"De balena vero sufficit, si rex habeat caput, et regina caudam." BRACTON, L. 3, C. 3.
Latin
from the books of the Laws of England, which taken along with the
context, means, that of all whales captured by anybody on the coast of
that land, the King, as Honorary Grand Harpooneer, must have the head,
and the Queen be respectfully presented with the tail. A division which,
in the whale, is much like halving an apple; there is no intermediate
remainder. Now as this law, under a modified form, is to this day in
force in England; and as it offers in various respects a strange anomaly
touching the general law of Fast- and Loose-Fish, it is here treated of
in a separate chapter, on the same courteous principle that prompts the
English railways to be at the expense of a separate car, specially
reserved for the accommodation of royalty. In the first place, in
curious proof of the fact that the above-mentioned law is still in
force, I proceed to lay before you a circumstance-that happened within
the last two years.
It seems that some honest mariners of Dover,
or Sandwich, or some one of the Cinque Ports, had after a hard chase
succeeded in killing and beaching a fine whale which they had originally
descried afar off from the shore. Now the Cinque Ports are partially or
somehow under the jurisdiction of a sort of policeman or beadle, called
a Lord Warden. Holding the office directly from the crown, I believe,
all the royal emoluments incident to the Cinque Port territories become
by assignment his. By some writers this office is called a sinecure. But
not so. Because the Lord Warden is busily employed at times in fobbing
his perquisites; which are his chiefly by virtue of that same fobbing of
them.
Now when these poor sun-burnt mariners, bare-footed, and
with their trowsers rolled high up on their eely legs, had wearily
hauled their fat fish high and dry, promising themselves a good L150
from the precious oil and bone; and in fantasy sipping rare tea with
their wives, and good ale with their cronies, upon the strength of their
respective shares; up steps a very learned and most Christian and
charitable gentleman, with a copy of Blackstone under his arm; and
laying it upon the whale's head, he says- "Hands off! this fish, my
masters, is a Fast-Fish. I seize it as the Lord Warden's." Upon this the
poor mariners in their respectful consternation- so truly English-
knowing not what to say, fall to vigorously scratching their heads all
round; meanwhile ruefully glancing from the whale to the stranger. But
that did in nowise mend the matter, or at all soften the hard heart of
the learned gentleman with the copy of Blackstone. At length one of
them, after long scratching about for his ideas, made bold to speak,
"Please, sir, who is the Lord Warden?"
"The Duke."
"But the duke had nothing to do with taking this fish?"
"It is his."
"We
have been at great trouble, and peril, and some expense, and is all
that to go to the Duke's benefit; we getting nothing at all for our
pains but our blisters?"
"It is his."
"Is the Duke so very poor as to be forced to this desperate mode of getting a livelihood?"
"It is his."
"I thought to relieve my old bed-ridden mother by part of my share of this whale."
"It is his."
"Won't the Duke be content with a quarter or a half?"
"It is his."
In
a word, the whale was seized and sold, and his Grace the Duke of
Wellington received the money. Thinking that viewed in some particular
lights, the case might by a bare possibility in some small degree be
deemed, under the circumstances, a rather hard one, ali honest clergyman
of the town respectfully addressed a note to his Grace, begging him to
take the case of those unfortunate mariners into full consideration. To
which my Lord Duke in substance replied (both letters were published)
that he had already done so, and received the money, and would be
obliged to the reverend gentleman if for the future he (the reverend
gentleman) would decline meddling with other people's business. Is this
the still militant old man, standing at the corners of the three
kingdoms, on all hands coercing alms of beggars?
It will readily
be seen that in this case the alleged right of the Duke to the whale was
a delegated one from the Sovereign. We must needs inquire then on what
principle the Sovereign is originally invested with that right. The law
itself has already been set forth. But Plowdon gives us the reason for
it. Says Plowdon, the whale so caught belongs to the King and Queen,
"because of its superior excellence." And by the soundest commentators
this has ever been held a cogent argument in such matters.
But why should the King have the head, and the Queen the tail? A reason for that, ye lawyers!
