Eliot’s Search for Hope in Dry Bones

Gustave Doré, Valley of Dry Bones

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Spiritual Sunday

 Reprinted from April 6, 2014

I find one of the strangest passages in the Bible to be Ezekiel’s valley of dry bones, which we will hear in church today. Although Ezekiel envisions a happy ending for his bones, the image of death and sterility is so grim and unsettling that T. S. Eliot uses it as one of his foundational images in The Waste Land (1922). Yet for all his pessimism, Eliot’s hints at a possibility of spiritual renewal.

Here’s the passage from Ezekiel (37:1-14): 

The hand of the Lord came upon me, and he brought me out by the spirit of the Lord and set me down in the middle of a valley; it was full of bones. He led me all around them; there were very many lying in the valley, and they were very dry. He said to me, “Mortal, can these bones live?” I answered, “O Lord GOD, you know.” Then he said to me, “Prophesy to these bones, and say to them: O dry bones, hear the word of the Lord. Thus says the Lord GOD to these bones: I will cause breath to enter you, and you shall live. I will lay sinews on you, and will cause flesh to come upon you, and cover you with skin, and put breath in you, and you shall live; and you shall know that I am the Lord.”

So I prophesied as I had been commanded; and as I prophesied, suddenly there was a noise, a rattling, and the bones came together, bone to its bone. I looked, and there were sinews on them, and flesh had come upon them, and skin had covered them; but there was no breath in them. Then he said to me, “Prophesy to the breath, prophesy, mortal, and say to the breath: Thus says the Lord GOD: Come from the four winds, O breath, and breathe upon these slain, that they may live.” I prophesied as he commanded me, and the breath came into them, and they lived, and stood on their feet, a vast multitude.

Then he said to me, “Mortal, these bones are the whole house of Israel. They say, `Our bones are dried up, and our hope is lost; we are cut off completely.’ Therefore prophesy, and say to them, Thus says the Lord GOD: I am going to open your graves, and bring you up from your graves, O my people; and I will bring you back to the land of Israel. And you shall know that I am the Lord, when I open your graves, and bring you up from your graves, O my people. I will put my spirit within you, and you shall live, and I will place you on your own soil; then you shall know that I, the Lord, have spoken and will act,” says the Lord.

My friend John Morrow, a retired Episcopal priest, says that the story reflects God’s deep and abiding love for his people. If He can create Adam out of dust, He can breathe new life into those who have lost touch with Him.

Eliot is describing a world where people feel cut off from spiritual meaning. His first reference to the bones occurs as part of a sterile domestic conversation in Part II (“The Game of Chess”), a scene that may be based on Eliot’s own troubled relationship with his first wife. Hearing her incessant complaining, he silently thinks of Ezekiel’s valley:

“My nerves are bad tonight. Yes, bad. Stay with me.
“Speak to me. Why do you never speak. Speak.
“What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?
“I never know what you are thinking. Think.” 

I think we are in rats’ alley
Where the dead men lost their bones.

The poem continues with an ironic allusion to the divine breath that God promises the people of Israel. In this case, the wind is empty: 

  “What is that noise?”
                        The wind under the door.
“What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?”
                           Nothing again nothing.

Bones show up twice in Part III (“The Fire Sermon”), the first time in a terrifying echo of a line from Andrew Marvell’s famous carpé diem poem “To His Coy Mistress.” Pleading for his mistress to yield to his overtures, Marvell’s speaker comes up with a startling version of “gather ye rosebuds while ye may”:

But always at my back I hear
Time’s winged chariot hurrying near.

Eliot drops Marvell’s cavalier tone and describes only our grim condition:

But at my back in a cold blast I hear
The rattle of the bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear.

The poet then returns to the image of the impotent fisher king that is at the core of the poem. At the same time, rats make a repeat appearance, prompting us to wonder about the state of Eliot’s London apartment. The passage also has images of death (Ferdinand in The Tempest mourning his father’s apparent death) and of sterile sexuality (“white bodies naked”):

A rat crept softly through the vegetation
Dragging its slimy belly on the bank
While I was fishing in the dull canal
On a winter evening round behind the gashouse
Musing upon the king my brother’s wreck
And on the king my father’s death before him.
White bodies naked on the low damp ground
And bones cast in a little low dry garret,
Rattled by the rat’s foot only, year to year.

In Part IV (“Death by Water”), there is another image of bones being picked clean, although this time they are not dry bones. Nevertheless, the image has the same effect:

Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead,
Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep sea swell
And the profit and loss.
                                   A current under sea
Picked his bones in whispers. 

