O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues!
And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths
for nothing.

I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and women,
And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken soon out of their laps.

What do you think has become of the young and old men?
And what do you think has become of the women and children?

They are alive and well somewhere;
The smallest sprout shows there is really no death,
And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it,
And ceased the moment life appeared.

All goes onward and outward . . . . and nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.

Has any one supposed it lucky to be born?
I hasten to inform him or her it is just as lucky to die, and I know it.

I pass death with the dying, and birth with the new-washed babe . . . . and am not contained
between my hat and boots,
And peruse manifold objects, no two alike, and every one good,
The earth good, and the stars good, and their adjuncts all good.

I am not an earth nor an adjunct of an earth,
I am the mate and companion of people, all just as immortal and fathomless as myself;
They do not know how immortal, but I know.

Every kind for itself and its own . . . . for me mine male and female,
For me all that have been boys and that love women,
For me the man that is proud and feels how it stings to be slighted,
For me the sweetheart and the old maid . . . . for me mothers and the mothers of mothers,
For me lips that have smiled, eyes that have shed tears,
For me children and the begetters of children.

Who need be afraid of the merge?
Undrape . . . . you are not guilty to me, nor stale nor discarded,
I see through the broadcloth and gingham whether or no,
And am around, tenacious, acquisitive, tireless . . . . and can never be shaken away.

Whitman’s vision is big, bold, embracing, intimate, inclusive, uplifting, cocky, democratic, human, and all with a kick of Hollywood level grandiosity and drama.  Whitman’s vision is also unabashedly American, one that’s seeped into the marrow of so many Americans with and without their knowledge, and one that I feel like our moment so desperately needs.

Ten years back, I became the accidental head of a small Buddhist monastery in Cambridge, England.  We were planning to host a retreat led by my teacher and the community asked me to write copy for an advert they were going to put out. I wrote it like a trailer for a Hollywood blockbuster – big, loud, and full of swagger.  I was glowing with pride and waiting expectantly for the praise that I was sure to follow.  I was disappointed.  A few hours after sending it off, I got an a knock on my door.  It was the two heads of the temple board: a Cambridge professor of Arabic and her husband, a psychologist.  They sat me down and after a polite chit-chat, they gently let me know the horrible truth: “It’s too American.”  I looked at them puzzled. They explained further that I wrote it more like a Hollywood movie pitch, not like a modest invitation for a modest monk in a modest temple. I was deflated.  To add insult to injury, they finished by saying, “It’s ok, I think we can take care of it.”

That wasn’t the only “uh-oh I’m American” incident.  My English companions, for example, would sometimes chide me for being “too cheerful.”  It was a miserable rainy day? Oh great, I love the feeling of being warm indoors.  The ride was an hour late?  Fine, I’ve got a good book that I’m working my way through.  “Can’t you ever just complain?” they asked me.  “Of course, but why bother?”  And though they complained of my upbeat attitude, the irony was that I felt like I was falling short: bogged down by the sorry weather, British stiffness, and my own inner demons, my mood wasn’t quite the jovial, “YES!” that I was used to from my teen years.  I wasn’t even trying hard to be positive or be full of energy and can-do spirit – it was just who I was, and, while some found it refreshing, others felt it was a bit much.

As of writing this now, I’ve lived outside of the States for over 15 years, learned (and forgotten) a few other languages, settled down with a family in Thailand, but that American can-do, hoorah, we’re all the same’s stuck with me through it all – a testament to just how deep values can persist within.

The Destruction of American Values

With the culture wars raging full-force these days, celebrating America and Americanness has become controversial.  The arguments are varied, but I’ve boiled them down to two main lines of attack: 1) there’s no singular America, but Americas (wouldn’t be surprised if it becomes Americx) and 2) America’s an unjust and rapacious empire.  Let me try to respond to these first with a comment from a Whitman scholar on the contradictions contained within ol’ Walt himself:

Because of the radically democratic and egalitarian aspects of his poetry, readers generally expect, and desire for, Whitman to be among the literary heroes that transcended the racist pressures that abounded in all spheres of public discourse during the nineteenth century. He did not, at least not consistently; nonetheless his poetry has been a model for democratic poets of all nations and races, right up to our own day. How Whitman could have been so prejudiced, and yet so effective in conveying an egalitarian and antiracist sensibility in his poetry, is a puzzle yet to be adequately addressed.*1

Though the authors might be puzzled by this distinction, it’s unsurprising to me. People are complex, contradictory creatures. Even the most progressive amongst us today, like Ibram Kendi, will be viewed with a mixture of admiration and condemnation by future generations. For Kendi, like us all, is full of contradictions and imperfections that he’ll be working out until the day he dies. Whitman was no different. And, in many ways, the very schism in the heart of Whitman symbolizes the very schism at the heart of America: the chasm between our national ideals and our actual practices.

There’s No Singular America

Although this question’s a bit of a quagmire, looking at it from a more commonsense perspective might clear up a lot of the tension around the question of what does it mean to be an “American” – a question which Whitman was himself obsessed with.  Please indulge me for a bit of a philosophical detour before returning to this question.