In
his treatise on "Queen-Gold," or Queen-pin-money, an old King's Bench
author, one William Prynne, thus discourseth: "Ye tail is ye Queen's,
that ye Queen's wardrobe may be supplied with ye whalebone." Now this
was written at a time when the black limber bone of the Greenland or
Right whale was largely used in ladies' bodices. But this same bone is
not in the tail; it is in the head, which is a sad mistake for a
sagacious lawyer like Prynne. But is the Queen a mermaid, to be
presented with a tail? An allegorical meaning may lurk here.
There
are two royal fish so styled by the English law writers- the whale and
the sturgeon; both royal property under certain limitations, and
nominally supplying the tenth branch of the crown's ordinary revenue. I
know not that any other author has hinted of the matter; but by
inference it seems to me that the sturgeon must be divided in the same
way as the whale, the King receiving the highly dense and elastic head
peculiar to that fish, which, symbolically regarded, may possibly be
humorously grounded upon some presumed congeniality. And thus there
seems a reason in all things, even in law.
So, this chapter is all about a law that makes no sense. The king gets the head of the whale; the queen gets the tail. Yes, Melville expends much energy in explaining the reasons behind this seemingly arbitrary doctrine. Despite his best efforts, however, Melville doesn't really convince me that this law makes any sense, whatsoever.
Of course, there's a whole lot going on in the United States right now that doesn't make a whole lot of sense, especially when it comes to the federal government and the Justice Department. Just this afternoon, I read that Attorney General Jeff Session established a "religious liberty task force" because, as he stated, "the cultural climate in this country--and in the West more generally--has become less hospitable to people of faith in recent years, and as a result many Americans have felt their freedom to practice their faith has been under attack."
Of course, what Sessions is doing is trying to defend discrimination against, among others, members of the LGTBQ community on the basis of religion. Thus, the baker who refused to make a wedding cake for a gay couple will now be protected under the Trump Justice Department. Businesses that refuse to provide access to legitimate healthcare treatment for women (for example, birth control) on the basis of faith would also be safe under this religious liberty task force.
I find this move alarming on many levels. I believe in freedom of religion. I don't care whether a person is atheist or Jewish or Catholic or Muslim. They should all be allowed to practice their beliefs freely, without government interference. But I also believe in the separation of church and state--a fundamental doctrine in the United States almost since its inception. Remember, many of the earliest European settlers who came to North America did so to escape religious persecution.
So, no branch of government has any place in the practice of religion in this country. And no religion has any place in any branch of government. Today, Jeff Sessions has opened the door to legitimizing discrimination based on faith. He has brought church and state together, and the founders of this country are rolling over in their graves.
Now, some people are jumping all over religions, blaming them for this new task force. That would be a mistake, as well. This religious liberty task force is the brainchild of Jeff Sessions and the entire Donald Trump regime, who have proven over and over that they condone racism, misogyny, homophobia, and Islamophobia in the name of patriotism. They use the Bible as a tool for their hatred. They are perverting the essential messages of Christianity to further their agenda.
So, I don't agree with Jeff Sessions or his boss. But you can't blame Christianity for the state of this country. It's not God's fault. It's wrong-headed men and women. Let's keep that in mind. Terrible things have perpetrated on humankind and the planet in the name of science, as well. I don't blame all of science for the practice of lobotomy, which was widespread in the first half of the 20th century.
It's easy to blame an entire religion for the actions of the Trump White House. But that would be like blaming every Muslim for the bombing of the World Trade Centers. It just doesn't work that way.
Saint Marty is thankful today for religion and government--and never the twain shall meet.
Poet...Musician...Thinker...Blogger...Teacher...Husband...Father...I'm not perfect, but I try!
Showing posts with label Islamophobia. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Islamophobia. Show all posts
Monday, July 30, 2018
Saturday, March 11, 2017
March 11: Bombing of North Vietnam, Law of the Land, Executive Order Against Poetry
Billy was not moved to protest the bombing of North Vietnam, did not shudder about the hideous things he himself had seen bombing do. He was simply having lunch with the Lions Club, of which he was past president now.
Billy Pilgrim, a survivor of the firebombing of Dresden, doesn't feel compelled to speak out against the bombing of North Vietnam. He simply wants to eat his lunch--probably chicken and rice--then go home and have a martini. Billy is a business owner. A prominent member of the community. A time traveler.
