I haven't eaten in nine hours, and it's got me thinking.
During this writing I'm fasting and thus technically observing Yom Kippur, the Jewish Day of Atonement (though I'm skipping services to take a French quiz, so I guess I already have sins to repent for next year). The themes of the day are forgiveness and penance, and it provides an opportunity to cleanse oneself of the stereotypical guilt that plagues me and the rest of the Chosen People.
But the transgressions of the famous (notably, Oscar-winning director Roman Polanski and the late John Phillips of the iconic 1960s band The Mamas and the Papas) are on my mind as much as my own.
Polanski was arrested Saturday by Swiss police and faces possible extradition back to the United States for having sex with a 13-year-old girl in 1977 (he fled the country prior to sentencing and has been living and working in France ever since). And last Tuesday, Phillips' daughter Mackenzie published a book in which she claims that she and her father engaged in a long-term incestuous relationship that began when he raped her. All of this led up to Yom Kippur, the day to reflect and ask God for exoneration. Talk about timing.
From the years in which I slept through Hebrew School, I remember that the Yom Kippur prayers refer to guilt in a plural rather than singular form — we, as a people, have sinned and are sorry. As we ask God to forgive "us," what to think of Polanski and Phillips?
Where does Phillips fit among the ranks of artists like Michael Jackson and Chris Brown? Are the undeniable merits of their work now marred by their disgusting crimes (or, in Jackson's case, alleged misdeeds)? Are we granting them forgiveness by listening to their music and watching their movies, or is it besides the point?
I felt physically ill when I listened to "California Dreamin'" a few days after learning the news about Phillips. I shouldn't support him, I told myself. The song's gorgeous harmonies felt haunting rather than soothing.
But I grew up hearing about Polanski's crime, which he happened to commit mere blocks from my childhood home, and it never influenced my appreciation of his magnificent "Chinatown" (1974). The Hollywood community, essentially, has gotten over it too — he won the Academy Award for Best Director seven years ago. And Michael Jackson's molestation allegations seemed a mere footnote in stories of his death this past June, many of which focused on his lasting legacy as a performer. "P.Y.T." makes me smile every time I hear it. In both circumstances, their extraordinary work has transcended their personal blemishes.
Maybe it's a case of a time healing all wounds. I wasn't alive when Polanski was arrested, and I don't have any particularly vivid memories of Michael Jackson's abuse allegations, but I would imagine that, other than a select few indulging some morbid fascination, people weren't exactly rushing out to purchase their work.
But the question I keep asking myself is: By continuing to listen to The Mamas and the Papas, am I in some way granting John Phillips a measure of forgiveness? Is my affection for his music separate from my horror at what he did? For me, right now, the answer is no. But, if Polanski and Jackson are any indication, that may change.
Rappers like T.I. gain street cred (and popularity) in jail. But Polanski and Jackson and Brown and Phillips are different; their grotesque crimes were against women (Brown), children (Jackson) or both (Phillips and Polanski). Theirs are deeds we consider unforgivable when committed by people who didn't sing "Beat It."
In a few days or weeks or months, I'll try to listen to "Monday, Monday" by The Mamas and Papas and see how I feel. Maybe my Yom Kippur prayers for collective forgiveness will make some sort of subconscious impact, and I'll be ready to move on. For the moment, though, the actions surpass the art.
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Derek Schlom is a fresman who has not yet declared a major. He can be reached at Derek.Schlom@tufts.edu.
