1974: Gil Scott Heron / BrIan Jackson, Winter in America

By Sama’an Ashrawi

Winter In Texas, Winter In America

Looking for a way

Out of this confusion

I'm looking for a sign

Carry me home

Let me lay down by a stream

And let me be miles from everything

Rivers of my Fathers

Could you carry me home?

Carry me home.

— Gil Scott-Heron, “Rivers Of My Fathers”

Baba is what we call my dad; it’s the familial way to say “father” in Arabic and I hope that’s how you’ll refer to him too. You should know that in Baba’s stash of records there are exactly five by Gil Scott-Heron (some co-credited to Brian Jackson), but only one of those five has coffee stains on the vinyl sleeve: their 1974 album, Winter In America. I can’t quite explain it, but somehow those stains make Gil’s voice singing, “Peace go with you brother,” on the album’s opener sound like he’s in the room with me. As transparent as Baba has been with me, it’s a period of his life I’m still learning so much about. What I know is: the record would have come into his life some time around 1976, four years after his baba passed away, and shortly after he, born a refugee in the basement of a church in Jerusalem, made it to the States from Palestine. 

On the inside left panel of the gatefold of Winter In America is a collage. The collage was made by a woman referred to as “Ms. Peggy Harris,” who, as she was working on the collage, begged Gil to give the album a title song. She thought the title was too good to not have a song to go along with it. She was so persistent, in fact, that she continued to pester Gil even after the album came out, so much so that Gil eventually did turn that phrase into a song and included it in his next album titled, The First Minute of a New Day, released in 1975. In the liner notes of that album, he thanked Peggy for being so persistent. Though it never charted, “Winter In America” became one of Gil’s most beloved songs. 

You should also know that while Winter In America was the only record encased in a coffee-splattered sleeve, Baba’s copy of The First Minute of a New Day no longer even has a vinyl sleeve; perhaps that one was entirely ruined by coffee, judging by the stains on the inside of the gatefold. 

Why so much coffee, Baba? It wasn’t just because he, like Mahmoud Darwish, was enamored by the aroma. Coffee because the situation in Palestine was dire as ever, so Baba dove head first into political organizing. It wasn’t a weekend hobby for him, it was seven days a week. It was many late nights and only some hours slept on the mattress squished into a tiny closet in an uptown apartment. It was meeting after meeting in Washington Square Park. It was also the birth of hip-hop; Baba thought it was enchanting that young Black and brown kids uptown were spinning around on cardboard boxes, although he had no idea how significant those dances would become. He would rock his kuffiyeh, a Palestinian scarf and symbol of the resistance, on his walks and the people of Harlem knew what it meant and allowed him safe passage because of it. He would throw up his fist, and they would flash theirs back. It was comradeship. 

Gil called Harlem, “home,” and oh how badly I wish he and Baba could have met; they would have been fast friends. Baba probably would have ended up lending his voice on a song or two. Baba was the lead singer of his own band back in Palestine, after all. It's nice to dream. 

Baba’s organizing bounced him back and forth between New York and D.C., not far from Silver Spring, Maryland, where Gil was recording the albums that would become canvases for Baba’s coffee and balm for Baba’s soul. In D.C., Baba continued his organizing work and it was there that he and his comrades would take in Gil Scott concerts every chance they could get. Solidarity was strong in those days, so Arab and Black liberation groups would go to those shows together, and for extra fun would play a game called, “Spot The Informant.” Baba always says it was usually very easy: they would circle around The Informant and let them know they were not welcome, though perhaps with less politeness. Baba has more than one story about chasing away the feds. At that time, their favorite song to hear live was, “Johannesburg,” released in 1975 on From South Africa to South Carolina (no coffee stains to report). Palestinians could find themselves in it’s call-and-response chorus and anti-apartheid messaging. 

What’s the word?

“Johannesburg!” 

Many, many years later, in Texas, Baba’s son had moved home from California and a pandemic had hit. We had a family meeting just before the presidential election to discuss what our plan would be in the event that the MAGA crowd turned to violence. My dad's decades of political organizing was coming in handy in a way that he never could have imagined, and probably hoped would never need to. But even before the organizing, life had prepared him for that moment in the fall of 2020: in 1967, Baba, then a teenager, spent the better part of a week with his family and neighbors isolated in a bomb shelter beneath Jerusalem as Israeli tanks invaded. He escaped so much violence only for it to find its way back to him in this new country. I began sleeping with an aluminum baseball bat under my bed — and I still do.

Then a Great Freeze happened. The first night, before the freeze set in, I went out into the street and danced in the snow, moonwalking from our mailbox all the way to the end of the neighbor’s house. It was fun to have a snow day in Texas and I desperately needed something to be happy about. But then—thanks Governor Abbott—power went out across the state. For the next week, pipes burst, phone signals were lost, and people died. The temperature inside our house fell almost 35 degrees, nearly freezing, and somehow that meant we were among the lucky. 

Our neighbor, a Japanese man who had recently moved in, lent us his family’s generator which helped us get a space heater going. But when we found out that our other neighbors a few houses down were an elderly Jewish couple who were suffering much more than we were, we brought the generator over to them and made sure they had a space heater for themselves. 

This was winter in Texas, Winter in America. 

Now more than ever

All family must be together

Every brother everywhere

Feels the time is in the air

Common blood flows through common veins

And the common eyes all see the same

Now more than ever

All the family must be together.

