the system alive. And we buy it, screaming in pain from our open mental wounds. It’s messed up. I’m messed up. We’re all messed up. We inherit each other’s trouble. We’re heirs of unresolved conflict. I keep saying it, but no one listens. You’ve got to listen to my words. I can’t figure out how to feel. The mental wounds don’t heal. I don’t know who to blame, but I know it’s not fair.”
I wrote the above paraphrase to read to my senior literature class last Monday morning. Nearly half of the students in the class are varsity football starters chasing championships and full-rides. I prefaced the reading with a white lie, “I got this message from someone you all know over the weekend. I won’t tell you who it is, but I want you to help me think through how to respond.” The starting quarterback, worried, tried to interrupt me. I didn’t look up, held my hand out to pause questions, and continued reading. When I finished, there was a chorus of concern from several voices: That’s a cry for help! Is it from a boy or a girl? You said we know them? Who is it? Did they email you? What did you say? They need help. Who are you going to talk to? Still in character, I said, “I can’t tell you a name, but I’ll play this song.” A few seconds into “Crazy Train,” the students realized what was going on, looked relieved, but then became uncomfortable when I turned down the volume and read out the actual lyrics. In confused silence, their faces said, We weren’t listening.
I felt bad. I smiled and apologized for manipulating their emotions, and the air lightened. Someone started singing the chorus, and we moved on. But I’m not sure we should have. “Crazy Train” is the most popular song from the most recognizable sex, drugs, and rock-n-roll villain to ever bite the head off a bat, but it’s also a cry for help from a struggling human admitting personal weakness and claiming no superiority. While suggesting that love is better than hate, he’s doing more than just asking us to love. He’s asking us to LEARN HOW TO.
French philosopher and mystic, Simone Weil, who died during World War II in solidarity with residents of German-occupied France, didn’t write how-to books, but she couldn’t stop talking about attention. Her bumper sticker quote, “Attention is the rarest and purest form of generosity,” is clipped from a thank you letter she wrote to a paralyzed poet who had expressed precise appreciation of her work. She further expounded on the value of attention, nearly sacramentalizing it, in a contemplative essay on education:
The capacity to give one’s attention to a sufferer is a very rare and difficult thing: it is almost a miracle; it is a miracle. Nearly all those who think they have this capacity do not possess it. Warmth of heart, impulsiveness, pity are not enough.
I can’t say if my students had more than warmth of heart, impulsiveness, or pity. They had something. They recognized a sincere cry for help as something that required sincere attention, but when they realized the source of the cry, the requirement changed.
Tomorrow we’ll talk about Simone Weil, sufferers, and attention in the pursuit of sincere miracles that are enough.
