I wrote this song a couple of years ago, back in the U.S. I can’t remember what exactly made me sit down and write it, but it was a long time coming. It’s inspired very loosely by my family’s immigration from Spain and relationship to the country. My tatarabuelo was born into an anarchist mining family on the coast of Asturias, Spain. When he was still a little kid, he immigrated to Spelter, West Virginia, where they were recruiting miners experienced in zinc extraction. His trip across the Atlantic took place a few years before Franco began his fascist charge up Spain—where he was confronted by the Republicans, a group made up in part by Asturian anarchists. If he hadn’t immigrated, my tatarabuelo likely would’ve been among those murdered and suppressed by Franco’s forces. He was probably lucky to be in the United States, but it must’ve killed him to watch from afar as his country descended into decades of authoritarianism. Franco’s tyranny was motivated largely by Spain’s perceived decadence in the 19th century, as it lost colony after colony throughout Latin America and the Philippines. When I wrote the song, I dedicated a verse to that justification, and since I’ve been in Colombia, it’s been the verse I think about most.
Sometimes, it feels like Spain had it coming.
The centuries of oppression couldn’t be kept overseas forever. Eventually, all that hate had to wash back ashore. It deserved to.
But I don’t really think that’s true.
Giralda
I’m sailing away from the place I once called home
I set off a bomb ‘cause it no longer resembles the place I used to call home
The place I once called home
The place that I called home
Did you read the news, my friend? There come tidings of a war
We slaughtered all the natives, so now, it’s brother against brother, and we’ll fight until we can’t
no more
Our past has washed ashore
Manzanas split right through the core
“I didn’t know a thing,” he said. “We’ve been mining all day long
How could I hear when the soot clogs my ears and canaries keep on singing their song?”
They knew it all along
They’ve been wailing all night long
The generalísimo neared with his fascist band in hand
I raised my black flag high. Without a single thought in my command, I took my stand
I really stuck it to the man
I turned around and ran
I’m sailing away from the place I once called home
I set off a bomb ‘cause it no longer resembles the place I used to call home
The place I once called home
The place I’d love to call home
Giralda my dear, I might not ever see you again
Giralda my dear, I looked into your eye from the Guadalquivir
Giralda my dear, I might not ever see you again
Giralda my dear, when the sun burnt my feet, your compassion was near
Disclaimer: The content of this publication was generated by individual Volunteers. The opinions and thoughts here do not reflect any position of the United States government or the Peace Corps.