Samaria, Big Apple
So, off I went, despite the ‘ol parental objections. Country kid off to talk to the rich smart ones. Judean kid off to preach to big, important Israel.
Yep, that’s how I know the map some—I walked it. Up to Jerusalem.
“While you’re in Jerusalem, say ‘hey’ to King Uzziah.” I wish! I’m lucky I didn’t get stoned, just for walking by looking objectionable. A shepherd out of place.
Heading for Samaria, big important capital: Just to say “hey” to King Jeroboam of Israel. (As if!)
That’s city life for ya.
That’s me for ya.
Oh, brother. You can take the kid out of the country, but you can’t take the idealism out without pliers, if you know what I mean.
Oh, Brother Luke. Somehow or other we got joined together in those sacred, holy, moldy pages everybody would rather get wrong. Why, why couldn’t I have had your education? Why couldn’t I have had that allusion thing going? Why did my ergo sums and par exemples have to be straight out of the stones and the manure?
Why did I have to speak my truth out of the bare, dry bones of poverty?
Why. Why. Why.
Never is a why. But there always is a because, now ain’t there? Ask Sister Joan D’Arc, speaking of French. She’ll tell you: Getting to the place of speaking truth is a costly little process. Your whole darn dirt-poor domestic servant gene pool is going to add up to the truth you tell.
And for some of us–when we speak our truth on our very own soap box–well, agricultural metaphors will be heard.