The Joys of Taking Things Out of Context

My brother, my parents, and I recently reflected on a beautiful story from our collective past. Ah, nostalgia.

 

The year was 1996. My uniform that year was a red plaid shirt from the Gap, a blue tank top, and jean shorts. I hung out with Rebecca Hanson and a pale vegetarian known as Kathryn Andrea Taxbock, and we all admired Eddie Vedder ("Edward," as we called him). Rebecca, in particular, had a soft spot for Nine Inch Nails.

 

We were young. We were bold. We went to concerts and moshed in mosh pits and prepared for these events by ensuring we were properly hydrated. (Yes, we kept juice boxes in the trunk of my blue Delta '88. Kathy and I met some boys in the parking lot prior to a Beastie Boys concert. They were hydrating themselves with vodka, and we just shook our heads. Their eyes, in turn, widened when they saw our practical and nutritious juice boxes—and we knew then that we were mere imposters in the realm of the cool.)

 

At any rate, at that age I was sensitive about my music. And so when an annoying parent wrote in to the Herald lamenting a Nine Inch Nails CD, I responded with an equally irate Letter to the Editor:

 

Re: “Alternative filth,” Herald Letters, March 22.

  

Recently, my 49-year-old father purchased his first cassette tape called Songs of Love and Life by Roger Whittaker. After listening to the first track, Flip Flap, I was compelled to read the horrific lyrics cryptically enclosed. I had no choice but to immediately smash and burn my father’s entire collection of cassettes, not to mention his eight-track cassette player.

 

Why are adults permitted to purchase such filth? How can a father, whose ideals and morals shape those of his malleable children, have access to music — and I use the term loosely — that transcends the boundaries of musical taste in its nauseating sentimentality. The song Sugar My Tea, for example, has shocking implications when taken out of context, and the blasphemous song “Swaggy” needs no further explanation.

 

I delivered the charred remains of this abomination to the music store’s manager, who shook his head in disgust and pity, then wept. My mother tells me that there are others who listen to this detestable putridity. I cannot understand what our society has come to.

 

Carmen Wittmeier , Calgary."

 

My mother had Bible Study the day this letter was published, and she was horrified to discover her daughter's name in the paper, along with a huge photo of Roger Whittaker. I, in turn, was beaming. Then it got even better.

 

An elderly lady with a raspy voice phoned me up and said, "Are you Carmen Wittmeier? The Carmen Wittmeier who was in the newpaper?"

 

"Yes," said I, not sure where this was leading. Was I now famous? She then proceeded to ask me if I had actually destroyed my father's property. I assured her I had not—that I was actually a responsible young lady who volunteered on a regular basis and was conscientious in terms of my studies. Generally speaking, I respected my elders, though I liked to decorate my grandmother with tinsel at Christmas.

 

"Oh good," she said. "I just want to understand the youth of today."

 

But the sweet, sweet icing on the cake came later when I was approached by my English professor Harry Vandervlist, who was admired (and rightfully so) by every heterosexual female who took his class. He was so literary, so clever, so witty, so handsome, and yet so down-to-earth and approachable: naturally, I never said a word in class. So it was unusual to have Professor Vandervlist pull me aside.

 

"I read your letter," he said. I was concerned: would I still get an A in the course? I had nearly perfect attendance—though not always for academic reasons. But he didn't know that.

 

"It was a great letter. You're absolutely right," he said. For a second time that week, I was beaming (though this time it was subtly on the inside). 

 

Anyway, last night my family and I were chuckling over the letter (which my mom now thinks is hilarious . . . now that I've turned into a law-abiding citizen). We looked up my brother's blog from 2009, which tells the story: Sugar My Tea?.

 

Our favourite part of the whole thing was the side-splitting comment some random blog reader made about me on my brother's website:

 

"How do you get from Nine Inch Nails, aka Trent Reznor to Roger Whittaker. And just what does she [your sister] find objectionable about his music? I’ve listened to and enjoyed a lot of it without hearing anything improper.

What I find truly appalling [is] your sister’s assumption that she has the right to pass judgment on another adult’s choices, and vandalize his property because SHE didn’t like it.
And what possible excuse could she offer for destroying his eight-track cassette player!?

New World in the Morning is beautiful, uplifting and thought provoking.
And thanks for tipping me off to Swaggy, which is a lovely piece of whistling, with no lyrics.
I have to conclude that if your sister) finds anything FILTHY in Roger Whittaker’s music, it is because she has a FILTHY mind.

To the pure, all things are pure."

 

As if in an afterthought, he added the following: "By the way, parts of the Bible (look at the Song of Solomon) have shocking implications when taken out of context.

Ready to start burning Bibles?

Or could you learn to simply not take things out of context?"

Is my mind filthy? I think not. But I do know that life is sweet. Kind of like sugar in one's tea . . .