Finally, in Part V (“What the Thunder Said”), we have yet again images of death with no resurrection: a decayed hole (Jesus’ tomb?), overgrown graves, an empty chapel, and a door swinging helplessly in the wind. These dry bones will “harm no one”:

In this decayed hole among the mountains
In the faint moonlight, the grass is singing
Over the tumbled graves, about the chapel
There is the empty chapel, only the wind’s home.
It has no windows, and the door swings,
     Dry bones can harm no one.

Despite the grim images, however, there is subsequently a hint that resurrection may be on its way, although Eliot detects no more than a hint. A cock crows, and while the allusion may be to the cock that alerted Peter to his betrayal of–and lack of faith in–Christ, the cock is also a sign of the approaching morn—which, incidentally, is how Henry Vaughan sees it when he compares Jesus to a rooster in “Cock-Crowing.”

Then Eliot follows up the image with a flash of lightning and “a damp gust/bringing rain.” This is not, in other words, “the dry sterile thunder without rain” from earlier in the poem. There may be hope after all.

Eliot does not offer us easy grace in this poem. He does not have Ezekiel’s energizing faith as he struggles with deep spiritual depression. But because his hints of spiritual redemption are so hard won, they have a ring of truth to them.

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Subsisting in Layla’s Subsistence

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Friday – Ramadan

Reprinted from May 4, 2019

In honor of Ramadan, when Muslims purify themselves through fasting and prayer to come closer to God, I share a poem by the Algerian Sufi mystic Ahmad al-Alawi. The poem calls to mind Song of Solomon, which uses erotically charged imagery to capture (so it has been interpreted) the relationship between God and Israel, or Christ “the bridegroom” and his church. Think also of how Dante turns to Beatrice as his divine guide in Paradiso.

Layla and Majnun are two lovers kept apart by parents in a 7th century Arab story that has been told and retold over the centuries. At some point it was picked up by various mystics, including the founder of the Bahá’í faith, to stand in for the beloved. The love between us and God is symbolized by a woman. In Arabic, Layla means night, further capturing the mystery.

Layla is also referenced in the well-known Eric Clapton song by that name.

In al-Alawi’s poem, the lover is annihilated, cleansed, and reborn in divine love:

She changed me and transfigured me,
 And marked me with her special sign,
 Pressed me to her, put me from her,
 Named me as she is named.
 Having slain and crumbled me,
 She steeped the fragments in her blood.
 Then, after my death, she raised me:
 My star shines in her firmament.

Al-Alawi goes on to say that his poetry captures “something of her brightness.” Art is one way to approach the unattainable:

Thou that beauty wouldst describe,
Here is something of her brightness
Take it from me. It is my art.
Think it not idle vanity.
My Heart lied not when it divulged
The secret of my meeting her.

Here’s the poem, in all its sensuous immediacy:

Layla

Full near I came unto where dwelleth
 Layla, when I heard her call.
 That voice, would I might ever hear.it!
 She favored me, and drew me to her,
 Took me in, into her precinct,
 With discourse intimate addressed me.
 She sat me by her, then came closer,
 Raised the cloak that hid her from me,
 Made me marvel to distraction,
 Bewildered me with all her beauty.
 She took me and amazed me,
 And hid me in her inmost self,
 Until I thought that she was I,
And my life she took as ransom.
 She changed me and transfigured me,
 And marked me with her special sign,
 Pressed me to her, put me from her,
 Named me as she is named.
 Having slain and crumbled me,
 She steeped the fragments in her blood.
 Then, after my death, she raised me:
 My star shines in her firmament.
 Where is my life, and where my body,
 Where my willful soul? From her
 The truth of these shone out to me
 Secrets that had been hidden from me.
 Mine eyes have never seen but her:
 To naught else can they testify.
 All meanings in her are comprised.
 Glory be to her Creator!
 Thou that beauty wouldst describe,
 Here is something of her brightness
 Take it from me. It is my art.
 Think it not idle vanity.
 My Heart lied not when it divulged
 The secret of my meeting her.
 If nearness unto her effaceth,
 I still subsist in her subsistence.

Happy Ramadan!

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Faulkner’s Sanctuary, Trump’s Charges

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Thursday

I’ve just completed another Faulkner novel and, as with Absalom, Absalom!, I find myself emerging from what feels like a hallucinatory nightmare. Sanctuary also seems particularly relevant for our current moment as we await word on whether Donald Trump will be indicted for his myriad alleged crimes, which include (I have to list them to get them clear in my mind) inciting an insurrection, pressuring lawmakers to change votes, assaulting a woman, stealing classified documents, defrauding the IRS, and paying hush money to a porn star to win an election. And yet, if Sanctuary is any guide, he could well get away with all of it.

That’s because Faulkner’s novel is about a great miscarriage of justice, in which an innocent man is found guilty of murder while the murderer—who also rapes a woman with a corncob and then kidnaps her and keeps her in a brothel as a sex slave—goes free. Part of Faulkner’s power resides in the way that everyone seems to exist in the grip of an inexorable machine that destroys them, along with any ideals about justice and fair play. Faulkner is where optimism goes to die.

