It has been a trying week for America’s soul.
We laid to rest Aretha Franklin, the woman whose miraculous voice made us soar, our spirits stir and bodies dance. She offered strength in the force and tenderness of her music, to every heart that heard her, and a nation that needed her light.
And we said farewell to John McCain, the man whose steadfast courage as a POW in Vietnam and career in the Senate offered an image that appealed to the part of our national character that wants to believe America is always upstanding, righteous, invincible.
The Queen of Soul and The American Hero were both far more complicated people in real life than their public images allowed, as is always the way.
The two were connected beyond the timing of their deaths. They each personified part of the American story.
When Aretha Franklin sang “My Country ‘Tis of Thee” at Barack Obama’s first inauguration, it was glorious. I remember standing among the 1.8 million people gathered. Hearing her voice made the bitter cold melt away. She was the voice of Americans. All Americans.
She’d fought for civil rights throughout her life, using her music, her money and her voice.
At her homegoing service on Friday, speakers shared stories of Aretha, the friend, supporter, singer. Several told of how their phone would ring, and a woman’s voice would say “Hello. This is Aretha.”
More than one person thought it was a prank and hung up. She would call back. “Hello. This is Aretha.”
Dr. William J. Barber told the congregation that he didn’t believe it was her. “Prove it,” he said.
She sang. He believed.
At the same time Aretha Franklin was celebrated in song and tributes in Detroit, John McCain was lying in state in the U.S. Capitol rotunda, honored in a somber ceremony.
Friday was the third of five services for McCain — the third but not final time his bereaved family would walk behind his flag-draped casket, take their seats and then, when the words were finished, walk to him and rest a hand or a cheek on his coffin, in a marathon of grieving.
McCain’s wife, children and mother, carrying on his public service as the nation bid farewell.
That Jan. 20, 2009, when Aretha sang to the nation at the inauguration of our first black president, was an event, of course, tied to John McCain. He’d been the Republican candidate.
I’d met McCain a few times at that point, through my work at the Star.
Over the years, my interactions with McCain became more contentious, specifically after I asked about his opposition to allowing gay and lesbian people to serve openly in the military.
He remembered my questions a couple years later after a public forum in Green Valley. He had a few choice words for me.
But this week I’m thinking about the man who visited the Star on Dec. 16, 2008. He poured himself coffee and helped himself to cake, making himself at home, ready to talk about the future more than the past. But a question, not from me, about his concession speech made him pause.
He told us about his Naval Academy roommate, a young man from California whose parents had come to the U.S. illegally. He was one of the first Mexican-Americans at the academy.
“I didn’t want to mingle: I gave my speech and then left,” McCain said. “And as I was walking out, I heard my name, and I looked over. It was — of all people — my old roommate Frank Gamboa. Kind of a touching moment there.”
He looked up, with tears. He took a breath, exhaled, and McCain the public man returned.
He lost that election, but John McCain was far from defeated.
So, now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go find some coffee and cake, put on Aretha’s “Amazing Grace” album, and remember two quintessential Americans.
