Composing Peace with Compassion and Courage

Elizabeth Alexander

Elizabeth Alexander was maybe ten years old when she was first struck by the power of music mixed with a lyric. She was listening to "Sixteen Tons" on the radio, as her family drove along the West Virginia Turnpike. There was a line, “I owe my soul to the company store,” that she didn’t understand, so she asked her dad what it meant. He explained that mining companies used to house their workers in company owned towns, and pay them, not with cash, but with “scrip” they could use at the company store. Only the stores overcharged them, so workers would have to buy on credit. And they had to settle their debts before they could leave the employ of the company. It was a form of slavery, because settling their debt quickly became impossible. 

That was the moment that Alexander discovered her thirst to change the world with music. A half century later, she’s still hard at it. Most of the time, her vehicle is choral music, which is not the standard genre for tackling difficult truths. But Alexander composes to create a better world, whatever the genre, and whether or not the market is ready. For example, the score for her song Reasons for the Perpetuation of Slavery was among her slowest selling when she first released it in 2010. But the realities of modern slavery have become less taboo in the years since, and her piece has become profoundly impactful. Jessica Corbin, artistic director of a Brooklyn choir, reports the audience reaction to a performance: “There were about 10 seconds of silence after we finished before the applause began. It’s such a powerful piece of music, and so well written.”  

Split Hickory's Bonnie Leatherwood struggles with the inexorable pull of family ties

I met Alexander through the Braver Angels song network. She reached out to me after I made a presentation about Summit Stages, enthusiastic about the prospect of using musical theatre as a tool for building the Beloved Community. It was something she was already working on with Split Hickory, her musical-in-progress about an ambitious young woman who returns to her dead-end town for what’s supposed to be a brief visit, only to confront a spiraling opioid epidemic and loved ones who are chained down in the thick of it. Can she walk away or does she need to stay? And if she does, how can she possibly make a difference? 

Those are tough questions. The last one, in particular, haunts me weekly, as I facilitate a gathering and meal for the homeless in my divided community. The opioid epidemic is in full swing here. Our gathering a week ago was particularly difficult. One of our regulars died by suicide the Friday before. He’d been doing so well. He’d gone to detox and managed to stay sober for weeks. He’d been determined to get free. I don’t know what tripped him up; there are so many things it could have been. Whatever it was, it took away his hope, and then took him from us. 

His funeral was that Tuesday. I was facilitating the drop-in the next day. As sometimes happens, we didn’t have enough volunteers to serve the food, so I invited some of the patrons to help us put together sandwiches. One of those helpers lost a young adult son, also to suicide, just a few months ago. We were almost finishing up the sandwiches when another of our regulars came running in and whispered something to her. She ran from the building in tears and began to wail in wordless mourning. Her father had just died. There is so much loss piling on top of loss. So much associated pain. It’s little wonder that my friends stay stuck in numbing behaviours that risk their own lives, inevitably adding to the pain of the loved ones around them. 

That’s the local picture. Then there’s the crisis of civil unrest in the USA, a spiral of violence against people who vote, or believe, or worship differently from ourselves (to say nothing of armed conflicts abroad). 

First, there was the shooting of Charlie Kirk at the Utah Valley University, from the top of the building where I’m scheduled to be making a presentation later this month about musical theatre and the Beloved Community. Then, there were the shooting deaths of two men (one from Mexico and the other from Venezuala) at an ICE detention facility in Dallas Texas. (The likelihood that the shooter’s intent was to harm ICE agents instead of detainees makes no difference to the horror of what he did). And then, three days ago, people of my faith were shot down while worshipping at a church in Michigan. 

All of this has slammed home the necessity of making a difference and building peace in this world, however daunting the task may seem. 

And in the middle of all of this, Alexander emailed me the studio video of her newest release, “Conversation on a Train.” It’s a duet by two women, both heading home from a rally/protest where they faced off against each other on one of our society’s most contentious issues: abortion. Neither woman wants anything to do with the other, but seats on the train are so scarce that they wind up sitting side by side. When the aggrieved silence between them becomes unbearably oppressive they begin to talk. What starts as a halting conversation about the weather turns into a deep appreciation for common goals and hearts that care. 

I wish everyone could hear this song and watch the remarkable performance of vocalists Elena Glass and Debi Kilde, with their stellar voices and their expressions and body language that communicate the women’s journey from disdain to appreciation. (Pianist David Lohman’s performance is also powerful). Who’d have thought that a studio recording of one song could have such peacemaking power? 

Elena Glass and Debi Kilde sing "Conversation On A Train"

So, do we walk, or do we stay? And if we stay, what can we do to make a difference? 

Honestly, in the world we inhabit now, I don’t know that walking is really an option. The division is all around us and it’s growing. We can try to withdraw from it, into the safety of like-minded communities. But as polarization increases, even peaceful, like-minded communities become targets, as demonstrated by fatal attacks on worshippers, not only of my faith but an alarming number of others as well. 

So, how do we make a difference? It may sound simplistic, but I’m persuaded the answer is by loving. And using our talents and every tool we have access to, with courage like Alexander's, in order to broadcast the stories that teach us how to see and love each other. 

Last Sunday, Lisa Louis was right beside her father, Craig Hayden, when a gunman shot him and then turned his gaze on her. In a letter to her family that has since been posted on Facebook, she recounts what happened next. “It felt like a long time I stared into his eyes while answering his question. The only way I can describe it is I saw into his soul. I never took my eyes off his eyes, something happened, I saw pain, he felt lost. I deeply felt it with every fiber of my being. I forgave him, I forgave him right there, not in words, but with my heart… I saw into his soul and he saw into mine. He let me live… Fear breeds anger, anger breeds hate, hate breeds suffering. If we can stop the hate we can stop the suffering.” 

In the midst of swirling fear and chaos, let’s find and choose the courage to look each other in the eyes and find our common humanity. And let’s bring songs and stories of such courage to the stage. 

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