In the first place, the enormous cutting tackles, among other ponderous things comprising a cluster of blocks generally painted green, and which no single man can possibly lift- this vast bunch of grapes was swayed up to the main-top and firmly lashed to the lower mast-head, the strongest point anywhere above a ship's deck. The end of the hawser-like rope winding through these intricacies, was then conducted to the windlass, and the huge lower block of the tackles was swung over the whale; to this block the great blubber hook, weighing some one hundred pounds, was attached. And now suspended in stages over the side, Starbuck and Stubb, the mates, armed with their long spades, began cutting a hole in the body for the insertion of the hook just above the nearest of the two side-fins. This done, a broad, semicircular line is cut round the hole, the hook is inserted, and the main body of the crew striking up a wild chorus, now commence heaving in one dense crowd at the windlass. When instantly, the entire ship careens over on her side; every bolt in her starts like the nailheads of an old house in frosty weather; she trembles, quivers, and nods her frighted mast-heads to the sky. More and more she leans over to the whale, while every gasping heave of the windlass is answered by a helping heave from the billows; till at last, a swift, startling snap is heard; with a great swash the ship rolls upwards and backwards from the whale, and the triumphant tackle rises into sight dragging after it the disengaged semicircular end of the first strip of blubber. Now as the blubber envelopes the whale precisely as the rind does an orange, so is it stripped off from the body precisely as an orange is sometimes stripped by spiralizing it. For the strain constantly kept up by the windlass continually keeps the whale rolling over and over in the water, and as the blubber in one strip uniformly peels off along the line called the "scarf," simultaneously cut by the spades of Starbuck and Stubb, the mates; and just as fast as it is thus peeled off, and indeed by that very act itself, it is all the time being hoisted higher and higher aloft till its upper end grazes the main-top; the men at the windlass then cease heaving, for a moment or two the prodigious blood-dripping mass sways to and fro as if let down from the sky, and every one present must take good heed to dodge it when it swings, else it may box his ears and pitch him headlong overboard.
One of the attending harpooneers now advances with a long, keen weapon called a boarding-sword, and watching his chance he dexterously slices out a considerable hole in the lower part of the swaying mass. Into this hole, the end of the second alternating great tackle is then hooked so as to retain a hold upon the blubber, in order to prepare for what follows. Whereupon, this accomplished swordsman, warning all hands to stand off, once more makes a scientific dash at the mass, and with a few sidelong, desperate, lunging, slicings, severs it completely in twain; so that while the short lower part is still fast, the long upper strip, called a blanket-piece, swings clear, and is all ready for lowering. The heavers forward now resume their song, and while the one tackle is peeling and hoisting a second strip from the whale, the other is slowly slackened away, and down goes the first strip through the main hatchway right beneath, into an unfurnished parlor called the blubber-room. Into this twilight apartment sundry nimble hands keep coiling away the long blanket-piece as if it were a great live mass of plaited serpents. And thus the work proceeds; the two tackles hoisting and lowering simultaneously; both whale and windlass heaving, the heavers singing, the blubber-room gentlemen coiling, the mates scarfing, the ship straining, and all hands swearing occasionally, by way of assuaging the general friction.
Sorry for my absence the last day or so. I wasn't on the open sea, stripping blubber from a dead whale. (I get seasick in the rain.) I find the description of this process a little disgusting and horrifying. However, I have to place it within historical context. There was a time and place where the blubber of whales was used for many necessary items, like oil lamps, soap, leather and cosmetics. Of course, things have changed a great deal.
I say these things because I read a little news excerpt about the American Library Association changing the Laura Ingalls Wilder Award to the Children's Literature Legacy Award because of Ingalls' depictions and racial stereotypes in her books. For example, in Little House on the Prairie, she described one place like this: "there were no people. Only Indians lived there." Because of passages like that, the ALA decided to strip away Ingalls' name.
Now, I'm not going to weigh into the fray on whether this decision was right or not. There is celebration and consternation. I understand both sides. I grew up with Ingalls' books. Of course, being a white male, I didn't experience any kind of shaming in what I read. I read them to my daughter when she was young. And, as an adult, I was sort of appalled by some of the passages. Even my daughter, who was nine at the time, noticed these moments. I remember her saying one night, "I can't believe she said that."
I used Ingalls' books as a teaching tool at times. Explained to my daughter the terrible kinds of racism that riddle American history. It was better than me simply saying to her, "Racism is bad." She witnessed it sort of firsthand through Ingalls. I think, for that reason, it was a really good reading experience.
We can't expunge racism or homophobia or sexism that runs through some of the greatest works of literature, including Moby-Dick. It exists. It's a part of history. Now, the question is whether we should celebrate it. Certainly, it's present in the books of Laura Ingalls Wilder. That can't be ignored. And we all need to be sensitive to it. It's a matter of putting things into context, as I did above.
I don't think the name change for this award is a terrible thing. We all need to be sensitive to these issues if we are going to get better as people. I don't think Laura Ingalls Wilder wrote her books to dehumanize Native Americans or African Americans. She was a product of her upbringing and time. That doesn't excuse any of the racism that exists in her work. But I think it's more of an indictment of who we are as people.
So, there it is. Nobody is perfect. I'm not. Laura Ingalls Wilder was not. Whether it's the Laura Ingalls Wilder Award or the Children's Literature Legacy Award, it still represents the same thing: someone who has made a lasting impact with his or her writing.
Saint Marty is thankful for great writing, with all its flaws, because it reminds us all who we are.
No comments:
Post a Comment