For instance, when Horace Benbow assures his innocent client, Lee Goodwin, that he will go free, he fails to figure in corrupt behind-the-scenes dealmaking and the rape victim perjuring herself by fingering Goodwin, not her abductor. Then, as if to accentuate the injustice of it all, Goodwin is burned alive by a lynch mob, which is horrified by the corncob rape. The scene is one of gothic horror:

He ran into the throng, into the circle which had formed about a blazing mass in the middle of the lot. From one side of the circle came the screams of the man about whom the coal oil can had exploded, but from the central mass of fire there came no sound at all. It was now indistinguishable, the flames whirling in long and thunderous plumes from a white-hot mass out of which there defined themselves faintly the ends of a few posts and planks. Horace ran among them; they were holding him, but he did not know it; they were talking, but he could not hear the voices.

“It’s his lawyer.”

“Here’s the man that defended him. That tried to get him clear.”

“Put him in, too. There’s enough left to burn a lawyer.”

“Do to the lawyer what we did to him. What he did to her. Only we never used a cob. We made him wish we had used a cob.”

Horace couldn’t hear them. He couldn’t hear the man who had got burned screaming. He couldn’t hear the fire, though it still swirled upward unabated, as though it were living upon itself, and soundless: a voice of fury like in a dream, roaring silently out of a peaceful void.

I don’t know how many times over the past six years I’ve experienced Horace’s hope for justice, only to see Trump, time after time, escape accountability. Faulkner’s view of the world now seems truer to life, which may be one reason I’m drawn to it. Yoknapatawpha County justice seems closer to the justice system which saw Trump’s attorney general throw out the hush money charges against him, even though Trump fixer Michael Cohen went to jail for delivering the check. And the system that allowed this same attorney general to cover up evidence of the Trump campaign’s contact with Russia during the 2016 campaign and the presidential pardon system where Trump could pardon those associates took the rap for him. And, of course, the system where Congressional Republicans found Trump not guilty of (1) extorting a foreign leader to sling mud at his major rival and (2) inciting crowds to attack Congress.

Nor have violations of fair and impartial justice ended there. Currently we’re seeing Georgia Republican legislators drafting legislation that would allow them to fire any prosecutor bringing cases they don’t like, including Atlanta District Attorney Fani Willis indicting Trump for pressuring Georgia officials to change vote totals. (We’ve all heard the tape of him doing so.) And we’re seeing Congressional House Republicans overstep jurisdictional boundaries to threaten New York Manhattan District Attorney Alvin Bragg for reviving at the state level the case that Trump’s attorney general quashed at the federal.

It’s so much simpler in Sanctuary, where it appears that the murderer’s lawyer has to do no more than pressure the woman to deliver false testimony. And then for her judge father to swoop in and, under a pretense of sensitivity, remove her from the court before she can be cross-examined.

Perhaps my current Faulkner fling has something to do with my own faltering idealism. In the past, my pessimism has also drawn me to the works of Flannery O’Connor and Cormac McCarthy, who have been undoubtedly influenced by Faulkner. In fact one sees the outlines of Sanctuary’s murderer in O’Connor’s Misfit (in “A Good Man Is Hard to Find”) and McCarthy’s Anton Chigurh (in No Country for Old Men). And indeed, when Faulkner writes a more cheerful book, as he did with The Reivers, I find myself put off. Faulkner described this novel as “a Golden Book of Yoknapatawpha County,” referring to the cheap children’s books once sold in grocery stores. Compared to the author’s previous books, it’s an apt description and consequently disappointing.

Pulled in as I am by Faulkner’s fatalism, I need a counterweight, which I find in the novels of Toni Morrison, even though she too has been influenced by the Mississippi author and employs some of the same gothic themes. But there’s a significant difference. With Faulkner (and O’Connor and McCarthy), I detect a disillusion with America’s founding ideals–their sense of tragedy appears to stem from America’s failure to live up to its promise–whereas Morrison’s Black characters know America too well to ever have had any illusions. They have their own battles between hope and despair, of course, but if they can find their way to some kind of transcendent hope in the end—I’m particularly thinking of Milkman in Song of Solomon and Sethe in Beloved—it’s because they have a firmer foundation for doing so. They’ve seen the worst America can do and have developed survival skills that the protagonists of the White novels lack.

So where does that leave us with prospective indictments of Trump? While we should continue to insist on justice—because without justice we are at the mercy of authoritarian rule—we should not despair if the courts fail to save us from our former president. Instead, we’ve just got to keep fighting, regardless of judicial outcomes. African Americans have learned the hard way not to put all their hopes in the court system and neither should we Whites. Faulknerian fatalism, compelling though it may be, is an indulgence we cannot afford.

