This is it. It’s really happening.
The never-before-accomplished
think piece about the massive
impact
the
“Harry
Potter”
series has had on basically every
millennial to ever pick up a book
— with the exception of the
middle schoolers “too cool for
magic.”
Jokes aside, “Harry Potter”’s
cultural impact is essentially
unparalleled in today’s world;
millions
upon
millions
of
children have had the same exact
experience I did, falling madly
in love with the boy wizard’s
story, feeling the excitement of
midnight releases and growing
up with him and his friends. I
wish I were kidding when I say
that I have been Harry Potter for
Halloween (in multiple different
iterations, including Quidditch
attire) going on 12 years this
season. The bottom line is that I
would be a drastically different
human had it not been for J.K.
Rowling’s brilliant mind.
For the sake of brevity (I
once wrote a full research
paper about the impact of J.K.
Rowling’s literature / charity
work when I was 14, and I’ll be
sure to publish it if I ever find it),
I’m going to focus on the impact
of Rowling’s very first novel
“Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s
Stone,” and why I can’t get
through the first few sentences
without tearing up: “Mr. and
Mrs. Dursley, of number four,
Privet Drive, were proud to say
that they were perfectly normal,
thank you very much. They were
the last people you’d expect to
be involved in anything strange
or mysterious, because they just
didn’t hold with such nonsense.”
Normalcy,
as
a
social
construct,
has
plagued
my
existence from a very young
age — not that I even began
to understand why I deviated
from the norm until I was about
17, but the fact of the matter is
that I am very, very gay, and the
signs were very, very obvious
from as far back as I remember.
Internalized homophobia was
so deeply ingrained in me by my
family and school that I refused
to fully face this truth until I had
moved away from home. Which,
frankly, is really fucked up. But
I digress.
Anyway, I wasn’t “normal,”
and everyone knew it but refused
to understand. And because I,
too, refused to understand, I
lashed out by being “different”
in other ways: I listened to pop
punk and screamo, made short
films with friends, did a little
acting in middle school and, of
course, read too many books.
My mother often reminded me
that I was “too contrarian” and
even went so far as to say I “have
issues with authority” when I
was kicked off my high school
tennis team.
Now at 21, I think this opening
paragraph is exactly why I have
always clung to the “Harry
Potter” novels like my Catholic
family has clung to their Bibles.
From
the
very
beginning,
Rowling makes it clear our
protagonist isn’t normal. He’s
quiet, he doesn’t have friends,
weird things happen around
him, hell, his own foster family
hated him for the very fact that
they know he isn’t a regular
boy. And Harry’s otherness, his
mistreatment, his invisibility
echoed in my empty little frame
(and still does if we’re being
honest). Then he’s whisked away
from his torturous existence
with four simple words spoken
by
a
giant
groundskeeper:
“You’re a wizard, Harry.”
I quite literally got on my
knees and prayed to God every
night leading up to my 11th
birthday that my Hogwarts
acceptance letter would arrive.
Obviously this never happened,
but I never stopped holding
on to Harry’s story. Harry
learned how to be a real wizard,
adjusting to a new culture and
way of life at only 11-years-old by
making friends and forming his
own family at Hogwarts. “Harry
Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone”
helped me understand that it’s
OK to choose your family, to
start over and find happiness
outside the nuclear family unit,
and it’s even better when that
family is comprised of those who
are othered like you: a famous
orphan, a genius with muggle
parents and a loyal friend whose
large family has to spread their
earnings thin.
This isn’t to say that my family
is evil; far from it, actually,
when compared to Voldemort’s
burning hatred for the minority
groups
of
the
wizarding
world. Despite a slightly rough
upbringing,
they’ve
been
almost entirely supportive of
everything I’ve attempted to
accomplish. Yet, I do feel less
suffocated since I’ve moved
away. I think of all the smiles
Harry flashes, the amazement he
expresses with each discovery
of his new life, and I think about
how closely it has paralleled my
own experiences flying away
from my nest of white suburbia.
I also think about how badly
I wanted to feel the same way
at 11, at 14 and especially at 17,
when the real me wasn’t having
the best time being tucked away
for so long.
“Harry Potter” shaped me
in ways that are often hard to
put into words, and while gays
might not have magic powers
(or do we?), I can say for certain
that I’m a braver person for the
lessons I’ve learned — someone
more
comfortable
with
my
place in this world and more
empathetic for those who have
felt the same. I could write a
whole other article on Hermione
Granger alone, but for now, I’m
going to thank “the boy who
lived” for helping me cope with
being different, and for taking
Dumbledore’s advice to heart:
“It does not do to dwell on
dreams and forget to live.”
