But I remember another rhythm, another cadence, one that refuses to 
die—symptomatic of another time when politics seemed possible as a force for 
justice, equality, and hope. As a shoeshine boy working Black clubs in 
Providence, RI.in the fifties, I remember Etta James, her voice raw and 
thunderous, shattering the quiet. I remember the bodies in motion, defiant and 
free. In her music, in her story, in the way she broke down racial and musical 
barriers, there was a fire that no amount of repression could smother. Etta 
James never bought into the whitewashing of history. She was a border-crosser, 
refusing to be contained, her music too powerful to be tamed by an industry 
that sought to erase the rough edges of Black artistry. She carried with her 
the weight of struggle and the possibility of something beyond survival—of 
love, of dignity, of a world where music could still touch the soul rather than 
serve as corporate wallpaper.
Even in her later years, when she sang Fool That I Am at the Newport Jazz 
Festival or in Toronto when I saw her a few years before she died, her voice 
carried the same intensity, the same unapologetic passion. But the world she 
sang into had changed. When Barack Obama was elected, it was not Etta but 
Beyoncé who sang At Last at his inauguration. It was a gesture that wounded 
Etta deeply—a reminder that the world she had shaped had turned away from her, 
preferring a polished version of history over the raw, defiant reality she 
represented. The same forces that had once feared her power now erased her 
legacy in favor of something more palatable, more marketable.
This is the fate of all radical voices in a society bent on forgetting. Whether 
in politics, education, or culture, the forces of erasure work tirelessly to 
neutralize history, to sand down the edges of struggle, to replace resistance 
with spectacle. Trumpism is only the most grotesque expression of this impulse, 
but it is not the only one. The neoliberal university, the corporate music 
industry, the political establishment—they all participate in the politics of 
forgetting.
And yet, something lingers. A voice that will not be silenced, a rhythm that 
refuses to be stilled. In this age of zombie politics, where bodies are reduced 
to instruments of control and obedience, there is still a memory of movement, 
of improvisation, of freedom. And as long as we remember—through music, through 
writing, through acts of defiance—the fire cannot be extinguished. Memory 
rescues and that is why is has become so dangerous in the age of Trump.
I first heard Etta James in a cramped basement apartment at a party with my 
Black high school teammates. It was unlike anything I had ever experienced. At 
the Catholic Youth Organization dances I had attended, white-washed music 
reigned—Pat Boone instead of Little Richard, the Beach Boys instead of Little 
Anthony. Nuns patrolled the floor, ensuring that no one got too close, warning 
us to leave room for the Blessed Virgin Mary. Desire was something to be 
policed. Bodies were to be contained.
But in that smoke-filled apartment, everything was different. Bodies pressed 
together, laughing, flirting, moving with a kind of freedom I had never known. 
And in the background was Etta James, her husky voice breaking through the 
noise, filling the room with something raw and undeniable. She transformed the 
body from an object of discipline into a site of joy, creativity, and 
resistance. I danced without moving my feet, unlearning the rigid postures 
imposed on me and stepping into a different kind of world—one where solidarity 
and social justice were stitched into the fabric of music, movement, and 
feeling. A moment not of nostalgia, but one that reminds me of the power of 
passion, the body in flight, anger transformed into a collective song of 
struggle. A moment that fueled a culture of resistance. A moment to come, 
hopefully sooner than later.
Henry A. Giroux     Trump's Theater of Cruelty - CounterPunch.org
  


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