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Some in GOP Love Child Labor

Illus. from David Copperfield

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Wednesday

Red states appear to be in a vigorous race to the bottom when it comes to human rights. After writing last week about Florida book bans, and yesterday about Tennessee drag show bans, today I turn my attention to Arkansas loosening child labor protections. According to The Washington Post, the new law eliminates requirements for the state to verify the age of children younger than 16 before they can take a job. Arkansas Gov. Sarah Huckabee Sanders (R) apparently believes the provision has been “burdensome and obsolete.”

This, of course, is from the same party that wants to eliminate free lunches for poor kids and food stamps for impoverished families.

I’ve been recently alerted to the issue of child labor by Barbara Kingsolver’s Demon Copperfield, where the protagonist finds himself, at 10, harvesting and stripping tobacco in his foster home. Before turning to the novel and to an Elizabeth Barrett Browning poem, however, let’s first look at why current protection laws remain important.

According to the Post article, regulators have discovered hundreds of violations of existing laws in the country’s meatpacking plants. For instance, the Labor Department fined Packers Sanitation Services, a subcontractor for meatpacking plants, $1.5 million in February “for illegally hiring children, some of whom sustained chemical burns after working with caustic cleaning agents.” Yet despite such stories, the article observes, other red states are following suit. Currently Iowa is considering a bill that “would allow 14- and 15-year-olds to work certain jobs in meatpacking plants and would shield businesses from civil liability if a youth worker is sickened, injured or killed on the job.”

Kingsolver’s feisty protagonist doesn’t hold back in describing Crickson, the tobacco farmer that gets both state money and free labor for taking in foster kids. As in the meat packing plants during the Trump administration, existing child protection laws can be flaunted because the system lacks oversight. Demon tries to alert his social worker, but she is only concerned with whether he is being physically abused:

Had Crickson ever hit me, she asked. Answer: no, I myself had not been struck. [The other kids have been.] And that was that. Miss Barks was sorry, but Tommy and Swap-Out weren’t on her. Usually all kids in a home are from one foster company, but Crickson was an emergency-type place, and Tommy and Swap-Out belonged to a different foster company that Miss Barks didn’t work with. So fostering was done by companies, and we, as [Demon’s abusive stepfather] would say, were Product. Rotating and merchandising foster boys at more than fifty customer accounts. Live and learn.

We get an in-depth look at the hardships involved with tobacco farming. Demon says that now, whenever he sees a picturesque tobacco crop, he thinks, “There lies a field that eats men and children alive.” If you are a kid on a farm, he adds, the real dog days occur not in August but

in September and October. Tobacco work: suckering, topping, cutting, hanging, stripping. All my life I’d heard farm kids talking about this, even in the lower grades, missing school at cutting time. Some got to work on farms other than their own, and get paid for it….Now I would be one of the working kids.

For a while, Demon keeps his head by thinking about his soon-to-be-born sibling (Demon’s mother is in rehab, which is why he has been stashed on the farm). But that lasts for only so long:

I had a list going in my head that fall, of what all I would tell my little brother one day. But time passed and eventually my mind had only one thought in it as regards childhood. For any kid that gets that as an option: take that sweet thing and run with it. Hide. Love it so hard. Because it’s going to fucking leave you and not come back.

What follows is an excruciating description of tending a tobacco crop, which of course is even worse if you’re a 10-year-old boy doing what is effectively slave labor for a stranger. Demon Copperfield echoes David Copperfield, and one thinks of David working in the bottle factory. But David at least gets paid, and a closer parallel would be Oliver Twist, who is apprenticed out to an undertaker. Nor was Dickens the only author to excoriate child labor.

In “The Cry of the Children,” Elizabeth Barrett Browning asks, “Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers,” comparing the children to young lambs bleating in the meadows, young birds chirping in the nest, young fawns playing with the shadows and young flowers blowing toward the west. They are weeping, she writes, “in the playtime of the others,/ In the country of the free.”

You can read the poem in its entirety here. The final two stanzas sum up Browning’s horror and indignation. “The child’s sob curseth deeper in the silence,” she writes, “than the strong man in his wrath”:

And well may the children weep before you;
      They are weary ere they run;
They have never seen the sunshine, nor the glory
      Which is brighter than the sun:
They know the grief of man, without its wisdom
   They sink in the despair, without its calm —
Are slaves, without the liberty in Christdom, —
   Are martyrs, by the pang without the palm, —
Are worn, as if with age, yet unretrievingly
      No dear remembrance keep,—
Are orphans of the earthly love and heavenly:
      Let them weep! let them weep!

