Johnny Cash Could Save America

Amidst all of the controversy around statues in recent years, it sure is nice to see a monument that everyone can get behind.

On Tuesday, Speaker of the House Mike Johnson unveiled the latest addition to the U.S. Capitol’s statue collection: the man in black, Johnny Cash. Johnson introduced the story of the legendary musician, whose opus spans the genres of country, rock, folk, and blues:

Johnny Cash . . . was a man who embodied the American spirit in a way that few could. He was an everyday man. He loved to fish, and he suffered the pain of loss. He was the son of Southern farmers and of the Great Depression. . . . Because the man in black sung of the tragedies of life, and of the difficulties Americans faced, he provided Americans hope.

The eight-foot-tall statue depicts the singer with a guitar on his back and a Bible in his hand. His broad shoulders are stooped forward ever so slightly, head bowed, lost in thought. The bronze depiction of Cash is one of two statues representing the State of Arkansas, where Cash was born and raised. (The sculptor, Kevin Kresse, is also an Arkansan.)

An array of guests were gathered to view the unveiling, including 100 members of the Cash family. Even Speaker Johnson has a claim to Cash lineage — “My staff ran a genealogical report, I am the half-fifth cousin four times removed of Johnny Cash. . . . My great-great-grandmother Lizzie was a Cash.”

While I cannot claim to be a member of the Cash family (however distant), I can claim familial ties of another kind to Johnny Cash and his music.

Every summer, my Grandma and Grandpa Engel drove my family up North in their 2004 Itasca Spirit 24V RV. During the four-hour drive to the shores of Lake Superior, Cash often crooned over the RV’s speaker system. We always camped at Temperance River State Park, where the warm river water meets the frigid basin of Lake Superior. The beaches are not of sand but of stone — round stones softened by millennia of freshwater currents. Many are perfect for skipping (although I never mastered that skill), others for painting (that one I got pretty good at). Of course, the crown jewel of North Shore beachcombing is the Lake Superior agate — Minnesota’s state gem. My sister and I scrambled over the stones barefoot, with jeans rolled up, searching for the iron-red tones of the prized rock.

As the sun began to set behind the Norway pines, the glow of campfires appeared as amber dots across the campground. The crinkle of Hershey’s wrappers signaled the arrival of Midwestern ambrosia: s’mores. I plunged my skewered Jet-Puffed straight into the flames (I like a good, blackened crust) as another sound caught my attention. The annual campers — men as old and as ageless as time — had brought out their guitars, fiddles, and banjos. (My grandpa was quite proficient on the harmonica.) The magic of American folk music was about to begin. The kids sang along — everything from old classics, such as “Amazing Grace,” “Angel Band,” “Rattlin’ Bog,” to, of course, Johnny Cash. Regulars included “The Gambler” and “Green, Green Grass of Home.”

Johnny Cash sang the music of my grandparents’ American story. Ward and Donna Engel were high-school sweethearts from Bath, S.D. — an “unincorporated community” with a current population of 142 residents. My grandpa playfully called it a “one-stop-sign town.” They got married as teenagers and hit the road to find work in the big city (Minneapolis/Saint Paul). Soon enough, my grandma had two little babies, and my grandpa was working in a factory that made laminate furniture for fast-food restaurants. As time passed, children grew and fortune smiled — but small-town America remained Grandma’s and Grandpa’s first love. In retirement, armed with their Itasca Spirit, they drove to campgrounds, ranches, and Walmart parking lots around the country — and oftentimes to bluegrass festivals (and several Johnny Cash tribute concerts).

Addressing the crowd at National Statuary Hall, Speaker Johnson explained the statue’s raison d’être:

Some may ask the question, “Why would a musician have a statue here in the halls of the great American Republic?” The answer is actually pretty simple — America is about more than law and politics. Our nation is one that is comprised of the stories of the American people. . . .

When we forgot about the factory-line worker, there was Johnny Cash singing about that fella who built a car “one piece at a time.” When we had forgotten about our troops, there was Johnny Cash, the man in black, remembering the hundred thousand who died for that “Ragged Old Flag.” When we had forgotten about the native American, there was Johnny Cash, reminding us of the petrified but justified “Apache Tears.” When we forgot about the farmer, there was Johnny Cash, singing how the floodwaters were “Five Feet High and Rising.” When we had forgotten about the prisoner, there was Johnny Cash, of course, doing what no one else would — singing “At Folsom Prison.”

When American leaders weren’t speaking about these forgotten men and women, Johnny Cash was. He was reminding us that these people matter, and that they too were made in the image of God. And that they are part of the American story.

Beloved by all, especially by those of whom he sang, Johnny Cash is a true American hero. I know Ward and Donna would have been thrilled to see the man in black inducted into the National Statuary. Welcome to the Capitol, Johnny!