His last recordings were done with Rick Rubin, a real
surprise to everyone in the industry since Rubin was associated more with rock
artists, but they became close friends and Rubin was an incredible advocate for
Cash’s final work. When they were
recording the album “The Man Comes Around” in what is known as the American
Recordings collection, Rubin wanted to do a music video of Cash’s version of
the song “Hurt,” by Nine Inch Nails front man Trent Reznor. Mark Romanek, who had done videos for the
likes of NIN, Michael Jackson, and David Bowie, was all but begging to make
it. It turned out to be what most in the
industry consider the best music video ever produced. I intend to attach a YouTube link to this so
you can see and hear the song.
Cash didn’t change much with Reznor’s lyrics, just a word or
two. What is most different is that his
version becomes much more universal in its description of a person in great
pain and suffering from personal loss.
Reznor had written about the agony of drug use and abuse—this was
shortly after Kurt Cobain OD’d—and Cash had lost several family members and
close friends simply to age. When Cash
recorded the song, he and June both new their days were numbered. As I read Hilburn’s account of the recording
sessions and the descriptions of what was going on in John’s and June’s lives,
and then went back to think about Reznor’s lyrics, I thought about how the song
reflects the pain and hurt I often saw sitting in front of me in my classrooms.
In my four decades as a teacher I dealt with losses of
several students and colleagues and their family members. Teachers are human beings. They have feelings like everyone else, but
like many professionals, when the alarm clock goes off on a school day, they
suit up, put on a smile, and do their best for their students. Many times no one knows they’re ill—physically
or mentally—or that they’re grieving or just worried, sometimes
frantically. I’ve seen a colleague I
knew was in her own tremendous emotional pain drop everything to help a student
deal with breaking up with her boyfriend, offering a consoling shoulder and
calming advice. Then I took a box of
tissues to my friend and closed the door on her classroom so she could pull
herself together in the five minutes left before the next class.
The most difficult part of a teacher’s day, however, is
managing the emotional rollercoasters of all of the students she faces. Not just one carnival ride. Usually twenty or thirty. In each class. Every day.
Teachers prepare academic lessons and plan means for organizing and
controlling the learning environment, but being prepared to deal with the
trauma students face on a daily basis is probably the single most superhuman
feat educators perform. Every one of
those students, from the most likely to be depressed to the one who seems
bubble-headed and unaffected by everything, all go through the same kinds of
adolescent nightmares.
Think back. Remember
the pain of broken promises and relationships?
The skin eruption twenty minutes before you went out with your biggest
crush? An embarrassing faux pas in the
hallway or cafeteria? Your perceived
ineptitude at one thing or another…that was laughingly pointed out by the class
bully? Or maybe the crushing solitude
that made you consider the world a better place without you? How about the physical abuse in some relationships? I’ve seen sixteen year-old girls in pancaked
makeup and long sleeves who were hiding the bruises from their boyfriends. And I’ve spoken with students about the abuse
they’ve received from their parents or family “friends.” Over and over they come to class, while
dealing with illness and death in their families.
I can’t even list all of the possibilities or the examples
from my career because I saw them in those seats. They were seventh graders, freshmen, seniors,
college sophomores, even graduate students.
We teach them all. We try to
reach them all and then help them learn whatever subject we’re responsible for
delivering. And these days get them
through the state tests.
Watch the video.
Listen to the song. Watch
Johnny. He would lose June just a few
months later. When he did this shoot,
his eyesight was so poor that they had to tell him where the camera was, and
the vocals are spliced together bits and pieces of multiple recording sessions
because his asthma wouldn’t let him finish a phrase. He couldn’t walk, either, except to be helped
into a wheelchair. He hurt, but he was
Johnny Cash. He was human, and he got up
every time and went on with living.
Remember, too, that he didn’t do it alone. No one can.
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