Revive the Archive: Ronald Frechette’s “America” (Fall 1996 / Spring 1997)

Revive the Archive is a series that showcases student works from The York Review’s extensive archive. These student works will vary each week of the series, ranging from pieces of writing to pieces of artwork.

Yesterday were the midterm elections. Republicans expanded their control over the Senate, but Democrats flipped the House of Representatives, winning a majority of the seats. The “resistance” efforts to empower the lesser-heard voices — particularly young people and minorities who might not have gotten the chance to vote in 2016 or who might not think their vote will matter in the grand scheme of things — were extensive. Women candidates are largely behind the Democratic victory. On Tuesday “I voted” stickers abounded; even Google’s homepage cheered voters on. For both sides there were gains and losses.

Election Day 22 years ago, in 1996, was a story in its own right — Bill Clinton was reelected as President, defeating the Republican nominee Bob Dole. Yet Republicans retained their majority in both houses of Congress. Also in this same year, Fox News was launched. Carl Sagan, the man ever sporting a turtleneck sweater who talked to us about the stars (even suggesting that we as humans are made of “star-stuff”), died.

This next piece I’m reviving is “America” by Ronald Frechette, from the 1996/1997 volume of The York Review. Dedicated to Allen Ginsberg of the Beat Generation and John Kay of the band Steppenwolf, this poem expresses nostalgia for an America that allowed radical dreamers to thrive, encouraged unconventional art to come out of the shadows and arrest our attention. Frechette’s heroes are not politicians, but artists. (Male artists, might I add… Perhaps this poet might have also considered influential women who produced beautiful work within male-dominated movements and creative spaces — Joyce Johnson, Patti Smith, and Joan Didion, to name a few.)

To whom or what do we turn? Perhaps it’s that constant and conscious searching — keeping our eyes open, our ears peeled, our pens scribbling, our paintbrushes gliding — that matters most. The message resonates today especially, when Americans are embroiled in an atmosphere full of hateful rhetoric and futile arguing, social media black holes and fake news. Critical issues remain neglected; the soul of the individual longs for something more. Frechette’s lines reflect what so many of us are feeling: “America, you must help me. Send me a prophet. / The burden is too great.”

In his NYT opinion piece from May of this year entitled “Our Addiction to Trump,” Nicholas Kristof writes, “In America today, it’s all Trump, all the time … The nonstop scandals and outrages suck us in; they amount to Trump porn … but there’s so much else happening as well. Some 65,000 Americans will die this year of drug overdoses, American life expectancy has fallen for two years in a row, guns claim a life every 15 minutes and the number of uninsured is rising again even as a child in the U.S. is 70 percent more likely to die before adulthood than one in other advanced nations. Those issues are rather more important than the question of whether Stormy Daniels slept with Trump.”

It’s easy to become disillusioned, disheartened. Through art, though, we can combat the hostility, inhumanity, and pettiness. Ultimately, we can control only ourselves and the stories we choose to tell — that has to count for something.

They say you are safe now.

The contract with you is not a contract on you.

I do not believe them, but who will stand with me?

Rebellion is too diffuse.

People rebel against everything, but not the right thing.

You are under attack, I stand and fight,

I am the only one. They are are many.

They have destroyed my heroes.

Kennedy was a womanizer. So was King.

Roosevelt beat his wife

Where are you now? I call to you.

You can’t hear. You are busy searching.

Searching for lost sons. I need them.

I need Debs again. I need Sandburg.

Bring them back. I have lost my ideals.

I call them. I invoke their names.

Can they stand against the tide? It rises.

It washes in with Rush Limbaugh.

He’s doing some stupid pizza commercial.

I need a rock to throw at the set.

He invades my consciousness, corrupting my ideals.

Are there any idealists left? Are there any ideals left?

America, you must help me. Send me a prophet.

The burden is too great. I take it up, only to fail.

I ask you, America: Where is Walt Whitman when you need him?

Emily Goff is a junior majoring in Literary & Textual Studies and minoring in Creative Writing and French. From northern Virginia (but Michigan originally), she has always loved storytelling in various forms. Her poetry has been published in The York Review, NoVa Bards, and Bourgeon online; she’s also written for the newspaper The Spartan. This is her second semester of working for The York Review and her first semester of serving as the online editor. She loves tea and coffee equally, Sylvia Plath, indie rock, thrift stores, and cats.