On singing ‘Dixie’ in my junior high school chorus
Circa 1978. It was just another rehearsal at our junior high school chorus until our teacher passed out music for the new song.
My face got hot. My reaction visceral. More than a child could process.
The teacher started to play the piano.
I couldn’t ignore my brain confirming that this was really happening. I had to say something.
I tried to be light about it.
“Ohhh, I wish I was a slave again!” I sang, more or less to the tune. The room went from a hive to a tomb.
“Are you serious?” I continued, attempting a laugh. “You can’t be serious … ‘Dixie’?”
The other children, most of whom were not Black, sat frozen. Our teacher (decidedly not Black) stared at me from his baby grand. I expected him to be angry, but he was absolutely serene.
“If you don’t like it, quit.”
He went there immediately. It winded me. This wasn’t just any chorus. This was the elite mobile Madrigal Chorus, membership in which allowed you to leave school at midday and perform all over New York City. It was the center of my social life.
I wasn’t going to quit. Not over a song. I had no response, which I suppose became my response.
I probably didn’t even say anything some weeks later when he brought us “Swanee.”
Swanee, how I love you, how I love you
My dear old Swanee.
I’d give the world to be among the folks in D-I-X-I-Even though my mammy’s waiting for me, praying for me. Other songs we sang were also “problematic.” I now understand that the “boy” addressed twice in the first verse of “Chattanooga Choo-Choo” was a full-grown man. For what it’s worth, there were only two full-on Confederate anthems in our large Americana repertoire.
Both were, however, in heavy rotation — “Dixie” was often our big finish, and “Swanee ” was part of a medley called “Sentimental Journey.” Both were major crowd-pleasers. I remember every word of each, just as I remember the night my parents first heard me do those songs, at the annual school pageant.
The house was packed. I can still see, after the show, my mother moving toward the teacher’s piano.
I was mortified. I certainly understood her reaction — it was my reaction too. But I was still embarrassed by the fact ofa mother, let alone a mother complaining to my choral director. Eventually my mom turned and walked away.
My parents left it up to me whether to stay in the chorus. I stayed. On balance it was worth it. I felt that way then; I feel that way now. During that same time, I played the lead role in “Oliver,” and the experience shaped me. As an adult, I’ve played bass on proper stages; honestly, none have matched the majesty (in my mind) of that school auditorium erupting into applause during my “Where is Love?” It was perhaps my first win, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
Thirty-five years later, I joined a Facebook group for alumni of my junior high school choruses.
I had so much fun in chorus and Madrigal, and I wanted to catch up and reminisce. The racist songs are not my biggest memory of that period — the applause is, followed by the cast parties.
My initial efforts to broach the subject were cleanly overlooked by the group. Crickets. I considered letting it go, but instead messaged the teacher. I didn’t need anyone to fall on their sword; I just sought an acknowledgement that those song selections were misguided. But I never received a response.
It started feeling gaslighty, so six months later I posted about the songs again. This time I was not stonewalled, but the responses were disappointing. Most of the people who responded had not been there, and seemed to have more of a problem with me saying something critical of the teacher than with him making kids sing “Dixie.” But the replies from the few who had been in Madrigal with me were unexpected.
The 1970s was a different time. I don’t remember being offended.
He did many good things and is a good person and is not a racist.
He did not know that “Dixie” was a racist song.
“Dixie” is not a racist song.
You should have spoken up at the time.
I don’t fault my chorus mates for not reacting back then. We were children. They didn’t know because it did not affect them directly, and no one told them. But we sang Confederate anthems in front of our parents, and only my mother complained.
No one who responded to my Facebook post mentioned their parents saying anything to them about Dixie — not after the concert or ever. Then those kids grew up.
Ten years ago, two colleagues and I were before a judge on a matter involving an awards show focused on Black artists. The judge, white and old, had never heard of this show. We explained it, and the judge laughed and said, “Well. I think that I will give them whatever they want. As long as they bring me a mammy to put in the corner of my office!”
It was clear from the glazed eyes on either side of me that my colleagues were letting the words pass right through them. Some of you reading this will know what I am talking about. I was the only Black person in the room, and as such I was the only one experiencing what was actually happening. The nonBlack people were in that altered state that screens out anti-Blackness in real time.
I sang “Dixie” on a crowded riser, but I was alone. Look away, indeed.
Smyer is a Bay Area-based attorney and the author of “Knucklehead” and “You Can Keep That to Yourself: A Comprehensive List of What Not to Say to Black People, for Well-Intentioned People of Pallor.” This essay was first published by Zocalo Public Square.