the old Cuba

 

b 

--------------------- [excerpt from Chronicles, by Bob Dylan] --------------------- Nearby at the Biltmore, the Cuban Revolutionary Council was meeting.  The Cuban government in exile.  They had recently given a news conference, said that they needed bazookas and recoilless rifles and demolition experts and that those things cost money.  If they could get enough donations, they could take back Cuba, the old Cuba, land of plantations, sugarcane, rice, tobacco--patricians.  

The Roman Republic.  

In the sports pages the New York Rangers had beaten the Chicago Blackhawks 2 to 1, and Vic Hadfield had scored both goals.  Our tall Texan vice president, Lyndon Johnson, was quite a character, too.  He'd flipped out and got angry at the U.S. Secret Service--told them to stop fencing him in, stop shadowing him, following him around.  

Johnson grabs guys by the lapels and squeezes the back of their heads to make a point.  He reminded me of Tex Ritter--seemed simple and down to earth.  Later, when he became president, he used the phrase "We shall overcome" in a speech to the American people.  

"We Shall Overcome" was the spiritual marching anthem of the civil rights movement.  

It had been the rallying cry for the oppressed for many years.  

Johnson interpreted the idea to suit himself, rather than eradicate it.  

He was not as homespun as it seemed.  

The dominant myth of the day seemed to be that anybody could do anything, even go to the moon.  You could do whatever you wanted--in the ads and in the articles, ignore your limitations, defy them.  

If you were an indecisive person, you could become a leader and wear lederhosen.  If you were a housewife, you could become a glamour girl with rhinestone sunglasses.  

        Are you slow witted?  No worries--you can be an intellectual genius.  If you're old, you can be young.  Anything was possible.  

It was almost like a war against the self.  

The art world was changing, too, being turned on its head.  Abstract painting and atonal music were hitting the scene, mangling recognizable reality.  Goya himself would have been lost at sea if he tried to sail the new wave of art.  We would look at all this stuff for what it was worth, and not one cent more.

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