"There," said the landlord, placing the candle on a crazy old sea chest that did double duty as a wash-stand and centre table; "there, make yourself comfortable now; and good night to ye." I turned round from eyeing the bed, but he had disappeared.
Folding back the counterpane, I stooped over the bed. Though none of the most elegant, it yet stood the scrutiny tolerably well. I then glanced round the room; and besides the bedstead and centre table, could see no other furniture belonging to the place, but a rude shelf, the four walls, and a papered fireboard representing a man striking a whale. Of things not properly belonging to the room, there was a hammock lashed up, and thrown upon the floor in one corner; also a large seaman's bag, containing the harpooneer's wardrobe, no doubt in lieu of a land trunk. Likewise, there was a parcel of outlandish bone fish hooks on the shelf over the fire-place, and a tall harpoon standing at the head of the bed.
But what is this on the chest? I took it up, and held it close to the light, and felt it, and smelt it, and tried every way possible to arrive at some satisfactory conclusion concerning it. I can compare it to nothing but a large door mat, ornamented at the edges with little tinkling tags something like the stained porcupine quills round an Indian moccasin. There was a hole or slit in the middle of this mat, as you see the same in South American ponchos. But could it be possible that any sober harpooneer would get into a door mat, and parade the streets of any Christian town in that sort of guise? I put it on, to try it, and it weighed me down like a hamper, being uncommonly shaggy and thick, and I thought a little damp, as though this mysterious harpooneer had been wearing it of a rainy day. I went up in it to a bit of glass stuck against the wall, and I never saw such a sight in my life. I tore myself out of it in such a hurry that I gave myself a kink in the neck.
I sat down on the side of the bed, and commenced thinking about this head-peddling harpooneer, and his door mat. After thinking some time on the bed-side, I got up and took off my monkey jacket, and then stood in the middle of the room thinking. I then took off my coat, and thought a little more in my shirt sleeves. But beginning to feel very cold now, half undressed as I was, and remembering what the landlord said about the harpooneer's not coming home at all that night, it being so very late, I made no more ado, but jumped out of my pantaloons and boots, and then blowing out the light tumbled into bed, and commended myself to the care of heaven.
Whether that mattress was stuffed with corncobs or broken crockery, there is no telling, but I rolled about a good deal, and could not sleep for a long time. At last I slid off into a light doze, and had pretty nearly made a good offing towards the land of Nod, when I heard a heavy footfall in the passage, and saw a glimmer of light come into the room from under the door.
Lord save me, thinks I, that must be the harpooneer, the infernal head-peddler. But I lay perfectly still, and resolved not to say a word till spoken to. Holding a light in one hand, and that identical New Zealand head in the other, the stranger entered the room, and without looking towards the bed, placed his candle a good way off from me on the floor in one corner, and then began working away at the knotted cords of the large bag I before spoke of as being in the room. I was all eagerness to see his face, but he kept it averted for some time while employed in unlacing the bag's mouth. This accomplished, however, he turned round- when, good heavens; what a sight! Such a face! It was of a dark, purplish, yellow color, here and there stuck over with large blackish looking squares. Yes, it's just as I thought, he's a terrible bedfellow; he's been in a fight, got dreadfully cut, and here he is, just from the surgeon. But at that moment he chanced to turn his face so towards the light, that I plainly saw they could not be sticking-plasters at all, those black squares on his cheeks. They were stains of some sort or other. At first I knew not what to make of this; but soon an inkling of the truth occurred to me. I remembered a story of a white man- a whaleman too- who, falling among the cannibals, had been tattooed by them. I concluded that this harpooneer, in the course of his distant voyages, must have met with a similar adventure. And what is it, thought I, after all! It's only his outside; a man can be honest in any sort of skin. But then, what to make of his unearthly complexion, that part of it, I mean, lying round about, and completely independent of the squares of tattooing. To be sure, it might be nothing but a good coat of tropical tanning; but I never heard of a hot sun's tanning a white man into a purplish yellow one. However, I had never been in the South Seas; and perhaps the sun there produced these extraordinary effects upon the skin. Now, while all these ideas were passing through me like lightning, this harpooneer never noticed me at all. But, after some difficulty having opened his bag, he commenced fumbling in it, and presently pulled out a sort of tomahawk, and a seal-skin wallet with the hair on. Placing these on the old chest in the middle of a room, he then took the New Zealand head- a ghastly thing enough- and crammed it down into the bag. He now took off his hat- a new beaver hat- when I came nigh singing out with fresh surprise. There was no hair on his head- none to speak of at least- nothing but a small scalp-knot twisted up on his forehead. His bald purplish head now looked for all the world like a mildewed skull. Had not the stranger stood between me and the door, I would have bolted out of it quicker than ever I bolted a dinner.
Ishmael is trying not to cast pre-judgements on the harpooneer. He says as much when he proclaims, "It's only his outside; a man can be honest in any sort of skin . . ." However, he's terrified by the man's appearance, and the stories he's heard about the harpooneer have not helped, either. Ishmael's been told that the man was out on the dark streets, trying to sell shrunken human heads to strangers. Now, Ishmael is confronted by a man whose face looks, to him, like a "mildewed skull."
I think it's fairly appropriate that this is the passage from Moby-Dick tonight, because it is all about preconceptions and fear based on skin color and difference. Think of Ishmael tonight as the prototypical white person in the United States (in Washington, D. C., and the Oval Office) today, still judging people by their pigments as opposed to their characters.
Today is Martin Luther King Day in this country. A day where we are supposed to celebrate diversity and acceptance. Thinking back over the last year, these two qualities have been in fairly short supply in the United States. Of course, I have to remind myself that things really haven't changed in the past 365 days. It's just that the election of Donald Trump has given the worst elements of American society the feeble courage to crawl out from under their rocks into the sun.
I am trying not to be angry in this post. Martin Luther King didn't march in anger. He marched in peace, told his followers not to fight the police when they turned firehoses on them. No, his movement was all about passive resistance. I have to remind myself of that whenever I become so dispirited with the leaders in the United States. Dr. King never gave up the hope for social equality for everybody, regardless of race or gender or religion or sexuality.
I don't think that people like Donald Trump and Mike Pence and Paul Ryan speak for the majority of Americans. I have to think that. Ishmael's fears in the passage above are based on ignorance. He has no idea who the harpooneer is. Ignorance is the one quality that is in great supply right now in American politics. Paul Ryan has never had to worry about how to pay for the medical care of his children. Donald Trump has never struggled to pay his mortgage (he simply declares bankruptcy). Mike Pence has never been pulled over by the police simply because of the color of his skin.
Martin Luther King's dream isn't dead, despite the best efforts of all the rich white men in Congress. I firmly believe this. Hopefully, you do, too.
Saint Marty is thankful tonight for love and compassion and tolerance.
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