They look up, with their pale and sunken faces,
      And their look is dread to see
For they think you see their angels in their places,
      With eyes meant for Deity;—
“How long,” they say, “how long, O cruel nation,
   Will you stand, to move the world, on a child’s heart, —
Stifle down with a mailed heel its palpitation,
   And tread onward to your throne amid the mart?
Our blood splashes upward, O our tyrants,
      And your purple shews your path;
But the child’s sob curseth deeper in the silence
      Than the strong man in his wrath!”

It took a lot of hard work, from activists, lawmakers, and others, to insure that children get a childhood, with literature playing an important role. Now forces in the GOP want to return us to “the good old days.”

We should all be weeping. And standing strong in opposition.

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Will Drag Show Bans Extend to the Bard?

Stubbs, Carter as Viola, Olivia in Twelfth Night

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Tuesday

A few weeks ago I saw people on social media debating which state had the most unhinged legislature. While Arizona came in first and Wisconsin second, my own state of Tennessee placed third. And that was before our state legislature passed a bill outlawing “male or female impersonators who provide entertainment that appeals to a prurient interest.”

Critics have pointed out that there are already bills against public displays of obscenity—few people have problems with this—but the new Tennessee bill appears designed to elide the two, implying that men dressing up as women and women dressing up as men are, automatically, prurient.

This leads me to wonder whether Shakespeare’s cross-dressing comedies are in danger. Will high school productions of Twelfth Night, As You Like It, and Merchant of Venice be banned for “grooming” young people?

And indeed, what the plays do is what drag shows do, which is explore gender by playing with it. I’ve repurposed here a past post on Twelfth Night to make clear the nature of this exploring.

My reading of the lightning strike that splits the ship that carries twins Viola and Sebastian, separating them, is Shakespeare’s way of conveying how we internalize social labels early on. Kids don’t naturally accept gender labels but, at a certain age, they find those labels thrust upon them. A lightning strike out of the blue, as it were. Shakespeare, who understood human beings as well as anyone ever has, realized that we are more complex than a simple gender binary. Society doesn’t like us acknowledging this, however, which is why he had to couch his observations in a comedy.

Twelfth Night captures the complexity of gender, showing men exploring their female side and women exploring their male side. Furthermore, there’s a man (Antonio) who falls in love with another man and a woman (Olivia) who falls in love with another woman (although in Olivia’s case she thinks Viola is actually a man).

In Count Orsino we have a man discovering he has a female side and mimicking what he believes to be female behavior. Commanding his musicians to play sweet music (“If music be the food of love, play on”), Orsino lounges around refining his sensibilities. In doing so, he so unnerves his servants that one advocates a deer hunt to restore him to his manhood:

Curio: Will you go hunt, my lord?
Duke Orsino: What, Curio?
Curio: The hart.
Orsino: Why, so I do, the noblest that I have:
O, when mine eyes did see Olivia first,
Methought she purged the air of pestilence!
That instant was I turn’d into a hart;
And my desires, like fell and cruel hounds,
E’er since pursue me.

Orsino is thrilled when Viola, disguised as Cesario, enters his household. What a relief to find another effeminate man!

And what about Viola. Whether or not she wants to transition, she certainly enjoys the freedom that comes with being a man. For the first time in her life, she can roam freely and have open and frank conversations with a member of the opposite sex. Although Billy Crystal in the movie When Harry Met Sally informs Meg Ryan that men and women can’t be friends, Viola reveals that there is a way. The woman just needs to pass herself off as a guy, at which point she can become a man’s BFF.

The reverse is also true. Although Orsino may be tongue-tied around Olivia—or at least, he uses emissaries rather than approaching her directly—he has no such difficulties around Viola. He can unburden his heart to Viola as he never could to his male attendant Curio. In fact, at the end of the play when he discovers Viola is really a woman, he requests that she retain her male name and remain a man for just a little longer:

Cesario, come;
For so you shall be, while you are a man…

Viola’s gender fluidity opens up Olivia as well as Orsino. I believe it is Viola’s newly discovered freedom that draws Olivia to her: what Olivia really longs for—and falls in love with—is more Viola’s mobility than Viola herself. Olivia knows she doesn’t like being worshipped by Orsino–it’s as though he has stuck her on a pedestal–and her own internalized sense of how she’s supposed to behave as a woman makes her feel trapped: she believes she must be so super refined as to mourn her dead brother for seven years. She’s also supposed to just sit and listen when emissaries approach her with marriage proposals.

When she encounters Viola/Cesario, however, other possibilities open up. She doesn’t have to remain a pedestal object.

