Queequeg was a native of Rokovoko, an island far away to the West and South. It is not down on any map; true places never are.
When a new-hatched savage running wild about his native woodlands in a grass clout, followed by the nibbling goats, as if he were a green sapling; even then, in Queequeg's ambitious soul, lurked a strong desire to see something more of Christendom than a specimen whaler or two. His father was a High Chief, a King; his uncle a High Priest; and on the maternal side he boasted aunts who were the wives of unconquerable warriors. There was excellent blood in his veins- royal stuff; though sadly vitiated, I fear, by the cannibal propensity he nourished in his untutored youth.
A Sag Harbor ship visited his father's bay, and Queequeg sought a passage to Christian lands. But the ship, having her full complement of seamen, spurned his suit; and not all the King his father's influence could prevail. But Queequeg vowed a vow. Alone in his canoe, he paddled off to a distant strait, which he knew the ship must pass through when she quitted the island. On one side was a coral reef; on the other a low tongue of land, covered with mangrove thickets that grew out into the water. Hiding his canoe, still afloat, among these thickets, with its prow seaward, he sat down in the stern, paddle low in hand; and when the ship was gliding by, like a flash he darted out; gained her side; with one backward dash of his foot capsized and sank his canoe; climbed up the chains; and throwing himself at full length upon the deck, grappled a ring-bolt there, and swore not to let it go, though hacked in pieces.
In vain the captain threatened to throw him overboard; suspended a cutlass over his naked wrists; Queequeg was the son of a King, and Queequeg budged not. Struck by his desperate dauntlessness, and his wild desire to visit Christendom, the captain at last relented, and told him he might make himself at home. But this fine young savage- this sea Prince of Wales, never saw the Captain's cabin. They put him down among the sailors, and made a whaleman of him. But like Czar Peter content to toil in the shipyards of foreign cities, Queequeg disdained no seeming ignominy, if thereby he might happily gain the power of enlightening his untutored countrymen. For at bottom- so he told me- he was actuated by a profound desire to learn among the Christians, the arts whereby to make his people still happier than they were; and more than that, still better than they were. But, alas! the practices of whalemen soon convinced him that even Christians could be both miserable and wicked; infinitely more so, than all his father's heathens. Arrived at last in old Sag Harbor; and seeing what the sailors did there; and then going on to Nantucket, and seeing how they spent their wages in that place also, poor Queequeg gave it up for lost. Thought he, it's a wicked world in all meridians; I'll die a pagan.
And thus an old idolator at heart, he yet lived among these Christians, wore their clothes, and tried to talk their gibberish. Hence the queer ways about him, though now some time from home.
By hints I asked him whether he did not propose going back, and having a coronation; since he might now consider his father dead and gone, he being very old and feeble at the last accounts. He answered no, not yet; and added that he was fearful Christianity, or rather Christians, had unfitted him for ascending the pure and undefiled throne of thirty pagan Kings before him. But by and by, he said, he would return,- as soon as he felt himself baptized again. For the nonce, however, he proposed to sail about, and sow his wild oats in all four oceans. They had made a harpooneer of him, and that barbed iron was in lieu of a sceptre now.
I asked him what might be his immediate purpose, touching his future movements. He answered, to go to sea again, in his old vocation. Upon this, I told him that whaling was my own design, and informed him of my intention to sail out of Nantucket, as being the most promising port for an adventurous whaleman to embark from. He at once resolved to accompany me to that island, ship aboard the same vessel, get into the same watch, the same boat, the same mess with me, in short to share my every hap; with both my hands in his, boldly dip into the Potluck of both worlds. To all this I joyously assented; for besides the affection I now felt for Queequeg, he was an experienced harpooneer, and as such, could not fail to be of great usefulness to one, who, like me, was wholly ignorant of the mysteries of whaling, though well acquainted with the sea, as known to merchant seamen.
His story being ended with his pipe's last dying puff, Queequeg embraced me, pressed his forehead against mine, and blowing out the light, we rolled over from each other, this way and that, and very soon were sleeping.
Queequeg as the crown prince of the island nation of Rokovoko. Melville provides quite the history for this "savage" character, who turns out to be royalty, waiting to return to his country with his knowledge of the so-called Christian world. With every detail, Queequeg becomes more and more civilized. Even his final action before going to sleep--pressing his forehead against Ishmael's--somehow seems dignified and respectful.
I have a confession to make tonight. My father, who we recently moved to a nursing home a little bit before Thanksgiving, is quite ill. Down 20 pounds in a month. Bacterial pneumonia. He's in the hospital right now, on IV antibiotics and fluids. The doctor spoke to my sisters yesterday, telling them how bad my father's chest X-rays were. In a couple days, if he hasn't markedly improved, the doctor is going to recommend hospice care.
Our parish priest went to visit my father this morning. He performed the sacrament of Anointing of the Sick. (They used to call this sacrament Last Rites.) Father Larry also placed a small piece of a communion wafer on my father's tongue, I assume because a full one might have caused him to choke. It's not looking really good for my dad at the moment.
I know some of my father's biography. For the first several years of his life, he lived on a farm and hated every minute of it. Didn't like taking care of cows or chickens. Didn't like the field work. The happiest day of my dad's life was when my grandpa decided to move to Detroit and start a plumbing business.
And that's what my father did for over 50 years. He was a licensed master plumber. Worked farmer's hours--sunup to sundown--six days a week. He was a good, decent man to his customers. Never took advantage of their misfortunes. And he got married, raised nine children. Eventually, he moved us to the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, where I grew up.
My dad is small in stature, partly due to a severe curvature of his spine. He loves John Wayne and Clint Eastwood movies. He's been a lifelong Republican, and, therefore, I have been a lifelong Democrat. We haven't seen eye-to-eye on a lot of things. He doesn't get poetry or my writing. But he's been in the front row of many of my readings. Sat there, with his eyes closed, listening and nodding.
That's a little bit of my father. Like Ishmael's summary of Queequeg's life, I can only give an abbreviated account here of my dad's 90-plus years on this planet. He's been difficult sometimes, but I've never doubted his love for me and my brothers and sisters.
I don't know what the next days have in store. I just have to live in a kind of bubble of uncertainty. As the old saying goes, hope for the best, prepare for the worst. It's a shitty saying.
Please say a prayer for my dad tonight.
Saint Marty is thankful for all the sacrifices his father has made in the name of love.
