April 11: Mast-Head, Whale Book, Bigfoot and Christmas

It was during the more pleasant weather, that in due rotation with the other seamen my first mast-head came round.

In most American whalemen the mast-heads are manned almost simultaneously with the vessel's leaving her port; even though she may have fifteen thousand miles, and more, to sail ere reaching her proper cruising ground. And if, after a three, four, or five years' voyage she is drawing nigh home with anything empty in her- say, an empty vial even- then, her mast-heads are kept manned to the last! and not till her skysail-poles sail in among the spires of the port, does she altogether relinquish the hope of capturing one whale more.

Now, as the business of standing mast-heads, ashore or afloat, is a very ancient and interesting one, let us in some measure expatiate here. I take it, that the earliest standers of mast-heads were the old Egyptians; because, in all my researches, I find none prior to them. For though their progenitors, the builders of Babel, must doubtless, by their tower, have intended to rear the loftiest mast-head in all Asia, or Africa either; yet (ere the final truck was put to it) as that great stone mast of theirs may be said to have gone by the board, in the dread gale of God's wrath; therefore, we cannot give these Babel builders priority over the Egyptians. And that the Egyptians were a nation of mast-head standers, is an assertion based upon the general belief among archaeologists, that the first pyramids were founded for astronomical purposes: a theory singularly supported by the peculiar stairlike formation of all four sides of those edifices; whereby, with prodigious long upliftings of their legs, those old astronomers were wont to mount to the apex, and sing out for new stars; even as the look-outs of a modern ship sing out for a sail, or a whale just bearing in sight. In Saint Stylites, the famous Christian hermit of old times, who built him a lofty stone pillar in the desert and spent the whole latter portion of his life on its summit, hoisting his food from the ground with a tackle; in him we have a remarkable instance of a dauntless stander-of-mast-heads; who was not to be driven from his place by fogs or frosts, rain, hail, or sleet; but valiantly facing everything out to the last, literally died at his post. Of modern standers-of-mast-heads we have but a lifeless set; mere stone, iron, and bronze men; who, though well capable of facing out a stiff gale, are still entirely incompetent to the business of singing out upon discovering any strange sight. There is Napoleon; who, upon the top of the column of Vendome stands with arms folded, some one hundred and fifty feet in the air; careless, now, who rules the decks below, whether Louis Philippe, Louis Blanc, or Louis the Devil. Great Washington, too, stands high aloft on his towering main-mast in Baltimore, and like one of Hercules' pillars, his column marks that point of human grandeur beyond which few mortals will go. Admiral Nelson, also, on a capstan of gun-metal, stands his mast-head in Trafalgar Square; and even when most obscured by that London smoke, token is yet given that a hidden hero is there; for where there is smoke, must be fire. But neither great Washington, nor Napoleon, nor Nelson, will answer a single hail from below, however madly invoked to befriend by their counsels the distracted decks upon which they gaze; however it may be surmised, that their spirits penetrate through the thick haze of the future, and descry what shoals and what rocks must be shunned.

It may seem unwarrantable to couple in any respect the mast-head standers of the land with those of the sea; but that in truth it is not so, is plainly evinced by an item for which Obed Macy, the sole historian of Nantucket, stands accountable. The worthy Obed tells us, that in the early times of the whale fishery, ere ships were regularly launched in pursuit of the game, the people of that island erected lofty spars along the seacoast, to which the look-outs ascended by means of nailed cleats, something as fowls go upstairs in a hen-house. A few years ago this same plan was adopted by the Bay whalemen of New Zealand, who, upon descrying the game, gave notice to the ready-manned boats nigh the beach. But this custom has now become obsolete; turn we then to the one proper mast-head, that of a whale-ship at sea. The three mast-heads are kept manned from sun-rise to sun-set; the seamen taking their regular turns (as at the helm), and relieving each other every two hours. In the serene weather of the tropics it is exceedingly pleasant the mast-head: nay, to a dreamy meditative man it is delightful. There you stand, a hundred feet above the silent decks, striding along the deep, as if the masts were gigantic stilts, while beneath you and between your legs, as it were, swim the hugest monsters of the sea, even as ships once sailed between the boots of the famous Colossus at old Rhodes. There you stand, lost in the infinite series of the sea, with nothing ruffled but the waves. The tranced ship indolently rolls; the drowsy trade winds blow; everything resolves you into languor. For the most part, in this tropic whaling life, a sublime uneventfulness invests you; you hear no news; read no gazettes; extras with startling accounts of commonplaces never delude you into unnecessary excitements; you hear of no domestic afflictions; bankrupt securities; fall of stocks; are never troubled with the thought of what you shall have for dinner- for all your meals for three years and more are snugly stowed in casks, and your bill of fare is immutable.

