but when at last you die and go to heaven, they'll be no policemen there

I've been trying to think since I woke up this morning how to communicate what Peter Seeger, flights of angels sing him to his rest, means to me. And I don't know if I can. My whole life, Pete's voice has been like air: so omnipresent that you almost forget how deeply necessary and important it is. I grew up with Abiyoyo and his banjo method books; "Lonesome Valley" and "Hobo's Lullaby" were my cradlesongs. In a way it feels surreal for him to have gone just now, although heaven knows he'd served his time and trouble here, because I've been listening to his music about mortality a lot since my uncle passed a few weeks back. S'what I always end up doing in grief or sorrow.

In some ways Pete's voice is for me an avatar of my father's: a voice of deep and gentle wisdom, but also burning underneath with righteous anger. Maybe that's something I can tell, that Pete's voice taught me how to be politically angry without being hateful, that political anger is properly rooted in compassion and solidarity even when you see folk being wicked or foolish or just plain wrong.

One of the most important ideas I picked up in college was the difference between having awareness and having an analysis. That awareness of oppression and injustice alone can be counterproductive, overwhelming, disempowering, but once you can get hold of analysis you can start to work toward change in strength. I listen to Pete Seeger when I feel like I'm losing my grip on my analysis, because it seems like he always understands.