January 17: Sober Cannibal, First Day Teaching, Facing Fears

"Landlord, for God's sake, Peter Coffin!" shouted I. "Landlord! Watch! Coffin! Angels! save me!"

"Speak-e! tell-ee me who-ee be, or dam-me, I kill-e!" again growled the cannibal, while his horrid flourishings of the tomahawk scattered the hot tobacco ashes about me till I thought my linen would get on fire. But thank heaven, at that moment the landlord came into the room light in hand, and leaping from the bed I ran up to him.

"Don't be afraid now," said he, grinning again, "Queequeg here wouldn't harm a hair of your head."

"Stop your grinning," shouted I, "and why didn't you tell me that that infernal harpooneer was a cannibal?"

"I thought ye know'd it;- didn't I tell ye, he was a peddlin' heads around town?- but turn flukes again and go to sleep. Queequeg, look here- you sabbee me, I sabbee- you this man sleepe you- you sabbee?"

"Me sabbee plenty"- grunted Queequeg, puffing away at his pipe and sitting up in bed.

"You gettee in," he added, motioning to me with his tomahawk, and throwing the clothes to one side. 

He really did this in not only a civil but a really kind and charitable way. I stood looking at him a moment. For all his tattooings he was on the whole a clean, comely looking cannibal. What's all this fuss I have been making about, thought I to myself- the man's a human being just as I am: he has just as much reason to fear me, as I have to be afraid of him. Better sleep with a sober cannibal than a drunken Christian.

"Landlord," said I, "tell him to stash his tomahawk there, or pipe, or whatever you call it; tell him to stop smoking, in short, and I will turn in with him. But I don't fancy having a man smoking in bed with me. It's dangerous. Besides, I ain't insured."

This being told to Queequeg, he at once complied, and again politely motioned me to get into bed- rolling over to one side as much as to say- I won't touch a leg of ye.

"Good night, landlord," said I, "you may go."

I turned in, and never slept better in my life.

I love Ishmael's comment in this passage:  "Better to sleep with a sober cannibal than a drunken Christian."  Of course, there is still a hint of racism involved.  Ishmael assumes, because of Queequeg's appearance (skin coloring and tattoos), that he is a cannibal.  Yet, Melville does something that's pretty remarkable then.  He compares a sober cannibal to a drunken Christian.  The cannibal wins this character contest.

Of course, there's also a lot of comedy in this little passage that ends chapter three of Moby-Dick.  But the comedy is at Ishmael's expense.  Queequeg is not the fool here.  Ishmael--with his prejudices and fears--comes out looking like the village idiot, and he quickly realizes his error in judgement.

Just finished teaching my first class of the semester--Introduction to Film.  It's one of my favorite courses.  Of course, we did all of the normal things--syllabus and introductions and such.  I always think of the first day as a sort of blind date.  The students don't know if they're going to like me, and I don't know what kind of student hand I've been dealt, either.  So, it's all about first impressions.  Sort of like Ishmael and Queequeg.

I think things went alright tonight.  We ended up watching Charlie Chaplin's City Lights for the last 40 minutes.  It's a great film to break the ice.  A little silly.  A little serious.  Slapstick and melodramatic.  By the end of class, the students were laughing and relaxed.  I count that as a success.  I think I came across as half-cannibal, half-drunken Christian.

Now, I have a couple hours to relax in my office until my daughter is done at her dance studio.  Time to decompress, think about the coming days.

A lot of my life is like Ishmael's first encounter with Queequeg.  I'm thrown into situations that give me stress and anxiety (like teaching a roomful of 35 jaded undergraduates), and I usually end up really enjoying myself.  It's a matter of not letting fear rule my choices.

If I had played it safe my whole life, I would be a plumber right now, spending my days cabling sewers and fixing leaky faucets.  There's nothing wrong with the plumbing profession.  It's hard, honest labor.  However, since my father and brothers and sister were all master plumbers, I wouldn't have been taking any chances if I had chosen the same line of work.  (I'd also be a lot more financially stable.)

Instead, I'm sitting in an office in the English Department of a university, having just finished talking about Charlie Chaplin with a bunch of young people barely older than my daughter.  I'm a poet.  This past December, I added radio performer to my list of credits.  My life has pretty much been about stepping out on ledges, looking down, and then leaping.

Saint Marty is thankful tonight for his fears and where they have led him.

February 19: Crossing the Dam, Facing Fears, Second Grade Poetry, Cool Dad

I like crossing the dam.  If I fell, I might not get up again.  The dam is three or four feet high, a thick green algae, combed by the drag and sudden plunge of the creek's current, clings to its submersed, concrete brim.  Below is a jumble of fast water and rocks.  But I face this threat every time I cross the dam, and it is always exhilarating.  The tightest part is at the very beginning.  That day as always I faced the current, planted my feet firmly, stepped sideways instead of striding, and I soon emerged dripping in a new world.

Annie Dillard writes about crossing a dam.  It's a little treacherous.  Slippery, surrounded by fast-moving water and sharp rocks.  To slip would mean serious bodily injury, not to mention the possibility of being swept away toward God-knows-what.  A waterfall?  Even faster rapids?  Yet, Dillard takes the risk.  Why?  The payoff--a new world, different and green.

I like this passage.  It's all about facing fears, surmounting obstacles.  And it's about the reward--emerging new or renewed.  Stronger than before.  This morning, I faced an obstacle.  I volunteered to teach poetry to my son's second grade class.  Now, I've done this before, for many elementary school grades, kindergarten up to fifth and sixth.  However, I found myself anxious today.  Sitting in my car, before I went into the school building, I had a few moments of panic as thoughts of failure ran through my mind at an alarming rate:  What if they hate me?  What if they don't understand the lesson?  What if my fly is open?  What if I fart in front of them?

Of course, I got of the car and went into the school.  I was greeted by my son's teacher, whom I've known for close to ten years--since my daughter had her in kindergarten.  She's a lovely woman, always supportive and enthusiastic.  And the class went really well.  The kids laughed at my jokes, wrote some good poems, and sang to me before I left.

And I emerged on the other side of the dam, into a new world where my seven-year-old son thought I was the coolest dad in the world.  It felt pretty darn good.  I've been living off that feeling all day long.

You see, when I found out that I was going to be the father of a boy, I was worried.  I am not your typical baseball-throwing, deer-hunting dad.  I knew I wasn't going to be able to give my son the typical father-son experience, and that worry has haunted me ever since he was born.

Today, I think that I proved to myself that I am not an embarrassment to my son.  He loves the fact that I write poetry and sing songs.  He kept running up and hugging me in front of his whole class.  When I left, he lifted his head and gave me a kiss.

Saint Marty is a cool dad.