Olivia may not know that Viola is actually a woman, but I think somewhere deep inside she senses that Viola represents a path for her. If Cesario/Viola can imagine herself courting someone with the famous “willow cabin speech,” then Olivia can as well. Here’s Viola fantasizing about doing what a man does (i.e., court a woman):

[I would]
Make me a willow cabin at your gate,
And call upon my soul within the house;
Write loyal cantons of contemned love
And sing them loud even in the dead of night;
Halloo your name to the reverberate hills
And make the babbling gossip of the air
Cry out ‘Olivia!’ O, You should not rest
Between the elements of air and earth,
But you should pity me!

Sure enough, after encountering this different way of being, Olivia is behaving like a man by chasing after Cesario/Viola. In the end, she hustles Sebastian off to the altar.

And what about Sebastian? If Viola has a male side, Sebastian has a female side. Here he is describing his readiness to shed tears:

I am yet so near the manners of my mother, that upon the least occasion more mine eyes will tell tales of me.

When Olivia, thinking Sebastian is Cesario/Viola, proposes marriage, Sebastian readily assents. In other words, traditional gender roles have been turned upside down. I note that the same was occurring in English politics of the time, with a woman reigning as monarch.

So far I have just talked about women discovering that they have a male side and men discovering that they have a female side. This is not the same as sexual attraction for one’s own sex. But the play offers that too in the figure of a gay man, Antonio, who clearly has sexual longings for Sebastian. “My desire, more sharp than filed steel, did spur me forth,” he explains to his love object in explaining why he has been following him.

All we need now to capture all possibilities is a woman with lesbian longings. And maybe we have that in Olivia falling in love with Viola.

Shakespeare understood that humans are far more fluid when it comes to gender than conservative America acknowledges. This is what drew people to Shakespeare’s comedies and what attracts them to drag shows. For that matter, it’s what caused Tennessee governor Bill Lee, who just signed the anti-drag show bill, to dress up as a girl once when he was in high school. It was all in fun, I imagine him saying, but that’s the point: in plays and cross-dressing movies and drag shows and Mardi Gras and other special occasions, we play around with identities that otherwise are hidden. If we could all acknowledge this, life would be so much easier.

Unfortunately, there are censorious Malvolios—Olivia’s puritanical steward—that take offense, sometimes resorting to terror tactics to threaten and attack gender play. Given the psychological dynamics of projection, this probably means that they are fighting to repress the female within themselves (or in the case of women, the male). I’m waiting for Florida’s Moms for Liberty to object to school libraries carrying Shakespeare’s cross-dressing comedies. And maybe Othello as well since it shows systemic racism at work.

As both Freud and Jung have demonstrated, when we push under parts of ourselves that we consider shameful—say, sensitivity in males, assertiveness in females—they return as monsters, what Freud called “the return of the repressed.” I am willing to predict that the loudest voices opposing drag shows come from people who are drawn to, and ashamed of, repressed gender longings. The more repressed they are, the more prurient the drag shows appear to them.

I’m also pretty sure that Gov. Lee will never explain what prompted his adolescent self to dress up as a girl. Maybe if he read Shakespeare he’d understand, but now the political incentives dictate that he condemn rather than understand.

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Weeping for Ukraine’s Lost Children

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Monday

Last week the International Criminal Court issued arrest warrants for Vladimir Putin and his Orwellian titled “commissioner for children’s rights,” accusing them of “unlawful deportation” and “unlawful transfer” of 10,000 children from occupied areas of Ukraine. According to Ukraine’s prosecutor general, Ukrainian officials are investigating more than 16,000 incidents of forced removal, which is a war crime. As I thought of the country losing its children, the image of the heartbroken sea captain in Moby Dick came to mind. Like Ukraine with Putin, Captain Gardiner finds himself pitted against a monomaniac.

The kidnapping of Ukraine’s children is part of Russia’s genocidal mission with regard to the country, a campaign that so far that has seen rape, torture, mass executions, and the indiscriminate bombing of civilians. According to a Washington Post article that cites Kremlin sources, Maria Lvova-Belova, the “children’s rights” commissioner, “has worked with colleagues to hand dozens of children from Donetsk over to Russian families and coordinate the transfer of children in orphanages in Donetsk and Luhansk, in occupied eastern Ukraine, to the custody of Russian citizens.” Lvova-Belova, described as a “religiously devout mother of 22 children who openly advocates stripping children of their Ukrainian identities,” has adopted an orphaned teenage boy from Mariupol herself. In a self-revealing and chilling comment, she apparently has informed people that the boy “had to change his Ukrainian ways.”

In Moby Dick, the captain of the Rachel has lost his boy overboard and begs Ahab to help him search for him.  Despite his pleas, which are seconded by the Pequod’s crew, Ahab stands “like an anvil, receiving every shock, but without the least quivering of his own.” Speaking “in a voice that prolongingly molded every word,” he declares,

Captain Gardiner, I will not do it. Even now I lose time. Good-bye, good-bye. God bless ye, man, and may I forgive myself, but I must go. Mr. Starbuck, look at the binnacle watch, and in three minutes from this present instant warn off all strangers: then brace forward again, and let the ship sail as before.

