The Privilege of Bravery

Last month I wrote an article titled Courage Is Not for Rent. It’s worth checking out, because courage is something we need to practice daily. But lately, I’ve been thinking about the difference between courage and bravery.

As a musician and teacher, I find myself constantly coercing people to use their voices—loudly and proudly—to paint the world they want to live in. People hover around me hoping to garner more courage. And every day I think to myself:

“I want to see you be brave.”

Courage is the seed.
Bravery is the bloom.

Courage is facing fear internally. Bravery is what happens when that courage becomes visible—audible—participatory.

I recently kicked off a new leg of BugByte that integrates intergenerational friendships and learning partnerships to help seniors with tech. In that endeavor, I found myself out in town coaching a 24-year-old contractor on how to approach new clients.

To me, walking up to someone’s door with a flyer and a lollipop feels like a walk in the park. To him, it was excruciating.

“What if they…”

“Offer to have you come in for coffee?” I interrupted.

His eyes widened. He had never even considered that possibility.

“If you’re going to imagine the worst-case scenario,” I smiled, “you must also imagine the best-case scenario. Now are you walking up that flyer or am I?”

Fast forward a few hours. We get in the car and Sara Bareilles’ Brave comes on the radio.

“That’s an anthem for my generation,” he laughed.

“It should be. I’m going to start saying this to you: I want to see how big your brave can be.”

“Easy for you to say,” he replied. “You’re built out of bravery.”

Built out of bravery? I don’t think so.

Frankly, I think growing up in the cult we call Catholicism and wanting so deeply to be a nun throughout my adolescence taught me the power of rolling up my sleeves and getting into the arena. But I wasn’t born in the arena. I started in the bleachers and wandered onto the field.

You don’t roar because you’re fearless. You roar because you practiced.

As a little girl, I stood in the mirror practicing my roar. My grandmother told me to go practice it. What a blessing that turned out to be. You prepare long before the monster gets close.

In musical terms: you build the amplifier. You set up the box. You practice the song. You do the work way, way, way before the confrontation of an audience. So why am I writing another article about speaking up? Because the timidity around me still astonishes me.

Creators have modeled bravery for us over and over again, yet some of us are still paralyzed by fear of consequence. As if being Joan of Arc wasn’t the greatest of privileges.

Pete Seeger understood that.

In 1955, at the height of the McCarthy era, Seeger was called before the House on Un-American Activities Committee. The United States was deep in the Red Scare. Careers were destroyed over suspicion. Artists were blacklisted for alleged communist ties. The hearings were less about proven crimes and more about ideological policing—lists, associations, affiliations.

Seeger refused to cooperate.

He didn’t plead the Fifth. He invoked the First Amendment. He refused to answer questions about his political beliefs or the beliefs of others. He refused to name names. He was cited for contempt of Congress. Convicted. Later vindicated on appeal in 1962. In the meantime, television appearances vanished. Venues dried up. Doors closed quietly.

And he kept making music. Not as a bomb-thrower. As a builder. He helped organize the Newport Folk Festival. He created platforms where Joan Baez, Bob Dylan, and others could rise. He wasn’t just using his own voice—he was multiplying voices.

“Participation—that’s what’s gonna save the human race.”

The state didn’t fear one quiet banjo player. It feared participation. It feared multiplication. It feared resonance.

And then there’s this line: “Education is when you read the fine print; experience is what you get if you don’t.” That line has edge.

The McCarthy era was a lesson in what happens when governments begin asking artists for lists. When dissent becomes suspicious. When association becomes accusation.

History has a way of repeating the instinct, even when the technology changes.

And I can hear your internal dialogue already: “Be careful. You don’t want to go to jail.”

How do I know you’re thinking that? Because you keep saying it out loud.

In the past few months, I’ve received several well-intentioned phone calls from people sitting in much more privileged seats than I, cautioning me about the loudness of my voice.

“You don’t think I know that already?” I remind them. I’m a first-generation Iranian queer. I have read the fine print.

But you aren’t any of those things. So, what are you scared of?

Stop vomiting your fears on me and go stand on a box with a megaphone. At least your family will bail you out.

Pete Seeger shows us the privilege of dissent within a democracy—blacklisted but alive, threatened but ultimately vindicated.

Victor Jara shows us the cost of bravery under an actual dictatorship.

Jara was a Chilean folk singer aligned with President Salvador Allende’s government. On September 11, 1973, General Augusto Pinochet led a military coup. The presidential palace was bombed. The democratic experiment ended in a single day.

Artists were among the first targets. Jara was arrested at the Technical University of Santiago and taken to a stadium used as a detention center. Thousands were held there. He was tortured. Witnesses testified that soldiers smashed his hands and mocked him: “Play your guitar now.” He reportedly sang anyway. He was executed on September 16, 1973.