Once again, Melville digresses from the narrative that he is trying to tell.  In fact, all of Moby-Dick is filled with these kinds of digressions.  A couple chapters prior to this, his digression was cetology--the science of whales.  Categorizing and describing the leviathan.  This time, Melville turns his pen to the mast-head.  Basically, a mast-head on a whaling vessel is a sailor assigned to stand at the top of a tall mast, gazing out at the sea in search of any sign of a whale.  Of course, Melville spreads his wings a little further, talking about historic mast-heads of the land, as well--Saint Stylites, Napoleon, George Washington, Admiral Nelson.  This is Melville, after all.  Anything and everything is related to the vocation of whaling in some way.

I have said before that I think Herman Melville is a postmodern writer before there were even modern writers.  He does things in Moby-Dick that were groundbreaking.  Of course, nineteenth century readers didn't get it.  They wanted Oliver Twist  and "Young Goodman Brown," not lessons in whale science and the history of mast-heads.  And that is what, on this exploration of Moby-Dick, I have really come to appreciate about Melville.  He was a writer born about a century too early.

I have a confession here:  for a very long time, I couldn't read Moby-Dick.  I found it tedious.  Difficult to get into.  Weird.  As a graduate student, after about six or seven attempts at reading the novel, I just pretended that I had read it.  Graduate school does that to you--it transforms you into a gifted liar.  At parties, if someone brought up Melville or Ahab or the great white whale, I would nod or laugh knowingly, as if I were part of the secret Moby-Dick Society.  The password to the clubhouse was "Queequeg."

It was until many years after I was done with graduate school that I first learned to appreciate what Melville does in the book.  Now, on this pass through, I'm sort of swimming in the delightful mess of its pages.  Enjoying all of the barnacles attached to it.  Plus, I'm recognizing and appreciating Melville's sense of humor, as well.  Most people wouldn't call Moby-Dick a funny book, but it is.  The entire chapter about Queequeg's Ramadan had me laughing out loud.

I think Melville wrote a book that he wanted to read.  A book about whales and whaling and sailors and harpooneers and science and history.  It didn't exist at the time.  So, he wrote it.  Plain as that.  I don't believe he was thinking Moby-Dick was going to make him a lot of money.  I doubt he even thought about an audience.  He just wanted a whale book.

I think that's the impulse that most writers follow or should follow.  I'm writing a collection of poetry about Bigfoot.  Because I like Bigfoot and want to read poems about him.  I'm putting the finishing touches on a book of Christmas essays and poems about bipolar disorder and solar eclipses and Star Trek and Bigfoot (of course).  Because I want to read a Christmas book about all of those things.  I have a finished chapbook of poems about love and Robert Frost and sturgeons.  Because I want to read a chapbook of poems about that stuff.

That's what everyone should do with their lives, I think, whether you're a writer or artist or mathematician or musician.  Make every day into things that fill you with happiness.

Me?  I'm climbing the mast-head and looking around for more Bigfoot tonight.

Because that makes Saint Marty happy and thankful.

