Illustration by Drew Shannon
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For as long as I can remember, I’ve been in a relationship with a stranger. Well, let me correct that. I do know him. He just doesn’t know me. Still, he’s been a fixture in my life – a confidant, a friend. At times, it’s been a simmering, though unrequited, love affair. And as I continue to face life’s many challenges, I’m grateful he’s always there – whether he knows it or not. I’m talking about Paul Simon and I’m writing to thank him.
Back when my parents divorced in 1970, the album Bridge Over Troubled Water came out. I borrowed it from my local public library, put it on our rickety turntable and played it on repeat until my mother threatened to break it in two. As a young girl whose life was being smashed, whose mum was having a nervous breakdown, whose dad was about to disappear, I found such solace in those tunes. I was just seven or eight years old.
The words didn’t have much meaning then, but something about those gentle voices, the stories they told, the assurances they gave, comforted me. I was weary, feeling small. It was dark and lonely – and pain was definitely all around. So when Simon and Garfunkel said they were sailing right behind, that my time to shine was coming, I trusted them. I needed to.
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That album sustained me for years. And suddenly the words began to make sense. When my dad was officially gone, the song Why Don’t You Write Me spoke to my loss. The mystical Peruvian sounds of El Condor Pasa reminded me of the Keralan music my father had listened to. But it was the lyrics that drew me in. I wanted to be the sparrow not the snail, the hammer not the nail. And, like The Boxer, I needed to turn poverty and loneliness into strength and resilience. What I hadn’t realized was that the duo had split the same year my folks did. They’d been going through it, too.
I listened to Simon and Garfunkel throughout the 1970s and ’80s. Sure, I discovered lots of other music in my teens that I love to this day – Bowie, Prince, the Stones, Fleetwood Mac, Talking Heads, Motown – but I always returned to them. It was like coming home. I was thrilled to catch their reunion tour in 1983. But then I discovered Paul Simon’s solo work and overall genius, and like him, I moved on.
In my 30s, pregnant, miserable and on the brink of divorce, I took solace in Graceland, which had exploded a few years before. I played it on a loop while my baby kicked furiously. After she was born, I chose Paul Simon over Raffi every time. She’d bounce up and down to the African beat, smiling and I knew she recognized that magical sound from within.
Soon, I was working hard, taking care of two toddlers on my own and trying to carve out a life. I dug up my old Graceland CD and played it till my kids begged me to stop. That album uplifted me in the bleakest of times and helped me get on with things. Paul Simon did not let me wallow. The lyrics to the title track take my breath away to this day. It’s a break-up song. He wrote what many think of as his best work while he was in a career slump and his marriage was unravelling. While he himself felt like a human trampoline. Who knew?
Three years retired and I wonder: Am I lost, depressed or quietly content?
At the time, I didn’t stop to think about what it meant for a white American to go to South Africa during Apartheid and explore how to blend his sound with that of local Black musicians. I just listened and felt inexplicably buoyed. I’ve since absorbed what that album represented more broadly – internationally, really. It was progressive, creative, unprecedented – and bold. But it was also highly controversial at a time the world was boycotting all things South African. A risk in pursuit of creative vision.
As I pursue my own craft and think about the meaning of art, I marvel at its ability to connect us in ways nothing else can. It’s through story and song, paintings, drama and film that we’re able to see ourselves in each other and come together in our flawed humanity. We all experience sorrow, loss and love. Life is an unending balancing of pain and joy. For me, that’s been a constant. And so, thankfully, has Paul Simon.
Luckily, I’ve had him by my side since I was a kid. Like an old friend, I’ve felt his presence, taken him for granted, even ignored him at times, then called on him in need, profoundly grateful to know he was still around, ready to ease my mind. Whenever I’m going through tough times, I turn to him.
This is no fangirl crush. I love him. Truly. Deeply. Somewhat madly. He has saved me in my darkest hour, made me believe in myself when I lost hope and brought me pure joy. Thankfully, he always will. And if I could tell him that in person, I would.
Shirley Phillips lives in Toronto.