Sometimes essays write themselves. That was the case recently in an essay having to do with an exchange of correspondence between Matthew Pepe and myself involving deflectors which he installed to keep me on course as I negotiate the driveway with the garbage containers. Here is another essay that has written itself.
This essay is about lyrics to a song. Anyone who grew up poor during the American Depression and felt its continuing sting, will know what this song is all about. It also applies to those who are burdened today with other difficulties. It is performed most poignantly by Peter Yarrow of the trio Peter, Paul and Mary. Yarrow, who has felt the scorn of anti-Semitism, sings this song with such feeling that it might bring tears to your eyes. These are the lyrics that go with the music and are entitled “Don’t Laugh at Me”.
Don’t Laugh at Me
I’m a little boy with glasses, the one they call a geek
a little girl who never smiles cuz I got braces on my teeth
and I know how it feels to cry myself to sleep
I’m that kid on every playground who is always chosen last
a single teenage mother tryin to overcome her past
You don’t have to be my friend if it’s too much to ask
Don’t laugh at me, don’t call me names
Don’t get your pleasure from my pain
In God’s eyes we’re all the same
some day we’ll all have perfect Wings
Don’t laugh at me
I’m a cripple on the corner
You pass me on the street
I wouldn’t be out here begging if I had enough to eat
and don’t think I don’t notice that our eyes never meet
I lost my wife and little boy somewhere down that yellow line
The day we laid ’em in the ground was the day I lost my mind
Right now I’m down to holdin this little cardboard sign
Don’t laugh at me, Don’t call me names
Don’t get your pleasure from my pain
In God’s eyes we’re all the same
Someday we’ll all have perfect wings
Don’t laugh at me
I’m Fat, I’m thin..I’m Short, I’m tall..I’m deaf.. I’m blind
Hey aren’t we all
Don’t laugh at me…… Don’t call me names
Don’t get your pleasure from my pain
In God’s eyes we’re all the same
Someday we’ll all have perfect wings
Don’t laugh at me
written by
Allen Shamblin & Steve Seskin
This song has come to mind now that we see the vigorous efforts of the American political right-wing to thwart immigration to this land of immigrants. Specifically I think of this often when I find Mexican laborers gathered on a cold corner in Summit, New Jersey, hoping to be selected to perform a day’s work. If a contractor fails to choose one of them by 8 A.M., he will head back to his lonely room to wait for another day. These men are eager to perform a service. They are at the bottom of the economic scale. They are here not for the purpose of rape or robbery. They are here in an effort to support their families. Yet we find efforts throughout the country to have them banished.
In Hazleton, Pennsylvania, for example, fines are imposed upon anyone who hires such immigrants or rents to them. How un-American is this in the country that was founded on the premise of Emma Lazarus’s admonition which is inscribed on the Statue of Liberty:
“Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”
It brings back memories of the case of my own ancestors, where help wanted signs were posted with the exclusionary note that “Irish need not apply.”
Now a few more words about Peter Yarrow. He was raised in New York City. He is a slender man who wears glasses. In his childhood, I suspect that he was much more interested in learning to play the guitar than in homeruns being hit. I can imagine a bully on the playground saying to Peter Yarrow, the last kid picked for a softball game, “Hey Jew-boy, go out to right field and don’t let the ball get behind you.” That youngster has grown up to be a sensitive man in his sixties who sings “Don’t Laugh at Me” with the greatest of poignancy. Maybe we can all take a lesson from its lyrics.
When I see men digging ditches or cutting the grass or driving a garbage truck or waiting on tables in a café, I know that were it not for my luck, I would be among them. When a person trips or falls to the bottom of the economic ladder, it is so much better to give him a hand rather than to kick him in the ribs. In essence, that is the meaning of “Don’t Laugh at Me” particularly as sung by Peter Yarrow.
E. E. CARR
December 2, 2006
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Kevin’s commentary: Wow. Listen here. Really pretty song, and a great message.