February 26: Qeequeg's Ramadan, Meditation, Unbalanced

As Queequeg's Ramadan, or Fasting and Humiliation, was to continue all day, I did not choose to disturb him till towards night-fall; for I cherish the greatest respect towards everybody's religious obligations, never mind how comical, and could not find it in my heart to undervalue even a congregation of ants worshipping a toad-stool; or those other creatures in certain parts of our earth, who with a degree of footmanism quite unprecedented in other planets, bow down before the torso of a deceased landed proprietor merely on account of the inordinate possessions yet owned and rented in his name.

I say, we good Presbyterian Christians should be charitable in these things, and not fancy ourselves so vastly superior to other mortals, pagans and what not, because of their half-crazy conceits on these subjects. There was Queequeg, now, certainly entertaining the most absurd notions about Yojo and his Ramadan;- but what of that? Queequeg thought he knew what he was about, I suppose; he seemed to be content; and there let him rest. All our arguing with him would not avail; let him be, I say: and Heaven have mercy on us all- Presbyterians and Pagans alike- for we are all somehow dreadfully cracked about the head, and sadly need mending.

Towards evening, when I felt assured that all his performances and rituals must be over, I went to his room and knocked at the door; but no answer. I tried to open it, but it was fastened inside. "Queequeg," said I softly through the key-hole:- all silent. "I say, Queequeg! why don't you speak? It's I- Ishmael." But all remained still as before. I began to grow alarmed. I had allowed him such abundant time; I thought he might have had an apoplectic fit. I looked through the key-hole; but the door opening into an odd corner of the room, the key-hole prospect was but a crooked and sinister one. I could only see part of the foot-board of the bed and a line of the wall, but nothing more. I was surprised to behold resting against the wall the wooden shaft of Queequeg's harpoon, which the landlady the evening previous had taken from him, before our mounting to the chamber. That's strange, thought I; but at any rate, since the harpoon stands yonder, and he seldom or never goes abroad without it, therefore he must be inside here, and no possible mistake.

"Queequeg!- Queequeg!"- all still. Something must have happened. Apoplexy! I tried to burst open the door; but it stubbornly resisted. Running down stairs, I quickly stated my suspicions to the first person I met- the chamber-maid. "La! la!" she cried, "I thought something must the matter. I went to make the bed after breakfast, and the door was locked; and not a mouse to be heard; and it's been just so silent ever since. But I thought, may be, you had both gone off and locked your baggage in for safe keeping. La! la, ma'am!- Mistress! murder! Mrs. Hussey! apoplexy!"- and with these cries she ran towards the kitchen, I following.

Mrs. Hussey soon appeared, with a mustard-pot in one hand and a vinegar-cruet in the other, having just broken away from the occupation of attending to the castors, and scolding her little black boy meantime.

"Wood-house!" cried I, "which way to it? Run for God's sake, and fetch something to pry open the door- the axe!- the axe! he's had a stroke; depend upon it!"- and so saying I was unmethodically rushing up stairs again empty-handed, when Mrs. Hussey interposed the mustard-pot and vinegar-cruet, and the entire castor of her countenance.

"What's the matter with you, young man?"

"Get the axe! For God's sake, run for the doctor, some one, while I pry it open!"

"Look here," said the landlady, quickly putting down the vinegar-cruet, so as to have one hand free; "look here; are you talking about prying open any of my doors?"- and with that she seized my arm. "What's the matter with you? What's the matter with you, shipmate?"

In as calm, but rapid a manner as possible, I gave her to understand the whole case. Unconsciously clapping the vinegar-cruet to one side of her nose, she ruminated for an instant; then exclaimed- "No! I haven't seen it since I put it there." Running to a little closet under the landing of the stairs, she glanced in, and returning, told me that Queequeg's harpoon was missing. "He's killed himself," she cried. "It's unfort'nate Stiggs done over again there goes another counterpane- God pity his poor mother!- it will be the ruin of my house. Has the poor lad a sister? Where's that girl?- there, Betty, go to Snarles the Painter, and tell him to paint me a sign, with- "no suicides permitted here, and no smoking in the parlor;"- might as well kill both birds at once. Kill? The Lord be merciful to his ghost! What's that noise there? You, young man, avast there!"