Of course, I could launch into a rant about the current state of politics in the United States here. Talk about complacent citizens, sitting back and letting the President of the United States trample and piss on the Constitution. Make Islamophobia the law of the land. Suspend the rights of transgender students. Make healthcare an impossibility for a whole lot of poor and near-poor people.
I'm not going to do that, though. I'm not going to be political today. I have too much to do. Papers to grade. Church music to select. A church service to play for. And then more papers to grade. This weekend is going to be a whole lot of work.
But I'm not complaining. There are people in the world who have a whole lot more to complain about than me. Syrian refugees. Illegal immigrants. Members of the LGBTQ community. African Americans and Muslim Americans. I'm a white, almost middle class man in the United States. Unless I convert to Islam or discover that I'm transgender, I'm in pretty good shape.
Saint Marty is thankful today that President Trump hasn't signed an Executive Order against poetry. Yet.
Billy Pilgrim, a survivor of the firebombing of Dresden, doesn't feel compelled to speak out against the bombing of North Vietnam. He simply wants to eat his lunch--probably chicken and rice--then go home and have a martini. Billy is a business owner. A prominent member of the community. A time traveler.
Of course, I could launch into a rant about the current state of politics in the United States here. Talk about complacent citizens, sitting back and letting the President of the United States trample and piss on the Constitution. Make Islamophobia the law of the land. Suspend the rights of transgender students. Make healthcare an impossibility for a whole lot of poor and near-poor people.
I'm not going to do that, though. I'm not going to be political today. I have too much to do. Papers to grade. Church music to select. A church service to play for. And then more papers to grade. This weekend is going to be a whole lot of work.
But I'm not complaining. There are people in the world who have a whole lot more to complain about than me. Syrian refugees. Illegal immigrants. Members of the LGBTQ community. African Americans and Muslim Americans. I'm a white, almost middle class man in the United States. Unless I convert to Islam or discover that I'm transgender, I'm in pretty good shape.
Saint Marty is thankful today that President Trump hasn't signed an Executive Order against poetry. Yet.
Friday, March 10, 2017
March 10: Isms and Phobias, Natasha Trethewey, "South"
America has a lot of problems right now. Racism. Sexism. Homophobia. Xenophobia. Islamophobia. There are so many -isms and -phobias running rampant in my country that it depresses me, but we can't get around it.
Of course, the United States was built on the land and backs of oppressed people. Native Americans. African Americans. Chinese Americans. Mexican Americans. That's a part of our history. Can't get around that, either.
Saint Marty isn't a big fan of Gone With the Wind, either.
South
by: Natasha Trethewey
Of course, the United States was built on the land and backs of oppressed people. Native Americans. African Americans. Chinese Americans. Mexican Americans. That's a part of our history. Can't get around that, either.
Saint Marty isn't a big fan of Gone With the Wind, either.
South
by: Natasha Trethewey
Homo sapiens is the only species to suffer psychological exile.
—E. O. Wilson
—E. O. Wilson
I returned to a stand of pines,
bone-thin phalanx
flanking the roadside, tangle
of understory—a dialectic of dark
and light—and magnolias blossoming
like afterthought: each flower
a surrender, white flags draped
among the branches. I returned
to land’s end, the swath of coast
clear cut and buried in sand:
mangrove, live oak, gulfweed
razed and replaced by thin palms—
palmettos—symbols of victory
or defiance, over and over
marking this vanquished land. I returned
to a field of cotton, hallowed ground—
as slave legend goes—each boll
holding the ghosts of generations:
those who measured their days
by the heft of sacks and lengths
of rows, whose sweat flecked the cotton plants
still sewn into our clothes.
I returned to a country battlefield
where colored troops fought and died—
Port Hudson where their bodies swelled
and blackened beneath the sun—unburied
until earth’s green sheet pulled over them,
unmarked by any headstones.
Where the roads, buildings, and monuments
are named to honor the Confederacy,
where that old flag still hangs, I return
to Mississippi, state that made a crime
of me—mulatto, half-breed—native
in my native land, this place they’ll bury me.
Friday, January 20, 2017
January 20: On the Third Day, Be Extra Kind, President Obama
And on the third day of wandering, somebody shot at the four from far away--shot four times as they crossed a narrow brick road. One shot was for the scouts. The next one was for the antitank gunner, whose name was Roland Weary.