BTBU: ‘Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone’
A sense of rebellion is woven
deeply into the American identity.
While the last 250 years have
proven that the people of the United
States and their government have
become experts at maintaining the
status quo, there is still a part of our
national identity that celebrates
the notion that to be “American”
is to react against something,
sometimes against the institution of
America itself. This was especially
prevalent during the 20 years of
the Vietnam War, a period during
which political turmoil directly
danced
with
massive
cultural
upheaval and rebirth. The center
of this change rested squarely
in the hands of varied social and
political movements of the time,
which leaned heavily on artistic
expression and colored the Vietnam
era with poignant commentary on
its realities. In the face of death,
confusion and the stagnant trudge
of war, American counterculture
paved a path through the muck by
creating music that would last the
test of time.
The political background of the
Vietnam War was complicated
and messy, the combination of
a society entrenched in anti-
Communist rhetoric and the need
to display American strength on an
international scale. Lasting from
1955 to 1975, the period during
which Vietnam affected U.S. society
spanned two decades and resulted
in tens of thousands of American
and Vietnamese casualties, leaving
the nation at a loss for what the war
truly meant in a historical context.
To some, it was to establish stable
democracy and eliminate Chinese
influence in a new and warring
nation. To others, the reason for
conflict in Vietnam was obscure,
a long-lasting fight that had no
clear goal or end in sight. Though
the older and more conservative
generations maintained their belief
in the war’s necessity, their voices
were largely unrepresented in the
artistic movements of the time.
Country music artists like Merle
Haggard remained supportive of
the government throughout much
of the war, but in comparison to
the popularity of countercultural
anthems, its pro-America messages
were overshadowed.
Initially, the war gained support
from a majority of Americans, but as
time went on and deaths mounted,
the national perspective began to
shift toward ambivalence, while
the massive population of nearly 80
million young Baby Boomers kicked
an anti-war effort into gear. The
impetus of anguish for this youth
movement was only exacerbated by
the military draft, sending college
campuses and urban centers across
the country into action. With this
action, the American tradition
of rebellion was represented in
their music, a medium by which
communication
was
possible
through the visceral power of song.
These tunes would become the face
of a generation and a period of time
alike, framing the unrest of an era
with songs heavy with soul and a
timeless message of change against
all odds. The spirit of freedom to
fight for one’s beliefs continued in
the hearts of musicians and fans
alike during the Vietnam era, a
protest for peace that continues to
affect the country’s music today.
Before
the
Vietnam
War’s
influence truly reached American
society, protest music was already
in full force in response to the Civil
Rights movement of the late ’50s
and early ’60s. Artists like Joan
Baez, Bob Dylan and Simon &
Garfunkel stood at the forefront of
the early folk music revival scene,
which grew out of New York City’s
Greenwich Village and into the
ears of listeners across the country.
Baez’s song “Birmingham Sunday,”
among
others,
displayed
the
struggles of the battle for civil rights
in America, while outstretching a
hand for others to join the cause
through the simplicity and bare-
bones style of folk music itself.
The genre at its root was forged
in the working man’s toils, so it
was only natural for its sound to
carry a message of empowerment
and social awareness in a time of
political uneasiness. When the
war’s effects became more and
more apparent in folk’s strongholds,
the music began to reflect anti-
war sentiment and a painfully true
commentary on the war’s effects on
both soldiers and those still at home.
From this, music like Dylan’s iconic
song “Blowin’ in the Wind” was
born, stamping a permanent mark
in U.S. music history while fueling
the debate around the war’s obtuse
purpose and seemingly senseless
violence. The message of folk
music from that time was a clear
analysis of what the international
destruction of Vietnam meant in the
context of already existing domestic
turmoil, calling the listener to look
deeper into the superficial peace of
daily life to see a system in need of
change.
While folk music colored much
of the early ’60s protest songs,
the anti-war message began to
shift into rock and psychedelia as
counterculture merged with many
of the time’s youth movements.
Protests
erupted
across
the
country in areas with high youth
populations, only heightened by the
massive scale of the Baby Boomer
generation.
Buffalo
Springfield,
then Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young
and Creedence Clearwater Revival
merged rock with the organic
sound of folk, creating music with
a direct and piercingly honest core.
They highlighted the realities of
government oppression in songs like
“Ohio,” which commented on the
Kent State Massacre of four student
protesters in 1970, and “Fortunate
Son,” a meditation on the inherent
inequalities of the war’s draft lottery
system that became the unofficial
anthem of the anti-war effort. The
pop rock ‘n’ roll of the ’60s shifted
CLARA SCOTT
Daily Arts Writer
WIKIMEDIA COMMONS
Stop! What’s that sound?: How the
Vietnam War changed music forever
B-SIDE SECONDARY
into a darker, grittier version of
itself in response to the political and
social conflict of popular culture,
with bands like The Beatles and the
Rolling Stones moving into more
experimental territory with albums
such as Revolver and Let it Bleed.
