I Celebrate My Story

In 1855, Walt Whitman published a book of poetry, Leaves of Grass. Only, at the time, nobody knew it was published by Walt Whitman. There was no name. Not on the cover. Or on the spine. Or even inside the book. There was, however,  a picture of a man, standing informally with a hand on his hip and the other in his pocket, with his collar unbuttoned and his hat resting at bit of an angle on his head:

To me the picture says, "Here I am. Accept me or not. It makes no difference. I am who I am." Of course, I know Whitman styled the image to achieve this response, so, in a way, it is an act. At the same time, I always felt that there was an authenticity to it. A genuineness. Even if there was no name attached. I wonder if people in 1855 felt the same way? 

Turning the page, a reader in 1855 would have seen these lines: "I celebrate myself,/And what I assume you shall assume,/For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you." Interesting. A book with no name, a picture with no given identity, and then opening lines that emphasize "I." 

Perhaps the idea is to get the reader to identify as "I" while reading, to speak the "I" and, thus, become it. Or maybe the idea is to focus on our commonalities. Yes, we all have different names. But, ultimately we share a common humanity. We are different, but we are one. Or maybe the idea is to be proud of who you are, and to own your unique identity because it matters. Or maybe it is all of these together and more.

And now, I've crafted a blackout poem in response:

A little song

I know

I own

--

my story

I like it--the way "know" and "own" play off of each other, the way it downplays life with the phrase "my story," which is actually anything but small big, and the way it picks up on Whitman's use of singing as a metaphor for living. 

It feels good to respond in this way. In fact, maybe it is unique in all of the responses ever written to Whitman's words. There's a thought.