Vance’sMondayNightAcousticPajamaParty#44 - MLK Day - Songs By Black Writers.

Other than me, that is.

Where: https://youtu.be/T-IZO7NyGbs

When: Monday Nite, January 18th 7:30PM EDT (“doors” open at 7 for community hang) -

Who gets 10%: Multicutural Aids Coalition Inc. https://www.mac-boston.org/ Since 1989, MAC's community mobilization efforts have focused on ensuring high quality, accessible HIV/STI prevention, care, and treatment services.

$$$: http://paypal.me/vancevancevance or
https://venmo.com/vancevancevance or
a check to VanceFunder P.O. Box 17, Arlington, MA 02476 for this web-groovery.
Pay or not. Up to you. Let’s stay connected.

This week’s pajamas: purple hoodie, baggy (they all are now) grey bottoms

I coach voice, songwriting, performance. Contact me. I have some open spots

Good Good Man - the CD - streaming all platforms, even get it from me…

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NEEDLE MOVEMENT

You’d think I’d think about it. Even Runner magazine did a recent piece on Ahmaud Arbery and "Running While Black" and how there are inherent dangers. You’d think living in a town where an ongoing review of whether a local lieutenant’s writings in the state’s police newsletter were racist (yeah, they pretty much were) would give me pause. You’d think that yesterday’s plodding (ok, they all are) 4 mile run would avoid all construction areas where there are surly, unmasked (yep, they all were), public service and construction workers and the police guided traffic around them. You’d think I’d be spooked to speak out about stuff so incendiary for fear of alienating one portion of my fan base or another. Please forgive me.

You’d think this current climate would make me think, angry, cautious, livid, radical. Probably. I’m a folk singer. Black one too.

But I always do this one thing. Always. When I see a local police person, I stop and say “Thanks for what you do”. Because that’s what I do. Always.

Yesterday’s run took me through 5 work zones with policemen. All white, all male, all saying at least, “I appreciate that”.

Except one.

At the top of Grove Street, National Grid pipe being laid, halfway through my mileage, I before I could even thank this trio of policemen, “Hey”, this officer says. “How many miles today?” Still getting my breath, I tell him “I’m shooting for about 3 and a half.”

“Well, it looks good on you. You’ve lost some weight!”. He fist bumped me. Then I came around to thanking him and the guy he was replacing on that shift.

I realize I’ve seen him before. I don’t have a name. Or badge number. He’s just a guy doing his job, with foibles, thoughts of retirement, favorite wool socks in the drawer, a favorite drink in the fridge, who maybe loves someone. I’ve spoken to him before and he didn’t forget.

I don’t know his alliances, but on this day, this moment lived. I don’t know who his sons and daughters bring home from college for Thanksgiving or marry, or how he actually reacts in a charged situation, or what kind of dance he does across an azure line about what lives matter, or if I moved any needle that did or didn’t need to move in any or either direction, but this moment lived.

At the top of this hill, 20 yards from home, I hear Jane's and Kevin’s pre-teen kids practicing a saxophone duet of “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough”.

I agree.

XOVG