Do you remember the old song about the Chattanooga Choo-Choo? It’s a song—words by Mack Gordon, music by Harry Warren—from the musical “Sun Valley Serenade,” and then made famous by Glenn Miller and his orchestra during World War II.
Pardon me, boy
Is that the Chattanooga Choo Choo
On track 49?
Boy, you can give me a shine.
I can’t afford
To pay to hear your pitter-patter.
I got my fare,
And not a penny to spare.
You leave the Pennsylvania Station at a quarter to four,
You read a magazine and then you’re in Baltimore.
Dinner on the diner, nothing could be finer
Than to have your ham and eggs in Carolina!
You hear the engineer a-whistlin’ eight to the bar
And then you know that Tennessee is not very far!
Shovel all the coal in, gotta keep her rollin’—
Chattanooga Choo Choo, won’t you choo-choo me home!
A fun song, a catchy tune—and very much a feel-good song in the 1940s—forwhite
listeners.
But if you are black, you’ll realise right from the start what the situation is, and where you are.
“Pardon me, boy . . . Boy, you can give me a shine.” It doesn’t matter how old you are, you are still called boy if you’re black.
And the singer—the white guy isn’t going to pay you, either for the shoeshine or the singing:
I can’t afford
To pay to hear your pitter-patter.
I got my fare,
And not a penny to spare.
That’s a lie, of course: first he gets a magazine, and then his “dinner on the diner”—which wouldn’t be cheap. And the waiter will be a black man. And that black man will serve you your “ham and eggs” the next morning at breakfast. But he won’t pay that black man—that “boy”—to serve him and sing for him.
Chattanooga Choo Choo, won’t you choo-choo me home!
I learned that song as a child, and grew up singing it. I never thought of it as a white song—simply because I was white, and ignorant of how wrong my world was, and of how insensitive I was in that wrong world.
I used to say “yes, sir” and “yes ma’am” to adults—and didn’t know that I shouldn’t, until one Sunday night at dinner I answered Hattie May Collier, the black maid “Yes, ma’am” when she asked me if I wanted more milk. My dear, sweet, pious Irish-American grandmother reached across and slapped me. “Don’t you call a nigger ‘ma’am’ in my house!” she said.
Chattanooga Choo Choo, won’t you choo-choo me home.
Bert Hornback
13 April 2016Do you remember the old song about the Chattanooga Choo-Choo? It’s a song—words by Mack Gordon, music by Harry Warren—from the musical “Sun Valley Serenade,” and then made famous by Glenn Miller and his orchestra during World War II.
Pardon me, boy
Is that the Chattanooga Choo Choo
On track 49?
Boy, you can give me a shine.
I can’t afford
To pay to hear your pitter-patter.
I got my fare,
And not a penny to spare.
You leave the Pennsylvania Station at a quarter to four,
You read a magazine and then you’re in Baltimore.
Dinner on the diner, nothing could be finer
Than to have your ham and eggs in Carolina!
You hear the engineer a-whistlin’ eight to the bar
And then you know that Tennessee is not very far!
Shovel all the coal in, gotta keep her rollin’—
Chattanooga Choo Choo, won’t you choo-choo me home!
A fun song, a catchy tune—and very much a feel-good song in the 1940s—forwhite
listeners.
But if you are black, you’ll realise right from the start what the situation is, and where you are.
“Pardon me, boy . . . Boy, you can give me a shine.” It doesn’t matter how old you are, you are still called boy if you’re black.
And the singer—the white guy isn’t going to pay you, either for the shoeshine or the singing:
I can’t afford
To pay to hear your pitter-patter.
I got my fare,
And not a penny to spare.
That’s a lie, of course: first he gets a magazine, and then his “dinner on the diner”—which wouldn’t be cheap. And the waiter will be a black man. And that black man will serve you your “ham and eggs” the next morning at breakfast. But he won’t pay that black man—that “boy”—to serve him and sing for him.
Chattanooga Choo Choo, won’t you choo-choo me home!
I learned that song as a child, and grew up singing it. I never thought of it as a white song—simply because I was white, and ignorant of how wrong my world was, and of how insensitive I was in that wrong world.
I used to say “yes, sir” and “yes ma’am” to adults—and didn’t know that I shouldn’t, until one Sunday night at dinner I answered Hattie May Collier, the black maid “Yes, ma’am” when she asked me if I wanted more milk. My dear, sweet, pious Irish-American grandmother reached across and slapped me. “Don’t you call a nigger ‘ma’am’ in my house!” she said.
Chattanooga Choo Choo, won’t you choo-choo me home.
Bert Hornback
13 April 2016