Blues Run The Game

Coming of age, I've grappled with the thought that a lot of what I am to experience in this world, I would experience alone, on life's terms. I don't consider myself sheltered, although much of the world's ugliness was kept at bay at the behest of my mother and family; a testament, truly, to what it takes to be a parent, especially to a child born in a rapidly changing world where even just a generation prior, a lot, if not all there was to know, fell to obsolescence faster than the child could age.

Raised in a religious household, more foundationally congruent than congestive as it was not prohibitive of me to think for myself, there were many aspects that govern the ebb and flow of man and it's means to an end that I wouldn't learn of until I was in it. Deep within it. Having to cope for oneself, scathed but fervently fending off turmoil and self deprecating facets slowly burrowing within your subconscious; a quote I use largely out of place, but nonetheless apropos: Just survive somehow.

Raised in a familially abundant household, there was always an exhaustible supply of income, never of love. Grounded, caring, and always there for one another; I've often told friends that based on my own observations of what some folk endure during their upbringings, I indeed was a wealthy child. My economic stature during my upbringing may be described as "third world" were one so inclined, but we certainly spared no expense in love, and humanity.

What exists out there for some, the very few struck with ghastly turn of events, and forced to endure, differ so drastically from my own experiences that, when I come across it haphazardly, I am once again back at home, long ago and far away from it all. Just me, and my family. And I find myself asking that age old adage: what if it were me?

A tragedy, as descried: an event causing great suffering, destruction, and distress. You read about these all the time, everywhere, some so otherworldly it weakens the integrity of your faith. It can be dangerous to compare two distinct tragedies from each other, its toll afflicted upon survivors, each unique to the individual that lived to speak of it; the ghosts to which only they must toil. But it is when an entire picture is painted, from birth to death, when the entirety of the story can be told could we then more vividly grasp the current of burden this individual or individuals had to carry for their entire life.

There was a man, many years ago, an early 60s folk singer by the name of Jackson C. Frank. A mellow, unassuming man from Buffalo, born in a time where his soul, like those of many forthcoming artists and musicians alike, was more than intended, it felt destined; imbued within the fabric of their existence at the time. His form contemporary, his style smooth but worn down; he existed at a time exactly where he needed to be, and albeit relatively unknown, even to this day, his contribution to the form has indeed become a staple, the source for all that play that song.

There exists like no other the tragedy that is this man: Jackson C. Frank. I will let this article precisely outline the woes befallen of this man, what I hope to touch on with this post is the otherwise less than favorable outcome of someone who, by all means have done nothing wrong, as best as we could tell.

In 1954, a furnace exploded at the elementary school he attended that would later be called the Cleveland Hill fire; 15 of Jackson's fellow classmates were killed, including his then girlfriend Marlene Du Pont. Jackson was 11. The explosion damaged him, suffering burns over 50% of his body, and other injuries that would not present itself until later in life. But even after all of this, he pursued his craft; a love for the guitar he garnered while he was recuperating.

His time in the scene was brief, at best, but engaged right alongside some of the greats of the time like Art Garfunkel, Nick Drake, Paul Simon, Sandy Denny, and so on. However, after long his career fell to a standstill, and he moved back to the states from the UK, married, and had two children, one of whom, his son, would later pass from cystic fibrosis at a young age. Bouts of depression and ptsd from the explosion, psychiatric hospitalization, institutionalization, Jackson's notoriety fell into obscurity, lost to the world, except for the few that would still sing his songs. His prudent, genre defining music heard only by so few. His last days on Earth, although not spent alone, Jackson was less than a shell of his former self, he was the animated remains of a child that died 40 years before.

Jackson was 11, arguably his mark on folk music may never have occurred had he not endured the traumatic event, or even more so, his life would have been completely different had that event not occur at all. In a time in this nature where research into traumatic stress related affliction was in its infancy, it's safe to say Jackson fell prey to the nuances of a maturing science; his medications potent, disorientating, causing more distress than he was already dealing with. I have, time and again, placed myself in his shoes, and asked with the advantageous poison of hindsight: would I be able to manage? Would anyone?

Jackson's tragedy mirrors the successes of other artists that share the same light as him; drastic, all encompassing, the only part of the story that gets told if ever the subject is brought up. But Jackson's tragedy is his story. It is his attribution to existence. The pain, the long, arduous minutes, and hours, and days, and weeks, and months, and years; over and over and over. It was all he knew, it is all there is known about him.

Except that Jackson, at his best, where it counts, reflects a greater example of who we are in the grand scheme of things. We all experience life in our own ways, but weather or not you're a victim or accountable for the tragedy, you ramble on. The blues run the game, but you play.

You play, until the end.

So Why, Then?

You live in kindness. You live in love. You live in compassion. You live in gratitude. You live in faith. You live in patience.

It abides by nothing.

It attains nothing.

Left alone, yet again. So why, then?

You bestow kindness. You bestow love. You bestow compassion. You bestow gratitude. You bestow faith. You bestow patience.

It rewards nothing.

It pacifies nothing.

Left alone, yet again. So why, then?

I showed her kindness. I showed her love. I showed her compassion. I showed her gratitude. I showed her faith. I showed her patience.

It accounts for nothing.

It amounts to nothing.

Left alone, yet again. So why, then?

So why, then?