And still, All We Need Is Love
Remembering John Lennon
I sat behind Paul Gardner in my eighth-grade Language Arts class at Longfellow Middle School in Northern Virginia. He towered above the rest of us, lanky and tall as a beech tree. But his musicianship made him larger than life. An outstanding drummer, and not just for an eighth-grader, we saw Paul as a full-grown hippie rock star with a tough-ass biker vibe.
And I only saw him cry once. Tuesday, December 9th, 1980.
The morning announcements crackled through the single wooden box speaker mounted on the classroom’s front wall, right above our constant focus of attention, the clock. At first, the mono-toned principle-turned DJ doled out the usual litany of mundane messages: Safety Patrol meetings, band booster fruit sales, and Presidential Physical Fitness testing, lulling us back into our near-drool state of first-period unconsciousness. Then she cleared her throat, and with uncharacteristic frailty, said it.
“Students, I am sorry to report that John Lennon was shot and killed last night, outside his home in New York City.”
She didn’t say, “John Lennon of the Beatles.” She didn’t have to.
We all knew who John Lennon was and who the Beatles were. She didn’t even have to tell us that Lennon had died. We already knew that, too. Howard Cosell broke the shocking news to most of the country the night before, during the final minutes of the Monday Night Football, Patriots-Dolphin’s game. But hearing it in the light of day, in school, and with your friends made the news real in a way the night before had not.
Paul turned around in that creaky old wooden desk and looked right at me.
“I can’t believe he’s gone, man. He’s really gone!”
Paul had tears in his eyes. The type of tears that only fall when heroes do. I also had tears in my eyes, partly for John but mostly for Paul.
At that moment, and on that day, I became a Beatles fan. Of course, adults had long-sung their praises to me, but when a friend cries–you pay attention. It would be well into my teen years, though, after learning to play the song Blackbird with Paul in a high school country band, before I would understand the musical impact of the Beatles. And it would be further into my college years, when peace and justice issues took hold of my heart, that I would finally grasp John Lennon’s legacy.
The rattling poets and disruptive troubadours filling my parent’s record collection, and the family ethos of protest and change reverberated in my soul.
But “Let It Be,” “Give Peace A Chance,” and “Imagine” bound the harsher tones of civil disobedience and youthful angst with a prayer-like soundtrack that, to me, has never gone out of style.
The previous generation’s challenges: Vietnam, the War on Poverty, and Watergate, had given way to mine. Apartheid, homelessness, and an era of self-centeredness were my generation’s struggles to own. And now, our children, Generation Z, the post-millennials, must contend with a not-so-new-laundry list of burdens to overcome and wrongs to right.
War, racial and economic tension, and climate change desperately beg for a young person’s attention and care. Be comforted to know that our children have their music to lean on and to replenish the wells of passion they will undoubtedly need to do their part. And in their certain times of doubt, when hope and compassion wane, let them turn to the wisdom of their parents’ (and uncles’) record collections. The same vinyl stacks handed down two generations before.
The answer is still there.
“All we need is love.”
I would love to hear what you thought about this essay and if it brought any personal memories or stories to mind. Please feel free to leave a comment. I’ll answer all of them. I would love to strike up a conversation about this piece and your thoughts. Please consider sharing this newsletter with a friend.
Thank you. - Mark
I love what you wrote, how you wrote it, and the way it makes me feel, Mark.
Hey Mark thanks a lot for that beautiful article.❣