And running after me, she caught me as I was again trying to force open the door.

"I won't allow it; I won't have my premises spoiled. Go for the locksmith, there's one about a mile from here. But avast!" putting her hand in her side pocket, "here's a key that'll fit, I guess; let's see." And with that, she turned it in the lock; but alas! Queequeg's supplemental bolt remained unwithdrawn within.

"Have to burst it open," said I, and was running down the entry a little, for a good start, when the landlady caught at me, again vowing I should not break down her premises; but I tore from her, and with a sudden bodily rush dashed myself full against the mark.

With a prodigious noise the door flew open, and the knob slamming against the wall, sent the plaster to the ceiling; and there, good heavens! there sat Queequeg, altogether cool on his hams, and holding Yojo on top of his head. He looked neither one way nor the other way but sat like a carved image with scarce a sign of active life.

"Queequeg," said I, going up to him, "Queequeg, what's the matter with you?"

"He hain't been a sittin' so all day, has he?" said the landlady.

But all we said, not a word could we drag out of him; I almost felt like pushing him over, so as to change his position, for it was almost intolerable, it seemed so painfully and unnaturally constrained; especially, as in all probability he had been sitting so for upwards of eight or ten hours, going too without his regular meals.

"Mrs. Hussey," said I, "he's alive at all events; so leave us, if you please, and I will see to this strange affair myself."

Closing the door upon the landlady, I endeavored to prevail upon Queequeg to take a chair; but in vain. There he sat; and all he could do- for all my polite arts and blandishments- he would not move a peg, nor say a single word, nor even look at me, nor notice my presence in the slightest way.

I find myself today in a prodigiously unfriendly state of mind.  If I could, I would drive home right now, lock myself in my bedroom, pull the covers over my head, and--just like Queequeg--remove myself from the daily anchors of the world.  I'm tired, and it has nothing to do with any kind of religious fast.  In fact, I'm not sure what is the cause of my exhaustion.

I din't blog last night because my day was simply too full.  I had church in the morning. Book Club at my house in the afternoon, my daughter's dance show in the evening, and then school work until about 11 p.m. or so.  I simply had no room to sit back and reflect and write.  I barely have time now--teaching starts in about 40 minutes and lasts until about 9:30 tonight.

I don't believe in complaining about things in my life.  Generally, I am always on the cusp of being exhausted.  Perhaps the events of the last weeks (my father's death, funeral home, funeral Mass) are catching up with me.  I simply want not to be around people for a while.  Tired of dealing with my daily grind, I guess.

I wish that I practiced some kind of meditation or yoga.  I have many friends who do it.  The two times that I have attempted these things, I fell asleep.  Yes, I am the proverbial stereotype--snoring in the middle of a session of zazen.  My prayer life has also dwindled to non-existent over the last few months.  Again, I fell out of practice.  Now, I think that I'm paying for it.

I feel a little at sea.  Unfocused and unbalanced.  In this last couple weeks, the two or three times I've meditated and prayed in the morning have helped.  However, I did not continue.  Again, life has broken down my locked door (like Ishmael) when I've tried to take a few minutes for myself.  Last night, I spent a few hours helping my daughter put together a resume for the National Honor Society.

I have about five-and-a-half hours of teaching ahead of me.  I've been trying to conserve my energy all day, but this terrible lethargy has set in.  Right now, I will be happy if I don't fall asleep mid-sentence in class.

Saint Marty will be thankful for his bed tonight.

February 6: Heart of an Arctic Crystal, High School and Girls and Drugs and Sex, Intimate Friendship

We had lain thus in bed, chatting and napping at short intervals, and Queequeg now and then affectionately throwing his brown tattooed legs over mine, and then drawing them back; so entirely sociable and free and easy were we; when, at last, by reason of our confabulations, what little nappishness remained in us altogether departed, and we felt like getting up again, though day-break was yet some way down the future.