The third bullet was for the filthy flamingo, who stopped dead center in the road when the lethal bee buzzed past his ear. Billy stood there politely, giving the marksman another chance. It was his addled understanding of the rules of warfare that the marksman should be given a second chance. The next shot missed Billy's kneecaps by inches, going end-on-end, from the sound of it.
Roland Weary and the scouts were safe in a ditch, and Weary growled at Billy, "Get out of the road, you dumb motherfucker." The last word was still a novelty in the speech of white people in 1944. It was fresh and astonishing to Billy, who had never fucked anybody--and it did its job. It woke him up and got him off the road.
There's something oddly sweet about Billy's reaction to this sniper attack. Billy, who never expected to be shot at as a chaplain's assistant, is stunned into immobility, not sure what his response should be. He's only twenty-one years old, a virgin in more ways than one. For Billy, the world is still a kind place. A beautiful orange that needs to be peeled.
Today, Donald Trump became President of the United States. You may be expecting a post full of venom, mean humor, jabs at Trump's racism and sexism and homophobia and Islamophobia, not to mention his bad hair and thin skin. I will not be doing that today. I will try to take a more Billy Pilgrim approach and hope I don't get shot at.
I have friends who have been urging me to be extra kind to everyone today--Hillary supporters, Bernie supporters, and Trump supporters alike. I suppose the idea is to combat hatred with kindness. To dispel the darkness with a little light. I understand that impulse and appreciate the advice, for I woke this morning feeling fairly . . . unhopeful. I have tried for most of the day to avoid television screens and media posts. Haven't even listened to NPR.
I cannot promise that, for the next four years, I will remain silent about Donald Trump. In fact, I can pretty much guarantee that won't happen. However, I am trying, as Samuel L. Jackson says at the end of Pulp Fiction, REAL HARD.
So, tonight, I wish everybody kindness and understanding.
Saint Marty is grateful tonight for President Barack Obama and his family. For eight years of steady, calm, moral leadership.
The third bullet was for the filthy flamingo, who stopped dead center in the road when the lethal bee buzzed past his ear. Billy stood there politely, giving the marksman another chance. It was his addled understanding of the rules of warfare that the marksman should be given a second chance. The next shot missed Billy's kneecaps by inches, going end-on-end, from the sound of it.
Roland Weary and the scouts were safe in a ditch, and Weary growled at Billy, "Get out of the road, you dumb motherfucker." The last word was still a novelty in the speech of white people in 1944. It was fresh and astonishing to Billy, who had never fucked anybody--and it did its job. It woke him up and got him off the road.
There's something oddly sweet about Billy's reaction to this sniper attack. Billy, who never expected to be shot at as a chaplain's assistant, is stunned into immobility, not sure what his response should be. He's only twenty-one years old, a virgin in more ways than one. For Billy, the world is still a kind place. A beautiful orange that needs to be peeled.
Today, Donald Trump became President of the United States. You may be expecting a post full of venom, mean humor, jabs at Trump's racism and sexism and homophobia and Islamophobia, not to mention his bad hair and thin skin. I will not be doing that today. I will try to take a more Billy Pilgrim approach and hope I don't get shot at.
I have friends who have been urging me to be extra kind to everyone today--Hillary supporters, Bernie supporters, and Trump supporters alike. I suppose the idea is to combat hatred with kindness. To dispel the darkness with a little light. I understand that impulse and appreciate the advice, for I woke this morning feeling fairly . . . unhopeful. I have tried for most of the day to avoid television screens and media posts. Haven't even listened to NPR.
I cannot promise that, for the next four years, I will remain silent about Donald Trump. In fact, I can pretty much guarantee that won't happen. However, I am trying, as Samuel L. Jackson says at the end of Pulp Fiction, REAL HARD.
So, tonight, I wish everybody kindness and understanding.
Saint Marty is grateful tonight for President Barack Obama and his family. For eight years of steady, calm, moral leadership.
Wednesday, November 30, 2016
November 30: Whatever For, Sandy Hook, Lesson in Faith
The question from agnosticism is, Who turned on the lights? The question from faith is, Whatever for? . . .
