Cold, Blue, Cold Monday

Blue Monday

No use in my going Downtown to work today,

It’s eight,

I’m late—And it’s marked down that-a-way.

Saturday and Sunday’s Fun to sport around.

But no use denying—Monday’ll get you down.

That old blue Monday Will surely get you down.*

When you wake up in Houston, Texas with no power and water that is slowing to a drip, then this is not a good Monday. There are worse Mondays: the fall of Constantinople would be tomorrow in 1453. Naturally if you do not love your job, then every day is a Blue Monday. Saturday and Sunday, the American weekend, are when many get to do what they wish. Weekends have never worked that way for me, but then I have (generally) loved my jobs. Sometimes I will be come up with a Plato session to do on a Saturday!

Who can be sure how most people felt about farming when farming was what most people did? In the United States, 1900 marked the moment when half of people did something else. Did people love farming when they had to farm? I am skeptical, since there is a certain sort of person who cannot love their work, whatever that work might be. If they win at all the games in life, they still are mournful. Nobody can give them what they want, because what they want is immediately, crushing disappointing. They are the Sad Sacks.

Still.

Though we may love our jobs, Hughes is right: the liberty of Saturday and Sunday is terrific since there is often choice. We might, many of us, have a choice about working on Saturday on Sunday. On Monday few Americans have historically had such a choice. Monday comes and no man can escape. Any loss of liberty is blue.

In the poem, Hughes will not escape Monday blues, but also has failed to go to work. Why? He is late. If you are late, then you might as well be absent. This is tongue-in-cheek reasoning that if always followed would lead to a man needing to bite his tongue when he is fired. In the poem, Hughes is a truth teller: Monday is blue. In the poem, Hughes falls short: he hides from the demands of Monday. The poet is showing us the tension of the day: you cannot hide from the Monday blues.

Monday is the end of the weekend holiday, a miniature Christmas on the installment plan. No wonder Monday is not a popular day. When you combine normal Monday blues with a natural disaster, then that is tough. We were very cold on Sunday night and are going to be colder still tonight. It is a blue, blue Monday.

Having acknowledged this basic disposition, we can escape to some extent. The situation on Monday is never great, says Hughes, and this Monday is particularly bad, says I. We are at the start of a work week with fading Internet, not much phone service, no power, and failing water. What to do?

Tell the truth and turn the blues into an art form. I just now starting playing the blues, thankful for this gift, and immediately felt better. If things are going to get blue, then I am going to find a sidetrack for the not-so-good times.

Thanks Brother Hughes.

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Langston Hughes is my favorite American poet . . . since fifth grade! (This was one of the few things to come from that no-good year.) He always is worth reading.