Song of myself

Related to recent thinking about democracy, I found myself reading 19th century American poet Walt Whitman, widely considered the “Poet of Democracy.” In his classic “Song of Myself” Whitman literally includes a long catalog of American people, asserting his equality with them, asserting his unity with them, identifying with them, incorporating them into his self. “Of every hue and caste am I, of every rank and religion,” Whitman says, “All the men ever born are my brothers, and the women my sisters and lovers.”

Though the essence of democracy, so radical did Whitman’s human loving leveling seem at the time that a distinguished autocrat of New England literary society memorably characterized him “as a rowdy, a New York tough, a loafer, a frequenter of low places — [and how deliciously!] friend of cabdrivers!”

I would like to riff on Whitman here, presenting my own personal Song of Myself:

“In predawn Thursday dark, Dylan and Joe diligently dispose of our trash.

Heather, Sarah, and Bryson keep us on the road, as sometimes do Dave and Wayne.

We always exchange waves with Cookie at Wawa and Carol at Carl’s.

For deliveries we have Bruce for mail, Mike for UPS (he leaves the boxes right in the living room), and clean clothes from Ralph.

And it’s the ‘wash girls’ Inysa, Cyndi, Rita, and Tracy who fill the orange, virtually body bag sacks of clean wash Ralph delivers.

Brenda, Yun, Maria, and Xiomara are also members of our house and clothes cleaning teams, descendants of three continents; we joke with them as best we can in two languages and signing.

Black man Alvin renders our cellar bugless, white man Nathan our sidewalk snowless.

Kim at Weis Market, Carter at the Westgate liquor store, and Bobby at CVS lighten our line waiting with laughs.

A call from secretary Ann of the Morning Call about my submission is always good news, regardless.

In times of trouble, Mitch and David supply materials for us, Bill hammers, Andy plumbs, and Joanne finagles. I am Edward Scholarhands. I do nothing.

When it comes to blossoming mind, body, and the lawn, we depend on cheer and care from Margaret, Sherrill, and Brandon respectively.

A cashier lady with the exotic name of Avengelyne always makes a trip to the bank beautiful as well as bountiful.

And I certainly don’t know cabdrivers, but for years mercurial bus driver Dave was my morning cup of good humor.

And [climactically quoting Whitman now] these one and all tend inward to me, and I tend outward to them, / And such as it is to be of these more or less I am.”

That’s my Song of Myself. That’s my modest paean to democracy. It includes a lot of yooze kind of readers of the Bethlehem Press.

These are little people, common people, yet not faceless, nameless functionaries but active parts of our lives. There are no degrees of separation. The relationships are not accidental. The people are not incidental.

These people are truly part of the “Me myself” [Whitman again]. That’s what democracy is all about.