To capture the full tragedy of Gardiner’s loss, Melville has invoked the slaughter of the innocents episode from Matthew’s gospel (2:16-18):

Then Herod, when he saw that he was deceived by the wise men, was exceedingly angry; and he sent forth and put to death all the male children who were in Bethlehem and in all its districts, from two years old and under, according to the time which he had determined from the wise men. Then was fulfilled what was spoken by Jeremiah the prophet, saying:

A voice was heard in Ramah,
Lamentation, weeping, and great mourning,
Rachel weeping for her children,
Refusing to be comforted,
Because they are no more.”

Gardiner’s fruitless search is similarly pitiable:

But by [the ship’s] still halting course and winding, woeful way, you plainly saw that this ship that so wept with spray, still remained without comfort. She was Rachel, weeping for her children, because they were not.

Ahab’s mad and inhumane quest eventually brings destruction upon his crew, his ship, and himself. Putin’s mad quest may be on course to do the same. In the meantime, Ukraine weeps.

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The God of Love My Shepherd Is

Elizabeth Jane Gardner Bouguereau, The Shepherd David

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Spiritual Sunday

Today in church we get to read together the 23rd psalm, which is to say, Old Testament poetry of the highest order. I remember my sophomore English teacher having us memorize it at the Sewanee Military Academy and it has resonated with me ever since.

I share it today—the King James version—along with a George Herbert poem that it inspired. Here’s the psalm:

The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life; and I will dwell in the house of the LORD forever.

I like this Carol Romen’s exploration of the poem’s imagery in a Guardian article. As she sees it, there are two dominant metaphors, one pastoral, the other military:

The pastoral one concludes in verse four, when the speaker is conducted through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, helped by the shepherd’s rod and staff. After that, imperial and somewhat militaristic symbolism replaces pastoral. The shepherd becomes the King – describing the course of David’s own career – and the concerns are no longer earthly and pastoral but eschatological. Notice the abrupt change from third person “he” to vocative “thou” in the middle of verse four, the point at which the speaker is most in need of comfort. In the slow-gathering crescendo of that verse, the double possessive (“the valley of the shadow of…”), normally so clumsy-sounding in English, plays a major role. The stroke of genius, though, is in four words: “my cup runneth over”. As for verse six, perhaps the Tyndale version [as opposed to the King James version] is more artistically satisfying, as well as more heart-felt: by giving us “thy loving-kindness and mercy” for a generalized “goodness and mercy,” the pastoral imagery of the opening, in all its quiet tenderness, is evoked once more.

Herbert certainly focuses more on the pastoral than on the military elements of the psalm. As always with the poet, the real foe is himself and his doubts. If he can but continue to have faith in God’s “sweet and wondrous love,” however, all will be well.

The God of love my Shepherd is,
and he that doth me feed;
while he is mine and I am his,
what can I want or need?

He leads me to the tender grass,
where I both feed and rest;
then to the streams that gently pass,
in both I have the best.

Or if I stray, he doth convert,
and bring my mind in frame,
and all this not for my desert,
but for his holy Name.

Yea, in death’s shady black abode
well may I walk, not fear;
for thou art with me, and thy rod
to guide, thy staff to bear.

Surely thy sweet and wondrous love
shall measure all my days;
and as it never shall remove,
so neither shall my praise.

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Donne: Better to be Woke Than Asleep

The Seven Sleepers of Ephesus

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Friday

Obsessed as it is with fighting culture wars, MAGA’s new boogeyman is “wokeness.” Although rightwing Republicans have difficulty defining it, it seems to operate the way that the “political correctness” charge used to. If you’re sensitive to the needs of certain marginalized populations—especially to the needs of people of color and the LGBTQ community—you’re woke.

But that’s just me trying to figure out GOP objections. Often when asked, right-wingers have difficulty explaining the concept, leading Democratic Congressman Ted Lieu to tweet, “Since Republicans are unable to define woke, I’m going to offer a definition: “Being a good neighbor and not a jerk.” In other words, we all should see being awake as a good thing.

John Donne certainly thinks it is in “Good Morrow.”  There we see a lover talking about having been asleep previously and now awaking into a glorious new reality. It appears that the two lovers have spent the night together (also the situation in Donne’s “Sun Rising”), with the man marveling at their bond. Were we not babies before, he asks, before moving on to the asleep/awake theme:

I wonder, by my troth, what thou and I
Did, till we loved? Were we not weaned till then?
But sucked on country pleasures, childishly?
Or snorted we in the Seven Sleepers’ den?

