All the past we leave behind,
We debouch upon a newer mightier world, varied world,
Fresh and strong the world we seize, world of labor and the march,
Pioneers! O pioneers!

I think "debouch" is such an incredible word! It means to emerge from a cramped, narrow space into a freer, more open area. If we're fully awake and involved in our world then we may find ourselves debouching almost every single day. Because that's what happens when we are active participants in this world--we learn. And we learn we can see how vast and varied our world actually is. But, as incredible as our world may appear to be--it's a rough and challenging arena. It is impossible not to work or have to move on at some point.

And in true progressive fashion, Whitman does not let his heroes debouch without shedding them of a few dead hands of the past. What I love is that he doesn't necessarily state that the pioneer is someone who lets go of his or her entire past. Rather "all" of what we are capable of leaving behind is what will let us debouch.

Of course how many "dead hands of the past" must we free ourselves from is uncertain. And perhaps leaving everything in the past will leave us without any sort of perspective that makes our march worth it.

Spoke too Soon

Have the elder races halted?
Do they droop and end their lesson, wearied over there beyond the seas?
We take up the task eternal, and the burden and the lesson,
Pioneers! O pioneers!


Nearly two months ago I made the mistake of writing about a stanza without giving a more thorough contextualization of it within the greater poem. As you can see, Whitman does identify the older generations. But, at least he seems to be contemplative rather than accusatory, which is part of this segment's charm.

You can almost see the slight glance a journeyer may give towards the opposite horizon, thinking about other journeymen that came before. Did they do the same thing as I? Are they still marching forward? But rather than waiting for an answer, our journeyman presses on and does what needs to be done.

It's not surprise that the author of Leaves of Grass would include at least a moment of contemplation. However, it's only a moment. Movement, action, purpose--each counters the two questions he poses. And considering how often I let myself become overwhelmed by questions and concerns, this is a pretty good remedy for "working" things through: get up and GO. And more specifically: if you find yourself comparing yourself to another generation STOP. It's almost a given that such a comparison will occur. They have already walked where you have, learned the same (or similar) lessons, and seem to be where you want to be. But, rather than checking to make sure each of our steps are in tune with theirs, why not make sure our steps are our own? Focus on our tasks, burdens, and lessons? This is not a wholly lonesome proposition I make either. I take comfort that our successful elders overcame their struggles and managed to forge their own paths down unknown channels. It is their past youthful spirits that live on in my own adventures.

How tragic would it be for everyone in a generation to forgo the journey and merely repeat the acts of our parents? I resent the folks who defer to the "cyclical" theory for anything relating to our history (near or ancient); I resent them because they assume that nothing new occurs. That nothing has changed or will change. That some how we are all caught in the same circle of doom, despair, glory, and contentment.

I pose to you all now, that I believe the history of humankind is less predictable but still contingent on our pioneering spirit. The less we--the youths--brave this world on our own, the more likely it is we will defer to our parents' methods and mistakes. But, if we can steel our eyes and keep them firmly on the horizon, never letting go if our purpose and desire to grow, I don't believe you see as many tragic "repeats" because everything will be uniquely ours (except of course the emotions..haha those are everyone's). 

Burning

O you youths, Western youths,
So impatient, full of action, full of manly pride and friendship,
Plain I see you Western youths, see you tramping with the foremost,
Pioneers! O Pioneers!


I am sure now, more than ever, that we are not all Western youths. More than ebullient laughter I tend to  hear the sighs of crippling despair amongst my cohorts. I know that other generations have faced an unfriendly job market before (lest we forget the children of the 1920s who came of age when the American market crashed through every floor in the New and Old World), but the current economic climate has served as an effective wet blanket in our attempts to achieve our star-filled dreams. I see perfectly well-adjusted individuals suddenly, as if overnight, unravel at the mere mention of "career." And the American tradition of leaving home once you go off to college, is suddenly becoming a foolish dream. Once proud graduates are spending evenings and weekends with once, estranged parents--sometimes rebuilding broken relationships, other times reliving painful childhood trauma every day at 5pm.

Though it may be difficult to see these days, I can still see the fiery spirits of Whitman's youths roaring brightly amidst the fading embers of their friends. They are the people who cry in secret and rarely utter a cynical word in public. They are realistic about practical matters, but utterly and unabashedly optimistic about the future. For them, the market of today is only one factor to consider in how well they will fare tomorrow. They don't let the economists or statisticians dictate their lives with their fancy algorithms. No. These wonderful youths see the future as a wonderful and attainable adventure. These near-children have no time for doubters and cynics, though they may offer a temporary source of humor. But what makes these children born for the West so transparent?

