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“Prairie Roots” column for The Earlville Post
January 17, 2003

I HEAR AMERICA SINGING

Patriotism. Love of our country. In the past sixteen months since the terrorist attack of September 11, 2001, I have done a lot of thinking and reading about patriotism in our lives.

Robert Frost wrote in his poem “The Gift Outright” that “the land was ours before we were the land’s.” He said that we–the American people–were withholding ourselves from our land of living for at least a hundred years of our history. This poem puts forth that when we surrender ourselves to our land, giving ourselves such as we are, in a gift outright, then we become the land’s and the land truly becomes ours. He adds the line
“( The deed of gift was many deeds of war).”

This line has often troubled me. I agree that the men and women in the armed forces fighting and dying for our freedoms and our country certainly give themselves outright to our land. Just as those back home do who support these soldiers and keep the country going during the times of war.

My mother and father are perfect examples of this in the early years of their marriage during World War II. With two little boys and a young wife, my dad enlisted in the U.S. Army Air Corps and was gone from home for two years. I was conceived when Dad was home on furlough, born when he was overseas, and did not meet my father until I was six months old and the war was over. (Dad says he took one look at me and told Mom, “Peg, that was one furlough I should have stayed on base. We can do better than that!” Nine months later our sister Mary Margaret was born. No wonder I take a drink every now and then. As you can see, the entire Myers clan has always poked the sharp stick at one another whenever possible.)

Lately I have read a lot about the heroism and patriotism of Americans in this war, the Vietnam War, the terrorist attacks of 9-11, and other instances. Great books. Powerful reading.
Tom Brokaw’s The Greatest Generation. Stephen E. Ambrose’s Band of Brothers. Tim O’Brien’s The Things They Carried. A beautiful story of the folks of North Platte, Nebraska–
Bob Greene’s Once Upon a Town captures the heart and soul of the American people back home who fed the soldiers at the Canteen station when the troop trains stopped as our men were being transported across the country to be shipped overseas. What an inspirational story! (My dad remembers stopping there and being fed by these dedicated and generous women of the heartland in his wartime memories.)

But the difficulty I have with Frost’s line that the deeds were “many deeds of war” is that not everyone, not every generation, fights a war. I always asked my classes when we studied this poem, “How else can we give ourselves to our land and make the land ours? Are there ways outside of war that we can show our patriotism?” We had some excellent discussions over the years.

Walt Whitman, the greatest American poet who ever lived (in my humble opinion), answered this question in all of his poetry. A look at one of his poems can give us a feeling for his insight into the American character and experience.

“ I Hear America Singing”
by Walt Whitman

I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear,
Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe and strong,
The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam,
The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work,
The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the deckhand singing on the
steamboat deck,
The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter singing as he stands,
The woodcutter’s song, the plowboy’s on his way in the morning, or at noon
intermission or at sundown,
The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at work, or of the girl
sewing or washing,
Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else,
The day what belongs to the day—at night the party of young fellows, robust, friendly,
Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs.

I love this poem. Whitman hears the songs of Americans–the carpenter, the mason, the boatman, the shoemaker, the homemaker, and others. He has chosen to celebrate the work and the lives of ordinary people. Each song--or life-- is different and individual, but also powerful and beautiful. The idea of a singing America suggests the harmony of many diverse people, but all sharing a toughness and strength and energy and enthusiasm for their own individual lives and circumstances.

Some people don’t think this is poetry because it isn’t written in stanzas or the line endings have no rhyme. Well, without getting too technical, Whitman wrote in free verse which has an irregular rhythm and line length and attempts to avoid any set structure; instead, it uses the patterns and cadences of ordinary natural speech. But the parallel sentences that list all the singers and the repetition of singing give the poem its form and rhythm. The poet emphasizes the uniqueness of each individual American and also celebrates the unity that this individualism creates. That’s what I think is so great about our country.

How do we of the early 21st century relate to this poem of the middle 19th century? I believe Whitman celebrates aspects of the American experience and character that are a vital part of our character and lives today. The strength and energy of our people. The diversity and individuality. Democracy. Freedom.

Do we have to fight a war to attain these ideals? No. We just have to live out our lives and go about our work carrying these virtues in our hearts and reflecting them in our daily actions. My dad running his milk route for all those years. Can he actually sing in his work? Not really. But he told his jokes, whistled, hummed, just approached his job every day with a certain joyfulness and contentedness. Leroy Burd, for another example. He’s farmed for fifty years. His love and respect for nature and the land I have always admired. His positive attitude in running a smelly hog operation communicates a joy for his life’s work that has impressed me for the forty years that I’ve known him. Both these good men probably “can’t carry a tune in a bushel basket,” but through their work and the way they celebrate each day of their life, they actually do SING
their lives!

And that’s how I tried to approach teaching, and now storytelling and writing. When I taught this poem to my American Lit juniors, I asked them when do they sing as a family? Birthdays. Weddings. Times of celebration. Whitman tells us to celebrate every day of our life.

Every minute of our jobs. So I would tell my students that we were going to have a Whitman experience in our class and sing our lesson for a day. I would do my best operatic Irish tenor impersonation and belt out questions like Rex Harrison on stage in My Fair Lady. I wouldn’t accept a student’s answer unless it was sung like Julie Andrews or Pavarotti. Once the principal walked by during our singing class period, stuck his head in the door and asked if everything was all right. I explained this situation to him singing my loudest Mario Lanza operatic aria as my students laughed their rear-ends off. The principal walked away shaking his head in administrative despair at the state of education in our schools. It was great!

So I look back at the days of my youth when I would come home on a Saturday afternoon after castrating hogs for Roger Jones or shelling corn for John Simpson. I would be so tired that I couldn’t lift my arms up. My dad would ask, “How many hours did you get in?” “Eight,” I might reply. “Did you give them a good eight hours?” Dad would quiz. “Yes, I did!” I barked back.
“Did you do it with a good attitude?” my father would demand.

At the time I thought my dad was just being a hard-ass, but now I thank him for this lesson in life. He taught us all not only how to work, but also how to enjoy work. This is one of the themes I take from Whitman’s poem. So I encourage all of us to join Walt Whitman in celebrating America in the song of our work and the way we live out our daily life.