That's a pretty big distinction Dillard makes. Who? or Why? I guess, as a person of faith, I have to go with the second: Why were the lights turned on in the first place? I've never really thought about faith like that before. Of course, I've always had questions about God, but I've never doubted His existence (well, maybe once or twice as a teenager). My big questions were things like "Why does God allow things like the Holocaust to happen?" and "Why do people have to suffer horrible diseases like cancer and AIDS?" and "Why does God allow people to put coconut in candy bars?"
I don't have any answers to any of those big questions, any more than Dillard does. Terrible things happen every day. Things without rhyme or reason. I can't imagine that the Creator had a hand in Columbine or Sandy Hook. The world is a really broken place. God didn't break it. Human beings did. We break it every day through hatred and racism and xenophobia and homophobia and Islamophobia and any other kind of phobia you can name.
I have diabetes. My wife suffers from bipolar disorder. My life has been touched by a whole bunch of addictions--alcohol, prescription drugs, pornography, sex, food. God didn't put those things in my life because he was testing me. I'm not Job. Sure, I could tear my clothes, throw ashes on my head, and shake my fist at the heavens. I could go all Old Testament. But that's not where God is, either.
God comes into the picture in how I react to the challenges in my life. Do I lose hope and faith? Turn my back on God when it feels like He's turned His back on me? That's the easy thing to do, I think. The big ole middle finger to the Master of the Universe. Anger is simple and, in a strange way, satisfying.
The hard thing to do is to try to find God in the middle of a shitty situation. That's where faith is really put to the test. One of my sisters hasn't stepped foot in a church since my other sister's funeral in August, 2015. She's that pissed. Of course, she doesn't see that she's also absolutely miserable. Happiness is always out of her reach.
This afternoon, I found out that I will be teaching two courses next semester at the university. That news after a couple months of profound anxiety. Plus, the classes are pretty good. Ones that I've taught recently. Now, at the end of this whole period of worry, I'm sitting in my office at the university, thinking to myself, "What a waste of time all that hand wringing was!" I know that, if I had just laid my problem at God's feet, I would have saved myself a whole lot of misery.
Saint Marty was given a lesson in faith today.
That's a pretty big distinction Dillard makes. Who? or Why? I guess, as a person of faith, I have to go with the second: Why were the lights turned on in the first place? I've never really thought about faith like that before. Of course, I've always had questions about God, but I've never doubted His existence (well, maybe once or twice as a teenager). My big questions were things like "Why does God allow things like the Holocaust to happen?" and "Why do people have to suffer horrible diseases like cancer and AIDS?" and "Why does God allow people to put coconut in candy bars?"
I don't have any answers to any of those big questions, any more than Dillard does. Terrible things happen every day. Things without rhyme or reason. I can't imagine that the Creator had a hand in Columbine or Sandy Hook. The world is a really broken place. God didn't break it. Human beings did. We break it every day through hatred and racism and xenophobia and homophobia and Islamophobia and any other kind of phobia you can name.
I have diabetes. My wife suffers from bipolar disorder. My life has been touched by a whole bunch of addictions--alcohol, prescription drugs, pornography, sex, food. God didn't put those things in my life because he was testing me. I'm not Job. Sure, I could tear my clothes, throw ashes on my head, and shake my fist at the heavens. I could go all Old Testament. But that's not where God is, either.
God comes into the picture in how I react to the challenges in my life. Do I lose hope and faith? Turn my back on God when it feels like He's turned His back on me? That's the easy thing to do, I think. The big ole middle finger to the Master of the Universe. Anger is simple and, in a strange way, satisfying.
The hard thing to do is to try to find God in the middle of a shitty situation. That's where faith is really put to the test. One of my sisters hasn't stepped foot in a church since my other sister's funeral in August, 2015. She's that pissed. Of course, she doesn't see that she's also absolutely miserable. Happiness is always out of her reach.
This afternoon, I found out that I will be teaching two courses next semester at the university. That news after a couple months of profound anxiety. Plus, the classes are pretty good. Ones that I've taught recently. Now, at the end of this whole period of worry, I'm sitting in my office at the university, thinking to myself, "What a waste of time all that hand wringing was!" I know that, if I had just laid my problem at God's feet, I would have saved myself a whole lot of misery.
Saint Marty was given a lesson in faith today.
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