From the all enveloping embraces they use to greet everyone, to their impassioned talks about their life and where it is headed--their excitement is often mistaken as ill-spirited boasts, aimed to douse the little remaining energy in their quickly fading friends. Unfortunately, this dousing effect will happen regardless of the intent, but a true pioneer never wants their brethren to falter. The journey is one for a team made up of all sorts. Thus, the Western youth is not concerned with the typical arbitrary social labels of their compatriots. The only time true pioneers will express displeasure is when one of their friends dares to sabotage another's march or give up. This is why the "boasting" accusation should be downgraded to, at most, less than tactful celebration. These wide-eyed and hungry journeyers are in a constant celebration of the mere fact that they have the opportunity to keep going. A small misstep or disastrous fall is never reason to stop the celebration, which is why the growing despair of their compatriots may be taken for granted and overlooked.

I am of course, unsure if I truly have the spirit of these pioneers. A part of me desperately hopes that my overwhelming desire to learn and to help others to learn about this wonderful world around us (all so that we may become a better, more compassionate whole) is the same type of spirit Whitman is talking about; further, I hope that my passion burns as brightly as his Western youths.

But, I've found it very difficult to perform a valid introspective examination on myself.  I fear that my worries and anxieties have dimmed my soul to a point where my poor spirit offers very little warmth to those around me. The number of days where I find it impossible to celebrate seem to be increasing (though are still in the vast minority of my days, thank goodness!)... I stare at mirrors hoping to see what my own eyes have to reveal, but I am unable to focus on whatever it is I need to find. 

Am I stuck waiting?

For we cannot tarry here,
We must march my darlings, we must bear the brunt of danger,
We the youthful sinewy races, all the rest on us depend,
Pioneers! O Pioneers!


I feel it is typical of almost any era, that the youth are seen as free and inexperienced. We're prone to follies and misdirection. Even when we enter into "adulthood" in the legal and physical sense, we're rarely regarded as an equal to our elders. This is why we still have mentors and "senior" positions within the work force. It seems as if people naturally gravitate towards a system where people who have been around the longest and worked the longest, are assumed to be the wisest and most capable. After all, wisdom is quality of the old. Otherwise, why do we make it a point to say that children or young adults are wise beyond their years? And this inclination of ours to defer to our elders is nothing new. Once human communities evolved past the "survival of the fittest" and stopped dropping our seniors into volcanoes once they reached a certain age or disability, societies world over seemed to turn to the oldest members for guidance. After all, hadn't they survived the toughest times? Witnessed the greatest moments? Doesn't this make their insight invaluable to the community as a whole?

Generally, I think almost all of us can understand (if not readily accept) such a conclusion. And without divulging into a tirade about the "pride" and "ignorance" of the older generations, and thus adopting the crude, disrespectful rhetoric of the youth, I'd like to examine what Whitman's words has to say about the elderly: nothing. His poem isn't about the older generation. It's about young adults. The children. The brave souls who, without any great deal of wisdom or decades worth of experience, braved the unknown.

Something that haunts the elderly is time. At some point they begin to feel each stroke of the hour as if they were deep, penetrating beats of their own heart. Yes, time seems to like haunting the elderly. Grey hair. Odd colored spots. Stiff, unyielding joints.

But the youth? Hah. Our perception and relationship with time is very strange. We are restless. Sometimes debilitating so. We feel the urgency to move, to go somewhere, see something. Some of us have direction, other's just an idea. Our movements, our plans (however rushed and inexact they may be), are done assuredly but not cautiously. And incidentally, the future of all us (old and young alike) depend on our risky, grand endeavors. Sometimes we risk too much, other times we risk just enough. And when luck is on our side, the world seems to turn with us. We become masters. Trail blazers. We are the pioneers.

I sometimes wonder if the older generation is torn between wanting us to do better than they did, not making the same mistakes they did, or not wanting us to upheave the structures and industries they worked so hard to established. It must be difficult to see an innovative invention, that required thousands of hours of research and development (not too mention millions of dollars to produce and test), suddenly become a common whole-sale item. Think of flash-drives. Those little things used to cost hundreds of dollars. I've bought several for just a few bucks. But I digress...

As much as we may be criticized, and as much as we be drawn to the advice and ridicule of our seniors--the future ultimately rests on us. And at some point, we won't have our parents and grandparents to guide us. At some point we will no longer have trainers, but have our own trainees. Without a bit of our own experiences, or our brave march into the unknown, what on earth will the future generations need us for?

