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How did the song “Kumbaya” become synonymous with a moment of questionable feel-good reconciliation? —The Crying Lord
As I’ve said before, this column is supposed to answer questions that are both timely and local. Haters might argue that you haven’t given me much to work with in this regard, Lord. To that, I can only respond: Hold my beer.
Recall that, on the night of the recent midterms, Donald Trump actually congratulated Democrats. “I look forward to working with you for the good of our country,” said the unknown entity that had somehow assumed the physical form of the president. Surely that qualifies as a kumbaya moment?
Well, it would have, if Trump hadn’t immediately reversed himself by promoting Stephen Miller—a guy who once said, “Torture is a celebration of life and human dignity”—to the job of White House chief of staff. (If you’re not familiar with Miller, he’s what you’d get if you tried to order Lord Voldemort off Temu.) I guess our nation isn’t quite ready to lock arms and sing with one voice after all.
But if we were (and we were also idiots), we in Portland could take credit for the phenomenon: For many years, “Kumbaya” was credited to Sherwood native Marvin Frey, a white evangelist who copyrighted it in 1939, claiming it was inspired by a Portland street preacher.
Subsequent evidence, including a wax cylinder recording from 1926, has shown this claim to be about as credible as the notion that Chuck Berry invented rock and roll after hearing Michael J. Fox play a high school dance in 1955. Either way, the song really took off after being adopted by the nascent American folk music scene in the late 1950s. Perhaps even more fatefully, it found its way into several midcentury collections of campfire songs.
Boomer memories of pasty children at expensive summer camps earnestly crooning a tune that began as a cri de cœur for the victims of Jim Crow (possibly combined with the inherent cringiness of Joan Baez) helped “Kumbaya” become shorthand for over-the-top sentimentality by the 1990s.
I personally contend the modern usage began with the ghost of Heather #1 saying, “God, Veronica, my afterlife is so boring—if I have to sing ‘Kumbaya’ one more time...” in 1989’s Heathers, but I can’t prove it. Whatever the case, I think we can all agree the song should play on an endless loop in Temu Voldemort’s prison cell. You know, as a celebration of life and human dignity.
Questions? Send them to dr.know@wweek.com.
