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176 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 2009
A true American original is brought to life in this rich and lively portrait of Pete Seeger, who, with his musical grace and inextinguishable passion for social justice, transformed folk singing into a high form of peaceful protest in the second half of the twentieth century. Drawing on his extensive talks with Seeger, New Yorker writer Alec Wilkinson lets us experience the man’s unique blend of independence and commitment, charm, courage, energy, and belief in human equality and American democracy.
“I come from a family of doctors and shopkeepers and intellectuals,” he[Seeger] said. A great-uncle, Franklin Edson, was mayor of New York. He was a well-to-do lawyer, and he came in as a kind of compromise candidate served only one term. He christened the Brooklyn Bridge.
“There have been so many failures. You don’t know. Every song I started to write and gave up was a failure. I started to paint because I failed to get a job as a journalist. I started singing and playing more because I was a failure as a painter. I went into the army as willingly as I did because I was having more and more failure musically.”
I realized I could sing the same songs I sang whether I belonged to the Communist Party or not, and I never liked the idea anyway of belonging to a secret organization.
“I always hated the word career,” he said. “It implies that fame and fortune are what you’re trying to get. I have a life’s purpose. In the old days I felt it should be helping the meek to inherit the earth, whether you call the working class the meek or not.
. . .
“These days my purpose is trying to get people to realize that there may be no human race by the end of the century unless we find ways to talk to people we deeply disagree with,” he said. “Whether we cooperate from love or from tolerance, it doesn’t much matter, lut we must treat each other nonviolently.”
About two winters ago, here on Route 9 outside Beacon, one winter day it was freezing – the war in Iraq is heating up, and the country’s in a poor mood. I’m driving south and on the other side of the road I see from the back a tall, slim figure in a hood and coat. I can tell it’s Pete. He’s standing there all by himself, and he’s holding up a big sign of cardboard that clearly has something written on it. Cars and trucks are going by him. He’s getting wet. He’s holding the homemade sign above his head – he’s very tall, and his chin is raised the way he does when he signs – and he’s turning the sign in a semicircle, so that the drivers can see it as they pass, and some people are honking and waving at him, and some people are giving him the finger. He’s eighty-four years old.
I know he’s got some purpose, of course, but I don’t know what it is. What struck me is that, whatever his intentions are, and obviously he wants people to notice what he’s doing. He wants to make an impression, anyway, whatever they are, he doesn’t call the newspapers and say, “Here’s what I am going to do, I’m Pete Seeger.” He doesn’t cultivate publicity. That isn’t what he does. He’s far more modest than that. He would never make a fuss. He’s just standing out there in the cold and sleet like a scarecrow getting drenched. I go a little bit down the road, so that I can turn around and come back, and when I get him in view again, this solitary and elderly figure, I see that what he’s written on the sign is “Peace.”