Yes, we became very wakeful; so much so that our recumbent position began to grow wearisome, and by little and little we found ourselves sitting up; the clothes well tucked around us, leaning against the headboard with our four knees drawn up close together, and our two noses bending over them, as if our knee-pans were warming-pans. We felt very nice and snug, the more so since it was so chilly out of doors; indeed out of bed-clothes too, seeing that there was no fire in the room. The more so, I say, because truly to enjoy bodily warmth, some small part of you must be cold, for there is no quality in this world that is not what it is merely by contrast. Nothing exists in itself. If you flatter yourself that you are all over comfortable, and have been so a long time, then you cannot be said to be comfortable any more. But if, like Queequeg and me in the bed, the tip of your nose or the crown of your head be slightly chilled, why then, indeed, in the general consciousness you feel most delightfully and unmistakably warm. For this reason a sleeping apartment should never be furnished with a fire, which is one of the luxurious discomforts of the rich. For the height of this sort of deliciousness is to have nothing but the blankets between you and your snugness and the cold of the outer air. Then there you lie like the one warm spark in the heart of an arctic crystal.

We had been sitting in this crouching manner for some time, when all at once I thought I would open my eyes; for when between sheets, whether by day or by night, and whether asleep or awake, I have a way of always keeping my eyes shut, in order the more to concentrate the snugness of being in bed. Because no man can ever feel his own identity aright except his eyes be closed; as if, darkness were indeed the proper element of our essences, though light be more congenial to our clayey part. Upon opening my eyes then, and coming out of my own pleasant and self-created darkness into the imposed and coarse outer gloom of the unilluminated twelve-o'clock-at-night, I experienced a disagreeable revulsion. Nor did I at all object to the hint from Queequeg that perhaps it were best to strike a light, seeing that we were so wide awake; and besides he felt a strong desire to have a few quiet puffs from his Tomahawk. Be it said, that though I had felt such a strong repugnance to his smoking in the bed the night before, yet see how elastic our stiff prejudices grow when once love comes to bend them. For now I liked nothing better than to have Queequeg smoking by me, even in bed, because he seemed to be full of such serene household joy then. I no more felt unduly concerned for the landlord's policy of insurance. I was only alive to the condensed confidential comfortableness of sharing a pipe and a blanket with a real friend. With our shaggy jackets drawn about our shoulders, we now passed the Tomahawk from one to the other, till slowly there grew over us a blue hanging tester of smoke, illuminated by the flame of the new-lit lamp.

Whether it was that this undulating tester rolled the savage away to far distant scenes, I know not, but he now spoke of his native island; and, eager to hear his history, I begged him to go on and tell it. He gladly complied. Though at the time I but ill comprehended not a few of his words, yet subsequent disclosures, when I had become more familiar with his broken phraseology, now enable me to present the whole story such as it may prove in the mere skeleton I give.

Ishmael and Queequeg have become fast friends, sharing the same bed, staying up late talking, sharing confidences.  Even though both men have been awake from before dawn to this midnight time, neither is sleepy.  They sit close to each other, passing Queequeg's pipe back and forth, smoking, creating a haze of blue in the dark room.  And then Ishmael encourages Queequeg to tell him the story of his life.  Queequeg obliges.

When I was reading this chapter from Moby-Dick, I was reminded of a night when I was 19 or 20, on Christmas break from college.  I was still living in my parents' house, and one of my best friends was home on break from the University of Michigan.  We had gone out earlier and returned to my home, my room.  It was well past midnight.

Both of us were a little drunk, maybe a little high.  We started talking about college and high school and girls and drugs and sex.  The conversation stretched on and on, like the winter night outside.  Somehow, because my room was right next to my sister's room and just down the hall from my grandmother, we moved into the garage, where my father parked his big Chrysler.

The car had a huge back and front seat, and the garage was warm, filled with the smell of wood burning in the wood furnace that heated the house.  We sat in that car in the dark garage, and we continued to talk.  My friend, let's call him Queequeg for the sake of this post, started telling me about the girl he had been dating since our senior year in high school.  She was a girl that I had been lusting after since middle school.

