The passing of Joe DiMaggio is understandably being taken hard in the
streets of New York City, consuming conversations here, and, I bet,
elsewhere.
This man strikes a deep chord around these parts. He was the perfect
symbol of the best of my father's WWII generation, a man who maintained
that grace--and remote silence-- of his, in the wake of his
accomplishments... and personal turmoil. With the WWII generation passing,
in this year that the world's gone nostalgic for the 40s (perhaps too much
so) and been wanting to salute the Joe DiMaggios, Private Ryan's captain,
and "swing music"...I'd also point out that the sons who knew them best, in
some ways, have also had some points to make about the chill of that
silence, which maybe we can give its due while not forgetting either that
getting past that silence was also one of the accomplishments of the
so-called sixties. Because grace is a fine thing but it's not the only
thing. Our hero would beee the anything but silent Muhhamud Ali--who, by
the way, lists DiMaggio as a personal; hero in any case. But we have
complicated relationships with those aging fathers. So did the women, those
Mrs. Robinsons, who knew they didn't make them like that any more--and had
mixed feelings about it too.
Paul Simon, who knew some things about what silence sounded like, had
this to say in the NY Times this morning; what's interetsing about it to me
is the indication that the very smart DiMaggio understood some of
this--that there was BOTH yearning and some ironic comment in the Joltin
Joe reference of that song.
March 9, 1999
The Silent Superstar
By PAUL SIMON
My opinions regarding the baseball legend Joe DiMaggio would be
of no particular interest to the general public were it not for the
fact that 30 years ago I wrote the song "Mrs. Robinson," whose
lyric "Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio? A nation turns its lonely eyes
to you" alluded to and in turn probably enhanced DiMaggio's stature in the
American iconographic landscape.
A few years after "Mrs. Robinson"
rose to No. 1 on the pop charts, I
found myself dining at an Italian
restaurant where DiMaggio was
seated with a party of friends. I'd
heard a rumor that he was upset with
the song and had considered a
lawsuit, so it was with some
trepidation that I walked over and
introduced myself as its composer. I
needn't have worried: he was
perfectly cordial and invited me to
sit down, whereupon we
immediately fell into conversation
about the only subject we had in
common.
"What I don't understand," he said,
"is why you ask where I've gone. I
just did a Mr. Coffee commercial,
I'm a spokesman for the Bowery
Savings Bank and I haven't gone
anywhere."
I said that I didn't mean the lines
literally, that I thought of him as an
American hero and that genuine
heroes were in short supply. He
accepted the explanation and thanked
me. We shook hands and said good
night.
Now, in the shadow of his passing, I
find myself wondering about that
explanation. Yes, he was a cultural
icon, a hero if you will, but not of
my generation. He belonged to my
father's youth: he was a World War
II guy whose career began in the
days of Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig
and ended with the arrival of the
youthful Mickey Mantle (who was,
in truth, my favorite ballplayer).
In the 50's and 60's, it was
fashionable to refer to baseball as a metaphor for America, and DiMaggio
represented the values of that America: excellence and fulfillment of duty
(he often played in pain), combined with a grace that implied a purity of
spirit, an off-the-field dignity and a jealously guarded private life. It was
said that he still grieved for his former wife, Marilyn Monroe, and sent
fresh flowers to her grave every week. Yet as a man who married one of
America's most famous and famously neurotic women, he never spoke of
her in public or in print. He understood the power of silence.
He was the antithesis of the iconoclastic, mind-expanding,
authority-defying 60's, which is why I think he suspected a hidden
meaning in my lyrics. The fact that the lines were sincere and that they've
been embraced over the years as a yearning for heroes and heroism speaks
to the subconscious desires of the culture. We need heroes, and we search
for candidates to be anointed.
Why do we do this even as we know the attribution of heroic
characteristics is almost always a distortion? Deconstructed and scrutinized,
the hero turns out to be as petty and ego-driven as you and I. We know,
but still we anoint. We deify, though we know the deification often kills,
as in the cases of Elvis Presley, Princess Diana and John Lennon. Even
when the recipient's life is spared, the fame and idolatry poison and injure.
There is no doubt in my mind that DiMaggio suffered for being DiMaggio.
We inflict this damage without malice because we are enthralled by myths,
stories and allegories. The son of Italian immigrants, the father a
fisherman, grows up poor in San Francisco and becomes the greatest
baseball player of his day, marries an American goddess and never in word
or deed befouls his legend and greatness. He is "the Yankee Clipper," as
proud and masculine as a battleship.
When the hero becomes larger than life, life itself is magnified, and we
read with a new clarity our moral compass. The hero allows us to measure
ourselves on the goodness scale: O.K., I'm not Mother Teresa, but hey, I'm
no Jeffrey Dahmer. Better keep trying in the eyes of God.
What is the larger significance of DiMaggio's death? Is he a real hero? Let
me quote the complete verse from "Mrs. Robinson":
Sitting on a sofa on
a Sunday afternoon
Going to the candidates' debate
Laugh about it, shout about it
When you've got to choose
Every way you look at it you lose.
Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio?
A nation turns its lonely eyes to you
What's that you say Mrs. Robinson
Joltin' Joe has left and gone away.
In these days of Presidential transgressions and apologies and prime-time
interviews about private sexual matters, we grieve for Joe DiMaggio and
mourn the loss of his grace and dignity, his fierce sense of privacy, his
fidelity to the memory of his wife and the power of his silence.