“Our weapon is our song, and our song is courage.” That line is no longer metaphor when you know how it ended.

And then there is Pussy Riot.

Formed in Moscow in 2011, they performed a “punk prayer” in a cathedral in 2012, asking the Virgin Mary to “drive Putin away.” The performance lasted under a minute. Three members were arrested and charged with hooliganism. Two were sentenced to two years in penal colonies.

Two years for a song.

In 2025, the group was designated extremist in Russia. They cannot return home without immediate arrest. Their story is ongoing.

And then January 2026.

Women in Iran took to the streets again—chanting, singing, protesting. Security forces responded with lethal force. Internet blackouts attempted to hide the bodies. The risk was not economic. It was mortal.

When you line these stories up—Chile, Russia, Iran—the contrast becomes clarifying.

What, exactly, is the worst-case scenario for a creator here in the last 50 years?

The Dixie Chicks criticized a president in 2003 and were blacklisted from country radio. They lost revenue. They received threats. They were not executed.

Artists have been surveilled. Boycotted. Shouted down. But not systematically tortured or disappeared for lyrics. That distinction matters.

Owning or writing for a paper is a privilege. Recording and releasing music is a privilege. Having a platform—however modest—is a privilege. Privilege unused becomes decoration.

Music has always carried more than melody. It carries dissent. It carries grief. It carries outrage. It unsettles power.

Victor Jara didn’t pick up a guitar because he wanted martyrdom. Pussy Riot didn’t walk into a cathedral because they wanted prison. Pete Seeger didn’t organize festivals because he wanted subpoenas. They made music anyway.

So, here’s the dare—not partisan, but creative: If there’s something you’ve been wanting to say, say it. If you are scared to sing it, you have to sing it. If there’s something you’ve been hesitant to print, print it. If you’ve softened to avoid discomfort, sharpen up.

Because the worst thing that happens to Americans most of the time is discomfort. And discomfort is not danger.

As Sara Bareilles sings:

Say what you want to say.
And let the words fall out.
Honestly, I want to see you be brave

Listening Homework: Bravery in Five Registers
Bravery doesn’t always sound the same. Sometimes it’s communal. Sometimes it’s intimate. Sometimes it’s abrasive. Sometimes it’s commercial. Sometimes it’s survivable.

Listen to these five songs. Pay attention not just to the lyrics—but to delivery, context, and what each artist was risking at the time.

1. Pete Seeger: “Waist Deep in the Big Muddy” (1967)
Written during the Vietnam War, this allegory about a stubborn captain leading his men deeper into danger was widely understood as criticism of American escalation. Seeger performed it on national television—and CBS initially refused to air it.

Listen for:

• The conversational melody
• How metaphor does the political heavy lifting
• The restraint in his delivery
• The line “the big fool said to push on” —calm as indictment

Bravery here isn’t volume. It’s clarity.

2. Victor Jara: “Te Recuerdo Amanda” (1969)
   A tender love song set against factory life. Four years later, Jara would be tortured and executed after Chile’s 1973 coup.

Listen for:

• The gentleness of the melody
• The dignity given to working-class life
• How intimacy becomes political
• The quiet steadiness of his voice

Bravery here is humanity under threat.

3. Pussy Riot: “Punk Prayer” (2012)
Performed inside Moscow’s Cathedral of Christ the Savior. Less song than confrontation. Members were arrested and sentenced to prison colonies.

Listen for:

• The deliberate disorder
• The role of location in the “composition”
• Performance as political intrusion
• The absence of polish — by design

Bravery here is disruption.

4. The Dixie Chicks: “Not Ready to Make Nice” (2006)
After criticizing President George W. Bush in 2003, the Chicks were blacklisted from country radio, received death threats, and saw their careers nearly collapse.

This song was their response.

Listen for:

• Controlled anger
• Refusal to apologize
• Te line “I’m not ready to make nice”—not rage, but boundary
• How public backlash shaped the tone

Bravery here costs reputation, revenue, and comfort—but not life.

5. Sara Bareilles: “Brave” (2013)
A mainstream pop anthem encouraging self-expression. No prison sentences followed. Just radio play and communal sing-alongs.

Listen for:

• The safety of its cultural environment
• The accessibility of the hook
• The invitation to speak
• The contrast between encouragement and consequence

Bravery here is invitation.

After Listening
Ask yourself: What was each artist actually risking? What did bravery cost in each context? What does bravery cost you? And how big is your brave—really?

Francesca Valle is a singer, songwriter, multi-instrumentalist, writer, producer, and entrepreneur. Originally from Los Angeles, she spent 12 years in San Diego and still stays closely connected to its arts community. She’s the founder of BugByte Studios and WiseJack Marketing, now based in Santa Fe, New Mexico, and Costa Rica, with creative roots planted in the people and stories that have shaped her.