Darkness fosters a greater sense of intimacy.  Queequeg started sharing details of his relationship with this girl that he probably wouldn't have shared in broad daylight.  Of course, the alcohol and marijuana we had consumed probably helped, as well.  Long story short, the night became one long Penthouse forum.  Queequeg told one sex story after another.  Waterbed sex.  Sauna sex.  Car sex.

I sat mute in the front seat of my parents' Chrysler.  Every once in a while, I would add a grunt or a laugh or an "Oh, my God," to let Queequeg know that I was still awake and listening.  Some time during that long night, we stepped outside to pass a joint back and forth, inhale its sweet smoke, hold it in, cough it out, let it fill our lungs and minds.  In truth, I kept as quiet as possible, because I wanted Queequeg to keep telling me his stories about this girl.  Wanted as many details as possible.

I had been jealous of Queequeg for two years.  Jealous of the time he spent with this girl.  Jealous that he had been able to do what I hadn't--to be with her, kiss her, go to prom with her, have sex with her.  Hearing Queequeg's stories in the dark that night, I was able to imagine what I had missed because I was too shy and awkward and weird in high school.  Queequeg was confident, good looking, and quirky.

So I stayed up all night with him, drained him of every story that I could.  By early light, we were both almost sober, a little exhausted, and incredibly horny.  But it had been really good.  Some time before dawn, I had confessed my jealousy to Queequeg, and he had laughed and said something like, "Yeah, I knew you were into her, too."

Up until that night, I don't think I really understood what intimate friendship was.  And I knew, as sun pushed through the windows of my parents' garage, that I would never really have a friendship as deep and lasting.  It was a very Stand By Me moment.

Saint Marty is thankful this afternoon for the intimate friendships he's had in his life.

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.

January 16: Queequeg, Immigrants, Old Story

Even as it was, I thought something of slipping out of the window, but it was the second floor back. I am no coward, but what to make of this headpeddling purple rascal altogether passed my comprehension. Ignorance is the parent of fear, and being completely nonplussed and confounded about the stranger, I confess I was now as much afraid of him as if it was the devil himself who had thus broken into my room at the dead of night. In fact, I was so afraid of him that I was not game enough just then to address him, and demand a satisfactory answer concerning what seemed inexplicable in him.

Meanwhile, he continued the business of undressing, and at last showed his chest and arms. As I live, these covered parts of him were checkered with the same squares as his face, his back, too, was all over the same dark squares; he seemed to have been in a Thirty Years' War, and just escaped from it with a sticking-plaster shirt. Still more, his very legs were marked, as a parcel of dark green frogs were running up the trunks of young palms. It was now quite plain that he must be some abominable savage or other shipped aboard of a whaleman in the South Seas, and so landed in this Christian country. I quaked to think of it. A peddler of heads too- perhaps the heads of his own brothers. He might take a fancy to mine- heavens! look at that tomahawk!

But there was no time for shuddering, for now the savage went about something that completely fascinated my attention, and convinced me that he must indeed be a heathen. Going to his heavy grego, or wrapall, or dreadnaught, which he had previously hung on a chair, he fumbled in the pockets, and produced at length a curious little deformed image with a hunch on its back, and exactly the color of a three days' old Congo baby. Remembering the embalmed head, at first I almost thought that this black manikin was a real baby preserved some similar manner. But seeing that it was not at all limber, and that it glistened a good deal like polished ebony, I concluded that it must be nothing but a wooden idol, which indeed it proved to be. For now the savage goes up to the empty fire-place, and removing the papered fire-board, sets up this little hunch-backed image, like a tenpin, between the andirons. The chimney jambs and all the bricks inside were very sooty, so that I thought this fire-place made a very appropriate little shrine or chapel for his Congo idol.