Indeed, "we must march my darlings." We must march. Everything depends on this. 

Pioneers! O Pionners!

Come my tan-faced children,

Follow well in order, get your weapons ready,
Have you your pistols? Have you your sharp-edged axes?
Pioneers! O Pioneers!


No matter how down or unmotivated I may be feeling, Walt Whitman's words have consistently served as a most exquisite jolt to my heart and soul. "Pioneers! O Pioneers" is a beautiful ode to the many courageous pioneers that braved the unknown of the "West" during the 19th century. I love how his ode is so inclusive and exuberant; a Song of Songs for the American journeyers. We take it for granted now, but the pioneers were primarily young adults. My age. While I have little reason to gather my provisions, buy a horse and wagon, and perhaps a dysentery shot or too (do those exist? Oregon Trail never said...), I have every reason (or at least, many good reasons) to keep marching forward.

My first challenge to myself for this blog, is to take each verse of this overwhelmingly positive poem and treat it as a reflective mantra. Whether I was in high-school theology class days (where we spent hours doing linguistic, textual, and historic analysis on biblical passages) or in a graduate-level rhetoric course, it was has always appeared self-evident to me that there is almost always something to be gained by analyzing passages or phrases. Some people don't like "in-depth" analysis of written works, printed art, film, music, etc... They want items of interest (be it a book or a picture) to "speak for itself," by either its plain language or objective appearance/sound. But once you realize that our languages enable us to describe things--even if it is an objective characterization--in a variety of ways that are usually synonymous to each other, but sometimes person A's description is more of an analog to B's description. While the words are not usually interchangeable, if B adds a few more words to A's description (filling in the analogy), then the two are on the same page with regards to what A is talking about.

This added cognitive step--this critical thinking which is fairly automatic for most people despite it's sophistication--is what should naturally give us audience members license to openly think critically. Whether we are writing or being written to, we will consciously and subconsciously be executing a multitude of incredibly complicated neurological and chemical orders in our brain. This is a fact. So why not just consciously analyze the many works that are presented to us? Perhaps we're afraid that one day our words--our very deliberate and purposeful words, are undermined by some obscure subtext that you in *no way* wanted to exist within your writing. But alas, some crazy professor somewhere, just wrote an extensive article arguing that that very subtext exists--and in fact, it's more than a subtext. Your work is apparently *all about* that theme you hated. Now, I won't even go into the possibility of a subconscious concern seeping into your writing oh-so-sneakily, that you powerless in your paranoia to detect it. But what I will go into is this... Your brain is incredible. So is mine. And so is hers! (whoever she is haha). The fact that she can piece together an elaborate and coherent theme throughout your work (despite the lack of intent on your part),  and manage to persuade others into seeing what she saw through qualitative analysis is remarkable. There will probably always be a question of whether or not the author or artist is the truest expert on his/her work? I certainly think the original authors/artists are in the best position to tell you their writing process, their hopes and goals while writing, and shed some (typically amusing) light on which items they had no clue had any kind of double-meaning. However, once work the work is published and subject to being read/listened to/seen, the artist is no longer  in control of the piece's future. It's in the public's domain now, and subject to hundreds, thousands, or even millions of other sophisticated minds processing your work.

Phew. So why did I go into all of this? Well, it's a bit of a defense for what I want to do here. I will be taking "Pioneers! O Pioneers!" and connecting its words, themes, and images to my life (if a connection can be said to exist). Hell, I'll even be talking about how it departs.

Further, this blog is generally going to be an exploration of my mind. I've been keeping a secret blog elsewhere on the internet, tracking my law school activities. Right now, it just feels like an online diary. Lots of moping, lots of anxiety, and not a lot of substantive writing. It's all about "woe is me" or "damn that class was hard." No shit. I'm a student in law school. :P At any rate, since this poem has been my go-to pick-me-up these past few months, I decided that I wanted to reawaken my old writing skills, dust off my copy of Leaves of Grass, and try to discover which frontiers are hidden in my life that are all-but waiting for me to discover them and fully experience. :)

So in the spirt of the above passage, so I have a pistol or a sharp-edged axe? Do I have the tools necessary to begin this journey of mine? I do believe I do. :) I have a heart that loves very quickly and deeply, and a mind that has proven to be very adaptive if given a fair amount of time to breath.

Thus, my heart shall be my pistol and my mind a sharp-edged axe. And I promise to wield both strongly and wisely. :)

-Miki