Harold, Maude, and the Happy Song

Originally published by The Narrative Arc

Harold, Maude, and the Happy Song

Revisiting classics helps me to unmask by singing out and being free

Doom-scrolling through my social feeds recently, I was surprised when an old issue of East Brunswick High School’s newspaper, The Clarion, went flying up my screen.

What caught my eye was something off about a photograph of Grant Wood’s American Gothic on the front page. One of my teachers, Janet Koenig, was standing in front of the painting.

In 1998, the June issue of my alma mater’s periodical featured an interview with Mrs. Koenig, who was to give the keynote at the upcoming commencement. One of my two Humanities teachers at EBHS, Wood’s Gothic was a favorite of hers. It was not the only 20th-century American masterpiece she shared with our class.

Unexpectedly overcome with nostalgia, I found myself writing a message to Mrs. Koenig to say, “Thank you.”

Along with thanks, I shared some of what follows. Mrs. Koenig hasn’t seen that message yet; it is still “unread” in Facebook’s Messenger app. I wonder if this will get posted, or if she’ll see that message first. Making little prop bets with myself like that helps keep the dopamine flowing.

High school and I were not compatible. However, despite my ADHD and creative self-doubt, Mrs. Koenig’s dry wit, passion, and broad knowledge kept me engaged in her lessons. That is probably why I remember doing better in Humanities than most of my other classes that year. My performance would have been somewhere just shy of mediocrity, and so it would not surprise me if Mrs. Koenig has no idea who the hell I am.

For some reason, the thought of her scratching her head and trying to remember once she reads this, makes me smile. I hope it brings her a smile, too.

Reaching out to a teacher from my past wasn't the only thing nostalgia had in store for me. It also reacquainted me with another 20th-century American masterpiece introduced to us by Mrs. Koenig, Harold and Maude.

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While I’m not shy about spoiling a fifty-three-year-old movie, I wouldn’t. If you haven’t yet seen Harold and Maude, I hope my words inspire you to do so. Be warned, though; there is none of the safety to be found in the cookie-cutter dialog and pasteurized humor of the modern romantic comedy.

Instead of empty jokes and easy laughs, Harold and Maude’s humor digs deep, with unique layers of emotion that will lift your spirits in ways you won’t expect. For me, this makes it is less of a dark romantic comedy, and more of a dark comedy about romance. Isn’t that just better?

So watch it if you haven’t, or rewatch it if you have. See it on your own, or with someone special. Save this for one of those days you’re a bit down, or for when life could use a bit more luster. I took to rewatching it by myself this time, though. Years had passed since I’d spent time with these old friends; this close to the start of my self-discovery journey, I thought I might need some time alone with them.

Giving myself that space turned out to be an act of self-care because Harold and Maude resonated in new and surprising ways. I saw more of myself in Bud Cort’s role as Harold than I’d remembered, and the privacy allowed me time to sit with that.

This portion of my healing journey may have started recently, but the overall trip is sadly familiar. In the eleven years since educating myself and ceasing contact with my mother, I have seen many of her traits in characters throughout film, literature, and my past and present.

So, seeing new parallels between my story and Harold’s, like how his individuality and creativity were dismissed and stomped out by his narcissistic mother, doesn’t surprise me now. But I wonder how I could have missed it before.

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In a sequence beginning with a seedling and ending in a cemetery, there is a cheeky echo of the overarching themes not just of life and death, but of how we live. About midway through, where we see only a reflection of them walking amongst sunflowers, Maude (Ruth Gordon) shares how she’d like to be “so tall and simple” as one. When asked what flower he’d be, the scene cuts to a wide-angle view showing a field of small, indistinguishable white flowers. Harold answers Maude with a mumbled, “I don’t know, one of these, maybe?”

Harold’s reason? “They’re all alike.” After a lifetime forced into the mold of his mother’s vision, what other reason could he give?

Fading into a slow, close pan across the field, the flowers are revealed to be daisies, and they don’t look alike at all. While Maude gently corrects Harold’s misconception, listing for him all the reasons they are not, in fact, alike, the camera comes to rest on Harold’s face. He is looking intently at Maude, as she looks at a single daisy in her hand. “You see, Harold, I feel that much of the world’s sorrow comes from people who are this,” then, gesturing at the field, “yet allow themselves to be treated as that.”

Maude’s right. 

The sequence opens in a greenhouse with Maude saying, “I like to watch things grow. They grow, and bloom, and fade, and die, and change into something else!”

What has surprised me most in my reunion with Harold and Maude, is how strongly this is coinciding with my journey of unmasking and understanding as I find my place on the autism spectrum.

The new connections to this film will continue to occupy my thoughts, and that is to be expected. I am surprised, though, by how many relate not to my past, but to my future.

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I hope my kids have teachers like Mrs. Koenig and that they recognize the good teachers when they come along. It might be helpful if they do better at seeing this greatness than I did, so they’re not looking back in later life and wishing they’d paid more attention. Part of the cycle-breaking I’m doing means being there to help them see what I wasn't able to at the time.