The seven sleepers story involves seven Christian youths who hid in a cave around AD 250 to escape Roman persecution, only to fall asleep and awake 300 years later, somewhat like Rip Van Winkle. Upon emerging, they were astounded to discover that everyone around them was Christian. The story goes that they reported to the bishop about their miracle story and then died praising God.

Donne is somewhat irreverent in his handling of the seven sleepers, imagining them snoring (or snorting), but he’s on board with what must have been their amazement upon awaking. A world with the Christian message accepted by all would have been beyond their wildest dreams. Likewise, whatever dreams Donne’s speaker has had of his beloved are but pale imitations of the flesh and blood version before him:

’Twas so; but this, all pleasures fancies be.
If ever any beauty I did see,
Which I desired, and got, ’twas but a dream of thee.

Seeking to find words for the world he has awoken to, the speaker taps into the excitement generated by the exploratory voyages of his age. Discover his love, he says, is like discovering a new world. It’s an image that Donne also uses in “To His Mistress Going to Bed,” where he refers to his beloved as “Oh my America, my new found land.” Only here, he goes one step further: who needs to go anywhere when he has all the world he needs right before him?

And now good-morrow to our waking souls,
Which watch not one another out of fear;
For love, all love of other sights controls,
And makes one little room an everywhere.
Let sea-discoverers to new worlds have gone,
Let maps to other, worlds on worlds have shown,
Let us possess one world, each hath one, and is one.

Looking into his lover’s eyes, he sees the reflection of his own image, just as she sees hers in his. And because they are so perfectly balanced (he’s using an image from alchemy here), there can be no declining. They have found eternal heaven in the here and now:

My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears,
And true plain hearts do in the faces rest;
Where can we find two better hemispheres,
Without sharp north, without declining west?
Whatever dies, was not mixed equally;
If our two loves be one, or, thou and I
Love so alike, that none do slacken, none can die.

Returning to the present, think of the woke among us as looking at others and seeing in them their full humanity. That is how we can have a harmonious world.

By contrast, those who embrace hemispheric division will find the world divided into sharp north and declining west, which leads to slackening and death. These are the ones who watch one another out of fear. Suckled on the childish pleasures of grievance politics, they snort away in their sleep.

Back when I taught college classes, I often told my students that the tragedy experienced by racists is that they deny themselves the richness that comes with befriending people unlike ourselves. There are worlds on worlds out there that we can discover without ever leaving our communities.

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A Poem for March Madness

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Thursday

Commercialized though March Madness has become, it’s useful to recall that almost none of the college players we will be watching over the upcoming days and weeks will enter the professional ranks. Think of them rather as kids who fell in love with the game and who play it with youthful enthusiasm. It is that side of the game that is captured by the Yusef Komunyakaa poem that I share with you today.

If you want to rediscover the true spirit of basketball, the poet tells us, check out America’s backyards and playgrounds. While trouble may lie around many of these kids, slapping them like a blackjack slaps an open palm, the game reveals “moves we didn’t know we had.”

I am particularly moved by Komunyakaa’s reference to a boy who, when his mother died, “played nonstop all day, so hard/ Our backboard splintered.” When my 21-year-old son Justin died, his younger brother Toby played continuous basketball in our driveway. I will always be grateful for the way that the mothers of Toby’s three best friends pulled their sons out of school that week so that they could play with him. For a 16-year-old, it was a powerful way of dealing with grief.

Slam, Dunk, & Hook
By Yusef Komunyakaa

Fast breaks. Lay ups. With Mercury’s
Insignia on our sneakers,
We outmaneuvered to footwork
Of bad angels. Nothing but a hot
Swish of strings like silk
Ten feet out. In the roundhouse
Labyrinth our bodies
Created, we could almost
Last forever, poised in midair
Like storybook sea monsters.
A high note hung there
A long second. Off
The rim. We’d corkscrew
Up & dunk balls that exploded
The skullcap of hope & good
Intention.  Lanky, all hands
& feet…sprung rhythm.
We were metaphysical when girls
Cheered on the sidelines.
Tangled up in a falling,
Muscles were a bright motor
Double-flashing to the metal hoop
Nailed to our oak.
When Sonny Boy’s mama died
He played nonstop all day, so hard
Our backboard splintered.
Glistening with sweat,
We rolled the ball off
Our fingertips. Trouble
Was there slapping a blackjack
Against an open palm.
Dribble, drive to the inside,
& glide like a sparrow hawk.
Lay ups. Fast breaks.
We had moves we didn’t know
We had. Our bodies spun
On swivels of bone & faith,
Through a lyric slipknot
Of joy, & we knew we were
Beautiful & dangerous.

From Yusef Komunyakaa, Pleasure Dome: New and Collected Poems (Middletown, Connecticut: Wesleyan University Press, 2001)

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