This edgier side to rock has stayed
put since, becoming the standard
for the genre as time has gone on.
But the image most have of
the Vietnam era is of the hippie
counterculture,
of
Woodstock
’69 and Jimi Hendrix smashing
guitars. This too was a response
to the period’s social discord, as
thousands of young, largely white
and middle-class Americans joined
the movement to embrace free
love. They gathered at festivals
like Monterey Pop to communally
celebrate their music while joining
hands
against
the
negativity
and confusion of wartime. The
hippies were the face of that
counterculture, especially in light
of the drug culture that wove its
way into their art and practices.
They were not protesters, but rather
purveyors of a peaceful mentality
supported by pacifism and a kernel
of ignorance. Psychedelic drugs like
LSD influenced both the spiritual
aspects and creative approach of
the hippie movement, producing
bands like Jefferson Airplane and
the Grateful Dead’s whimsical
sound. As the war reached its peak
in the early ’70s and devolved, so
did the hippie counterculture and
its popularity, leaving its style and
music behind as many devotees
descended into drug abuse or left
the movement altogether. The
“Summer of Love” in 1967 was
arguably the climax of “free love”
culture, a community assemblage
that
celebrated
their
customs
and ideology. From there, hippie
neighborhoods like San Francisco’s
Haight-Ashbury district lost their
glory quickly, leaving their music
and aesthetic appeal as a lasting
token of the movement’s ideals and
highest achievements.
While folk, rock and psychedelia
created the sound of an era for
white America, Black soul and blues
artists also continued their own
path against the social tumult of the
’60s and ’70s. Artists such as Marvin
Gaye brought Motown and other
R&B labels into the political sphere
with records like 1971 release What’s
Going On, the title track of which
became a timeless representation of
that era and others like it. “Father,
father,” Gaye sings, “We don’t need
to escalate / You see, war is not the
answer / For only love can conquer
hate.” These lyrics, among others
from the period across every genre,
show the universal application of
protest and politically conscious
art throughout time. “What’s Going
On” could easily have been written
today, or post-9/11, or during the
HIV / AIDS epidemic in the ’90s.
The political tenor of the Vietnam
War’s music remains a large part
of American pop music today,
specifically in the darker, more
direct themes seen in rock and
folk music of the modern age. The
generation that popularized this
time’s most lasting music was huge,
millions and millions of people born
after WWII that brought the spirit
of protest from their youth into the
future and passed it along to their
children. Overall, the themes of
Vietnam era music are relevant in
any time period, and a combination
of poignant messages, truly great
arrangement and the commitment
of those who loved it to keep the
melody in the public eye for decades.
It could be argued that the
political turmoil of today’s Trump
administration could offer the
same fodder for musical and artistic
development that the Vietnam
War did, but the issue is slightly
more complex. In the Vietnam
era, the anti-war effort was easy
to understand even if the purpose
of the war wasn’t, and it gave the
counterculture
the
opportunity
to unite against a clear force. The
Civil Rights Movement and Second-
Wave Feminism intermingled with
this counterculture, but the goal of
counterculture’s music was more
crystalline than it is today. In 2018’s
political climate, the issues with
American government and society
are
increasingly
complex
and
abstract. Activism has burst into the
mainstream in response to this, and
with it the message of “sticking it
to the man” that much of Vietnam-
age music carried is almost not
enough. The messages of that time
have become commonplace in
rock and folk, an expected edge to
each genre that originated in the
protests and festivals of the ’60s
and ’70s. In its place, the protest
music of today looks different,
and elicits a different feeling than
those songs: artists like Beyoncé,
Childish Gambino and Kendrick
Lamar have taken political action
into rap and pop music, creating a
new generation of activists that will
hopefully continue the message just
as those in the Vietnam era did. But
the real question lies in whether
the widespread political agendas
of today’s musicians will become
diluted in their commonality, or
present a real chance to make
change in America. If the effect of
Vietnam’s music is any indication,
connecting via art may hold the
key to forming a community to flip
the script of modern politics. But it
is up to the listeners to take it into
their own hands: Vietnam changed
American music forever. Could the
modern struggles of today’s political
landscape change it for the better
again?
The original verion of this article
ran on Oct. 25. An updated and
corrected version is printed here.
DOMINIC POLSINELLI
Senior Arts Editor
BOOKS THAT BUILT US
WARNER BROS.
Friday, October 26, 2018 — 5
Arts
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com