Emily Dickinson, "It is an honorable Thought…" (946)

Hi all --

Currently reading Brian Goldstone's There Is No Place For Us: Working and Homeless in America. I know a number of people believe, even in these bleak times, that a job is some sort of guarantee against homelessness. It's a deadly assumption to make. Toward the beginning of the book, there's a paragraph with absolutely shocking statistics:

...since 1985, rent prices nationwide have exceeded income gains by 325 percent. Some fifty-three million Americans, or almost half of the country's workers, between the ages of eighteen and sixty-four, hold jobs that pay a median hourly wage of $10.22, which amounts to a mere $21,000 a year–below the poverty line for a family of three. If you're disabled and receive Supplemental Security Income (SSI), which is capped at $943 a month, it's even worse: the national average rent now amounts to 142 percent of this form of fixed income.

If you're wondering how Americans tolerate this–I mean, half the workforce is making barely anything–it is primarily because of culture. I know that sounds cliche at this point. You've seen plenty of smart commentators say that Americans think they can be millionaires and billionaires too, so they look at living in poverty as only temporary. Those commentators do not know how right they are. One thing that's stunning is how so many people throughout the years have held the mere discussion of policy to be a form of whining. You want higher taxes on the rich, robust social services, and a decent education? Why aren't you working harder instead of talking? To be sure, I do think this attitude is changing rapidly: high prices and democratic socialism are forcing the issue.

A few will still punch across or down, never up, attacking anyone in similar or worse situations. It is hard to admit that making it in this country might be impossible given the structures in place. A lack of support from the government makes the rich that much more powerful. When you have to beg for food, transportation, housing, and healthcare, those who provide can get that much more from you. Admitting that hard work only goes so far is very tough. Even the most open-minded of us do not want to admit how little control we have over our own lives. It's difficult for me to believe my efforts cannot grant the independence or well-being I need.

Two other things I've read about our current crisis merit your attention. Ta-Nehisi Coates wrote an incredible essay about Kamala Harris and Gaza, "The Next Black President." It serves as a deep meditation on American imperialism. He's got paragraphs which will leave scars:

Eisenhower’s national security team subsequently plotted to overthrow no fewer than three different democracies on three different continents over the course of his eight years. For oil, Iran’s Mohammed Mossadegh was toppled in 1953. For fruit plantations, Guatemala’s Jacobo Arbenz Guzman was deposed in 1954. And in 1960, fearing Congo and its vast resources moving out of the West’s sphere of influence, Eisenhower ordered Prime Minister Patrice Lumumba murdered. The Belgians beat him to it.

Touring the world, a young John F. Kennedy was disturbed to find that America “was definitely classed with the imperialist powers of Europe.” Like Wilson, he paid lip service to the anti-colonial spirit and, at his inauguration, pledged support for the Third World “not because the communists may be doing it, not because we seek their votes, but because it is right.” The Bay of Pigs was three months later.

Coates wonders whether the Presidency as it is currently constituted can be reconciled with a tradition that fights for the rights of everyone. He does hint that being true to one's roots can change the institution, that you need more than slick rhetoric or a professional resume. You must remember who it is you are working for. You have a voice and must use it for those who don't.

A more difficult, jarring read is about the Weather Underground. I don't want to say too much more about "A Better World Is Not Possible," other than you should read it. The costs of radical action are high, indeed.

Emily Dickinson, "It is an honorable Thought" (946)

Onto gentler thoughts. I am wading through a journal of mine from 16 years ago, packed with notes on Plato, Lincoln, Nietzsche, Dickinson and a host of others. The notes are unusable. They always look too closely at a given text; they're searching for some purely formal clue to unlock a theme. There is never anything to the effect of "I thought this was interesting" or "Cool, I can share this" or "I used to think that, but after reading this, my mind is changing."

Still, I did find this poem jammed in there. After reading all of the above, about poverty, empire, and terrorism, this had to stand out. A poem which asks if you just want to lift your hat, overtaken with excitement, as you walk down the street. Dickinson gives you that image, but it is slightly more complicated. Technically, you lift your hat at "an honorable Thought," as if you "sudden" met classier, genteel people on the street.

It is an honorable Thought (946)
Emily Dickinson

It is an honorable Thought
And makes One lift One’s Hat
As One met sudden Gentlefolk
Upon a daily Street

That We’ve immortal Place
Though Pyramids decay
And Kingdoms, like the Orchard
Flit Russetly away.

The "honorable Thought," of course, has incredibly erotic overtones. It is simply that "We've immortal Place." We, together, have done something "immortal." Made a memory which lasts. A love which lifts hats, pulsing through politeness but not meaning to be polite. A love with no use for decaying Pyramids or a Kingdom which rots like any given Orchard. Other things must turn from red to brown.

It is interesting to contrast Dickinson's approach here with poems using the theme of carpe diem. You remember these from high school literature, e.g. Andrew Marvell's "To His Coy Mistress." The claim is that since we're going to rot and die, we should exhaust what we have right now. Marvell: "The grave’s a fine and private place, / But none, I think, do there embrace."

Dickinson holds that whatever has been done, whatever this relationship, it is immortal. The ecstasy is that grand, that important; the threat of dissolution is nonexistent. Given what we know now about Dickinson's relationship with Susan Gilbert, some loves do overthrow convention and invert politeness because they are more fundamental.

For myself, I'm wondering about being surprised by joy, letting it suffuse your every word, action, and thought. Going through a journal of over a decade ago can't help but feel nauseating in places. Cringe, as the kids say. There's a lot I would rather not be reminded of. Getting anything out of it that's useful is a big win and feels fantastic. An even bigger win in this day and age, truth be told. When we're talking about people who can't grasp the reality of poverty, the monstrousness of our imperialism, and the difficulties inherent to having a conscience, we're often talking about people who can only grasp others through media. Others as 2-D, flat characters, meant to serve a role in their narrative. Others who certainly could not have created anything of their own. With that in mind, I'm thinking the real radicalism of erotic love–truly, any love properly erotic–is that you actually have to see someone for who they are.