I now screwed my eyes hard towards the half hidden image, feeling but ill at ease meantime- to see what was next to follow. First he takes about a double handful of shavings out of his grego pocket, and places them carefully before the idol; then laying a bit of ship biscuit on top and applying the flame from the lamp, he kindled the shavings into a sacrificial blaze. Presently, after many hasty snatches into the fire, and still hastier withdrawals of his fingers (whereby he seemed to be scorching them badly), he at last succeeded in drawing out the biscuit; then blowing off the heat and ashes a little, he made a polite offer of it to the little negro. But the little devil did not seem to fancy such dry sort of fare at all; he never moved his lips. All these strange antics were accompanied by still stranger guttural noises from the devotee, who seemed to be praying in a sing-song or else singing some pagan psalmody or other, during which his face twitched about in the most unnatural manner. At last extinguishing the fire, he took the idol up very unceremoniously, and bagged it again in his grego pocket as carelessly as if he were a sportsman bagging a dead woodcock.

All these queer proceedings increased my uncomfortableness, and seeing him now exhibiting strong symptoms of concluding his business operations, and jumping into bed with me, I thought it was high time, now or never, before the light was put out, to break the spell in which I had so long been bound.
But the interval I spent in deliberating what to say, was a fatal one. Taking up his tomahawk from the table, he examined the head of it for an instant, and then holding it to the light, with his mouth at the handle, he puffed out great clouds of tobacco smoke. The next moment the light was extinguished, and this wild cannibal, tomahawk between his teeth, sprang into bed with me. I sang out, I could not help it now; and giving a sudden grunt of astonishment he began feeling me.

Stammering out something, I knew not what, I rolled away from him against the wall, and then conjured him, whoever or whatever he might be, to keep quiet, and let me get up and light the lamp again. But his guttural responses satisfied me at once that he but ill comprehended my meaning.

"Who-e debel you?"- he at last said- "you no speak-e, dam-me, I kill-e." And so saying the lighted tomahawk began flourishing about me in the dark.

Ishmael succumbs to his ignorance.  He has no idea what to make of the strange harpooneer, who is tattooed from head-to-foot and certainly not a Christian.  Ishmael's reaction is very human.  Queequeg--as we will soon learn is the harpooneer's name--fills him with fear.  Certainly, there are all kinds of stereotypes floating around in Ishmael's head.  Queequeg is a "savage."  A cannibal or headhunter.  Less than human.

This evening, I read a column in my local newspaper.  (Yes, an actual newspaper, words on newsprint and delivered to the front door.)  The column, by Mark Shields, basically talked about the fact that every citizen of the United States (excluding those of Native American heritage) is descended from immigrants.  Shields goes on to say, "We Americans, all of us, are indeed either immigrants or the sons and daughters of immigrants, a truth that we can never forget--even if the man who sits in the Oval Office today has never learned it."

Yes, we all come from Queequegs.  Even Donald Trump.  At one time or another, our ancestors were probably feared and hated.  Maybe people even wanted to build a wall to keep us out.  Put us on boats to ship us back from whence we came.  We entered the United States under quotas.  Perhaps we sneaked across some border.  Stowed away on ocean liners.  We lied in order to gain entry.  We changed our names.

Donald Trump's mother immigrated to the United States from Scotland.  She was an illegal immigrant.  Donald Trump's father grew up in a house where German was the main language spoken.  Had her son been President when she was a girl, Mrs. Trump would probably have been deported.  Had his son been President when he was a young man, Trump's father, in the wake of World War II, would have been accused of being a Nazi spy and terrorist.  He would have been detained and jailed.

My point is simple:  what's going on in the United States right now is nothing new.  Each wave of immigrants faced bigotry, hatred, and suspicion.  Donald Trump is just capitalizing on old fears and prejudices.  He wants to send all of the Queequegs home because they are rapists and drug dealers and terrorists. It's an old story.

The problem is that we haven't learned any lessons from this old story.  It just keeps repeating.  Over and over and over.

Saint Marty is thankful tonight for all immigrants, past and present, who've made the United States what it is today.