— Gil Scott-Heron, “Peace Go With You, Brother (As-Salaam-Alaikum)”

Somewhere between the election and the freeze I became genuinely depressed for the first time. This was a feeling way past sad. It was tough to get out of bed and yet somehow harder to fall asleep. It’s funny; I used to think of myself as the strong friend that others could lean on, but during the isolation of the global pandemic, my mind raced, replaying every mistake I’d ever made in my life, reminding me of every person I’d ever hurt, every person who ever hurt me. I felt responsible for the reactions of people who couldn’t accept the boundaries I’d set with them—and guilty for failing to set boundaries with others, focusing closely on how that lack of boundaries ultimately caused me harm, too. These lonely nights filled my head and my heart and my soul with unbearable shame. Two years later, I’m still dunking my head in buckets of ice water to cool the hot anxiety that was keeping me awake, hoping for just one night of peace. 

In that long, long era before the vaccine, when seeing friends was still not an option, I began ordering records to give myself something happy to look forward to. For nearly a year, it felt like they were my only friends. I often spent nights lying on the floor, looking up to the ceiling where lights from my star projector danced, listening to music. Sometimes I would put Baba’s copy of First Minute on the record player and lay down on the floor, close my eyes, and not open them until it was time to flip the record over to hear, “Winter In America.” I imagined my father at the same age as myself, trying to make sense of this wicked country he’d found himself in and finding salvation in community. Here I was, still trying to make sense of that same place, only without the option of human contact, finding comfort in Gil’s voice and Baba’s memories. I imagined Baba laying on a floor somewhere in D.C. listening to Gil and thinking about his own father. I imagined Baba in the bomb shelter flicking on a radio and hoping a song would carry his worries away.

And now it's winter

It's winter in America

And all of the healers have been killed or betrayed

But the people know, the people know

It's winter, 

Lord knows

It's winter in America

And ain't nobody fighting

‘Cause nobody knows what to save

Save your soul

From winter in America

— Gil Scott Heron, “Winter In America”

Music is powerful in the way it lets you know that you’re not the only one feeling what you’re feeling. What a blessing to have these reminders that you are truly not alone. Ms. Peggy, wherever you are, thank you.

For Baba, the freeze was an opportunity to lift his son out of a depression. We worked together on building housing for the generator while we had it. He showed me that we could actually convert our fireplace from electric to gas. Together, we found ways to stay warm, and through all these little survival tutorials, I began to feel useful. I had found a sense of accomplishment in the middle of this terrible time. 

Baba decided one night that we would brave the icy roads and see if any restaurants were open for takeout. I needed the car to charge my phone anyway, and, sure enough, the only restaurant in our little town that had power was a Whataburger. I know those cooks weren’t being paid what they deserved, so I was sure that they weren’t recognized for being the heroes they were—they saved our town that week.

It took three hours to finally make it to the front of the drive thru line. I hadn’t wanted to wait, and offered to drive us back home, but my father wouldn’t let me. He's a prideful man, and he wasn’t about to let that long line defeat us. We were not returning home empty handed. When we finally ordered, something told me to get a few extra orders of chicken tenders, probably to eat later. The next morning, my mom took the tenders and flipped waffles on our gas stove, making us a delicious breakfast in the dark. For a brief moment, thanks to my parents, I snapped out of that funk. It was a warm and bright spot in the middle of winter. 

And then, it just so happened, quite cosmically, that as the power came back on in Texas, the rapper Freddie Gibbs put out a cover of the song I’d listened to while lying on the floor so many lonely nights in the pre-vaccination era. The new version of a nearly 50-year-old song was lyrically identical, and even in 2021, described the state of this country with chilling, enduring relevance. 

One fateful day, my body started rejecting coffee, so music became my soul balm; the aroma of music in the morning to lift my spirit, the strength of music late in the night to carry my worries away. Music to mend a broken heart, music to make new friends and nourish old ones. Music to keep me company as I write, music to make the summer heat and the winter cold more bearable. Music.   

On that inside left panel of Winter In America next to Ms. Peggy Harris’ collage are words from Mr. Heron:

At the end of 360 degrees, 

Winter is a metaphor: 

A term not only used to describe the season of ice, 

but the period of our lives 

through which we are travelling. 

In our hearts we feel that spring is just around the corner: 

a spring of brotherhood and united spirits among people of color. 

Everyone is moving, searching. 

There is a restlessness within our souls 

that keeps us questioning, discovering and struggling 

against a system that will not allow us 

space and time for fresh expression. 

Western icemen have attempted to distort time. 

Extra months on the calendar and 

daylight saved what was Eastern Standard. 

We approach winter 

the most depressing period 

in the history of this industrial empire, 

with threats of oil shortages 

and energy crises. 

But we, as Black people, 

have been a source of endless energy, 

endless beauty and endless determination. 

I have many things to tell you about tomorrow’s love and light.

We will see you in the spring.

- Gil

In the interest of national security, please help us carry out our constitutional duty to overthrow the king.

I’m hoping my spring is just around the corner because I’ve had just about enough of Winter In America.

Sama’an Ashrawi is a Palestinian-American writer, filmmaker, music producer, and host of the Nostalgia Mixtape podcast. His work has featured Megan Thee Stallion, Drake, Coldplay’s Chris Martin, Chris Rock, Kendrick Lamar, J. Cole, Abbi Jacobson & Ilana Glazer, the Beastie Boys’ Adam Horovitz, Bad Brains’ Darryl Jenifer, Q-Tip, Pharrell, Lupe Fiasco, A$AP Rocky, Clint Dempsey, Nneka Ogwumike, Gary Clark Jr, Leon Bridges, Hannibal Buress, DJ Khaled, Mac Miller, Thundercat, Ana Tijoux, Khruangbin, and dozens more. 

IG: @sam3an

Twitter: @samaanashrawi