Starkweather's 12-Bar Blues

I usually like a little soundtrack music as I make my way to school each morning. Often, I choose the soundtrack, but, one day last week, I let the college-aged DJ at KRNU choose my theme song.

When I tuned in, the song was halfway through. It was a raw, acoustic, bluesy number, the singer's rough-hewn voice telling his story with a mix of bemusement and conviction. The topic? Charlie Starkweather's bloody rampage. This, I know, is not a new topic. Bruce Springsteen dedicated an entire album to it. But, for some reason, it was as though I was hearing about it for the first time.

My reaction to hearing this story put to music was a pretty visceral one. Basically, I felt...invaded.

Midwesterners are a funny bunch. We get that we aren't flashy or on top of things, like our coastal cousins, and, in a way, we rather like that reputation. Known more for our produce than our personalities, we generally are content to exist just under the radar. But, when Hollywood takes rare notice of us, even if that notice is rooted in tragedy or stereotypes, we sit a little taller in our movie-house seats, turning our heads and smiling as we share a moment with strangers.

I didn't much care for this radio moment, though, and was glad I wasn't among strangers. Instead, I started to think about our culture's love affair with our country's wild, violent characters--and "characters" are what we turn them into. I thought that this singer, who most likely had never been to Lincoln or had never driven by a house that Starkweather had rampaged, could afford to make light of something he knew nothing about, precisely because he wasn't there to live it.

I wasn't there to live it, either. But the detritus and third-person memories make it a part of my community, regardless. And so, by the third verse, I started to resent the singer, angry that he would retell a story that wasn't his to tell in the first place. Baffled by the spit and shine he applied to two, young, violent teens who had a taste for blood.

As someone who teaches journalism, listening to this song reminded me that, when we retell stories, we must do so with kid gloves. We need to pursue with both vigor and honesty the truest line of that story. And we need to leave the spit and shine at home on the shelf if we are to honor the people who have lived this story, firsthand.

It was a heady lesson, packaged in 12-bar blues.