It is hard to imagine films like Harold and Maude being shown in high schools today, even in arts classes. Perhaps I’m too far removed from that world, or my view is too dystopian. As important as this and other works are, this renewed age of book bans we’ve entered continues to perturb me. In places like my central Pennsylvania home, I just don’t see works like this being added to the curriculum.

That loss saddens me for a multitude of reasons. Not only will students miss these beautifully portrayed characters, but they may also go without learning the lessons shared through this iconoclastic film, and … something else.

It didn’t take me nearly thirty years to learn from Harold and Maude. There was an immediate and lifelong impact from the music alone.

Records over ratchets

A much younger me would peruse my father’s stacks of vinyl when he wasn’t home. Touching my father’s records or stereo was tantamount to touching his tools, so I approached this with caution. For reasons now so clear to me, my young ears far preferred the harmonies of music to the harsh pounding of a hammer. It’s no wonder I found my mischief in the stereo cabinet rather than the toolbox.

Those records taught me about names such as Clapton, Garfunkel, and Vai, but I can't remember any Cat Stevens amongst the sleeves. 

Being the age I am, it feels as though I should have known who Cat Stevens was by then anyway. It wasn’t until Mrs. Koenig shared Harold and Maude with us that I learned of his music, though. My therapist, likely, will say I shouldn't beat myself up for this; I was only 17, after all. 

Sharing the beauty and warmth of this film, and the music tied to it, is one cycle I'm definitely not going to break. While I may not remember much of the lesson plans, I do remember lots of talk when I got to my shift at the video store, and picking up some Cat Stevens around that time.

When I first played If You Want to Sing Out, Sing Out for my children, it proved to be the hit I’d hoped for. We would listen while driving to and from the daycare, or just doing things around the house. It’s one of the few songs my daughter could cajole me into singing along with, even if I’d only do it quietly.

They even renamed it, as small children tend to. Which of them came up with this new name is still a cause for some mild disagreement, but it became known around our parts as “the happy song.”

Older now, at eleven and seven, they no longer use the song’s moniker, in much the same way they’ve outgrown words like pasghetti.

It makes me long for the days when I played DJ and chauffeur. We still listen to music whenever we’re in the car, of course, but they take the bus now. In the same way my children have grown more and faster than I’d realized, so have our playlists. With a lot more Swift than Stevens, it has been a while since hitting shuffle has had us singing out in the car together.

It isn’t all melancholy! There is a happy ending in that every so often, one of them will ask Alexa to play it, and I’ll hear Cat Stevens’ crooning echo down the hallway. Whatever my mood, this never fails to make me smile.

The happy song, indeed.

That is a piece of musical culture I’m proud of sharing with them. It feels like I did something right when I did that.

It’s a song they love. A song they find comfort, and—hey, they renamed it, after all—happiness in.

It’s one I hope they’ll share wide and far, should they choose to have children of their own, or not.

It’s my belief that their love for this song helped engender some trust that maybe some music they consider “old” is actually worth a try. Having one in the “win” column opened the door to introducing them to other artists. Some they've liked more than others. Some they’ve downright hated.

That’s ok! Their willingness to actively listen to anything their dad suggests, at all, is what warms my heart. I’m working them up to Slayer.

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Without having any idea, Mrs. Koenig, with aid from Cat Stevens, has helped me teach my kids how to find feelings in music. 

What could be more awesome than that?

At least as surprising to me is learning a new lesson, twenty-nine years later.

Listening to it now, near the start of my healing and unmasking journeys, as I relearn who I am, singing out and being free hit harder than just catchy lyrics befitting Harold and Maude’s romance.

It is sound advice I should take to heart.

So is another line from that deceitfully simple song: “‘Cause there’s a million things to be, you know that there are.”

What luck, to have a teacher willing to share that wonderful film with us so that I could share that song, and so many others, with my children. 

I can’t wait to share Harold and Maude, and other quirky, dark comedies I adore (and the music that makes them what they are) with them someday, too.

Most of us probably have at least one “favorite” teacher from our time in high school. Don’t tell me about them, not right now, anyway. 

What I want to hear about are the teachers from your past whose lessons you didn’t realize the weight of until later in life. Who were they, and what was the lesson? 

More importantly, have you told them?

It’s time to start singing out.

It’s likely Mrs. Koenig never truly knew how far into the future her lesson would reach. Maybe one mark of an exceptional educator lies in their innate ability to choose subjects and build lessons in which we can continue to find new meanings.

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Regarding Yusuf Islam, AKA Cat Stevens

This was written as a small tribute to a teacher and the impact she otherwise wouldn’t have known about. It’s about some things I’ve learned and the joy I’ve found in sharing music with my children. Cat Stevens is how I came to know Mr. Islam’s early work, and that is how I’m presenting that work here. Similarly, Mr. Islam’s potentially divisive views or comments aren’t what this is about.