Change and Bernadette

Change comes slowly like the ocean

But it keeps on coming nonetheless

Take my hand, oh dear companion

We may not find happiness

But peace and then some real contentment

And a measure of social justice

Change comes slowly like the ocean

But they can’t stop the tide

And they’re never ever going to stop us

            I was recently compiling Rise Up, an album of political/historical songs for Black 47. With over fifty to choose from it called for hard choices.

            Certain songs like James Connolly and Bobby Sands MP were obvious but Change, a Reggae tune, kept surfacing. It took me a moment to remember who inspired the song – not surprising since Bernadette Devlin McAliskey is rarely in the public eye anymore. And yet, what an impact she had on Irish life.

            With all the changes that have come to pass it’s easy to forget the sheer scope of sectarianism, bigotry, and state approved discrimination that permeated Northern Ireland forty-six years ago. The hostile glare of B-Special thugs when you crossed the border with “Free State” license plates; the chained swings in locked up children’s playgrounds on the Sabbath; the fear of taking a wrong turn and ending up on the Shankill - all minor inconveniences compared to what the Catholic/Nationalist second-class citizens of this artificial statelet endured on a daily basis.

            Real change didn’t materialize out of thin air – Austin Currie’ housing discrimination protest in Dungannon and the all-important NICRA marches brought attention to the situation in the North – but in many ways People’s Democracy activists focused world television audiences on this festering corner of the UK.

            Eamonn McCann and Michael Farrell are names that spring to mind but it was Bernadette Devlin who caught the international imagination.  She was fiery, profound, and articulate, and she spoke the truth to power in her blunt Northern manner.

            She was young, petite, had a head of thick brown hair, a no-nonsense demeanor and an unflinching set of principles that would not serve her well in politics.

            We followed her through the Loyalist attack on PD marchers at Burntollet Bridge, the Battle of the Bogside, and many another protest as the statelet was shaken to the core by mostly peaceful resistance. At 21 Bernadette Devlin became the youngest woman to be elected to the British Parliament.

            Although forever articulate she physically attacked Reginald Maudling, British Home Secretary, on the floor of the House of Commons after his vapid refusal to accept any responsibility for the shootings in Derry on Bloody Sunday. Bernadette was never one to adopt the civilized rites of a British boys debating society.

            But the center couldn’t hold and violence spread across the North; still in the midst of it all you could set your watch by Bernadette’s principles and obsession with truth. In the end she lost her parliamentary seat and, in 1981, in what many see as a naked case of collusion between a Loyalist hit team and the British Army she was struck by seven bullets in front of her family.

            I first met her in person at Black 47’s first performance when we played a set before her speech in a Bronx bar. She was her usual magnetic self, though there was that calmness about her that you find in people who have stared death in the face and survived.

            It’s hardly surprising that she’s still active in community organizing though now more on a grass roots level in County Tyrone. Nor that she has alienated many – for you could tell all those years ago when she first exploded on the public stage that her principles were not for hire or sale and that she would continue to speak her truth – no matter how inconvenient.  That’s why she inspired Change.

Oh the stars in the heavens are blazing tonight
The moon she is gliding on high
And the drum roll of liberty beats in my heart
As the warm winds of change blow by

Don't ask me to be a slave anymore
I couldn't be if I tried
For the pipes scream an anthem of hope in my heart
As the warm winds of change blow by

Where Have You Gone, Derek Jeter?

            I love Derek Jeter! A bracing thought first thing in the morning! But what can I tell you – even for a Mets fan there’s just something about this guy.

            And it’s not that I was seduced by his leaping catches and double play pivots either, for I had already given my heart to Keith Hernandez, and Doc Gooden - not to mention that my first cousin, Charlie Kerfeld, was a relief pitcher for the Astros.

            “C’mon now,” says Your Man up in Pearl River, “That’s a tall tale.”

            I swear to God! My Aunt Margy Kirwan, while a nurse in London during the Blitz, married US Air Force Sgt. Jerry Kerfeld, and Charlie was born in Knob Noster, Missouri. Life is, indeed, stranger than fiction.

            But back to my man crush on Derek! What I really like about that damned Yankee is his coolness and unflappability even when struck out in a disputed call. He doesn’t indulge in the usual histrionics, but merely raises one eyebrow an infinitesimal degree so that the umpire understand the real reason for the bad call is that his smitten wife burns his toast every time the handsome shortstop’s name is mentioned.

            Jeter never thanks Jesus either or points heavenwards when he hits a triple; no, Mr. Wonderful is supremely confident because of his natural ability, diligent training, and the long hard hours he puts in chatting up beautiful women.

            Speaking of which, a friend who claims to know about such things, once related that Derek has dated more women than Pete Rose had hits, but none feel aggrieved when given the pink slip for he shows them every courtesy during the courtship. Of course this could be another urban legend or more likely wishful thinking on my friend’s part.

            Despite all this well-earned adulation I have one question for the Yankees’ shortstop. Do you have any idea that baseball’s huge salaries are killing America’s pastime? Now I wouldn’t even bring this matter up to the like of Roger Clements. Steroids or not, I never liked that bully – even before he flung a broken bat at the saintliest of Mets, Mike Piazza.

            But you’re a very smart man, Derek, and you have to see the change in baseball’s demographics since your rookie years. What family can afford the price of tickets to a major league ballpark any more? I’ll tell you who can’t– the 47% that Mitt Romney wrote off a couple of years back. Even with reasonable seats it could cost a family of four $300 for a baseball outing nowadays.

            Look around you at Yankee Stadium, man! Where are the working or lower-middle class kids who made baseball the great American game? And why do you think so many Yankee fans bolt around the 7^th inning if the pinstripes are not leading? They’re not invested in the game or the team anymore – only in the expensive spectacle.

            So, Derek, why don’t you use your undoubted influence to persuade baseball owners to subsidize tickets for working poor families? Or even give away empty seats on a slack night. Yeah, I know that might affect the immediate market. But think long term: baseball is taking a beating. Basketball has replaced it for African-Americans and an increasing number of major league players are from the Caribbean or South America.

            Why do you think that is? Because “south of the border” you don’t need to float a Wall Street bond to take your family out to a ball park. It’s still a national pastime in those countries, and I won’t even get into how much it costs to see a game in Cuba.

            No one begrudges you your big salary, Derek; it’s just that I know you’re a thoughtful man who could make a difference. You’re a class act and have been an important role model to generations of children.

Thanks for all the years. It’s been a treat to watch you turn those double plays while barely raising your eyebrow to offending umpires. Mets or no Mets, come next April I’ll be singing:

            “Where have you gone, Derek Jeter, oh?

            A nation turns its lonely eyes to you