If I were to tell you to buy me a plum at the grocery store, you could go there and purchase one for me without much issue.  Even if you couldn’t find them, you could ask the clerk, “Do you have any plums?” and they’d be able to tell you “Aisle 5, next to the apples” or “Sorry, we’re out right now.”  The reason that this can take place is because that’s the magic of language: it provides stable categories of meaning.  Without that stable foundation of categorical meaning, communication and, eventually, society breaks down due to a lack of shared meaning.

However, no plums are actually plums.  That’s because plums don’t exist floating in the sky as an abstract category waiting for the world to discover it.  Instead, we use categories to group things together because it’s a useful, efficient way of making sense of and living in the world.  At the same time, the word ‘plum’ has many levels of precision: fruits, food, or even matter are all bigger categories that contain ‘plum.’  Mirabelles, Chinese Plums, and Prune Plums, however, are more specific.  Damsons, for example, are dark blue.  Chinese Plums are a glossy scarlet. Following the “there’s no ‘America'” logic, this must mean that there’s no such thing as plums, right?  There’re just Damsons and Chinese Plums and no category that can supersede and connect it.  But just think about what that would actually mean if you were to go shopping or if I were to ask my wife to pick me some plums up at the grocery store?  She’d quip back, “There are no plums.  Plum’s just an illusion pushed by the powerful agro companies to justify their hegemony.”  Maybe, or maybe plum’s an imprecise – as all terms are, but useful term.

I’m open to discussing whether or not Damsons and Chinese Plums should actually be categorized as plums, but to ignore it or try to sidestep it by saying there are plumx is simply nonsensical.  A category necessarily contains many different sets.  That’s why it’s a category.

A lot of the “there’s no single ‘America'” argument is basically a mutation of the “there are no plums” argument.  The only problem with this is that people constantly use this word, begging the question: what does it mean to be American?  I believe most of the critics of “America” are well-intentioned and rightfully scared of all the injustices rooted in American identity, but ignoring the category doesn’t make the problem go away, it largely makes communication and cohesion far more challenging.  Instead of coming together on national lines, our tribal identities shift either to a global level or a local level. Those are fine, but you can’t appoint supreme court justices globally, only nationally.  And you can’t change the tax code in your local hometown, only at the federal level.

Americanness exists and its important to embrace it, as troubling as it might be, as a concept and an identity distinct from other cultures, both those sub-cultures within America, and those without it.  Few express the heart of America as brilliantly as Whitman.

America’s an Unjust and Rapacious Empire

Yes and no.  During Whitman’s own time, Manifest Destiny had come to a close and Americans began to settle more and more of the newly conquered territories, mostly at the expense of Spanish-Indians and Native Americans. The America first principle also led to the self-serving pilfering of many countries, especially those in South America and Asia over the coming century.  These were unjust actions, but they ought to be seen in relation to their time.

For millenia, kingdoms throughout Asia and Europe largely stopped their conquests due to military equilibrium or managerial difficulties, not because of contemporary ideas of social justice.  At the turn of the 16th century in Japan, for example, Hideyoshi, the de-facto ruler of all of Japan, launched a campaign to conquer all of China. It was as ambitious as it was mad.  It also failed.  Not, however, because he woke up one evening and his conscience told him it was wrong, but because his men were ground up by a resilient, clever, and well-organized Korean guerrilla force and then hammered back to Japan by Chinese regulars.  If just about any other major kingdom were in the position of the US in the 17th and 18th century: superior military, organization, infrastructure, and technology, they’dve done the same.  Some less harshly, perhaps, others far more, but they would’ve gobbled up the land with as much glee as the US did over the centuries with a convenient ideology to justify it.

Slavery, an original sin of America, is also not unique to the US.  Most major civilizations practiced it, including the Greeks, Chinese, Egyptians, Vikings, and Persians.  Many also outlawed it long after the US did.  For example, China abolished slavery in 1909.  Thus, the singling out of America as being a particularly evil and morally corrupt country for its historical sins seems a tenuous position to hold, unless one is going to apply that same standard to every empire at the time, which smacks of chronological snobbery.  America and much of the kingdoms of the world ought to be condemned for its wickedness, but also celebrated for its virtues.

If I could go back in time and wave a magic wand and ensure that all of that bad stuff didn’t happen, would I? Yes, but I can’t, just as I can’t go back to undo all the stupid stuff I did when I was 16.  It’s part of growing up.  I recognize the faults, appreciate the good, and see how the failings of the past are the foundation of the wisdom of the present.

Falling in Love With America Again

Great are the myths . . . . I too delight in them,
Great are Adam and Eve . . . . I too look back and accept them;
Great the risen and fallen nations, and their poets, women, sages, inventors, rulers, warriors
and priests.

Great is liberty! Great is equality! I am their follower,
Helmsmen of nations, choose your craft . . . . where you sail I sail,
Yours is the muscle of life or death . . . . yours is the perfect science . . . . in you I have
absolute faith.

Great is today, and beautiful,
It is good to live in this age . . . . there never was any better.

Great are the plunges and throes and triumphs and falls of democracy,
Great the reformers with their lapses and screams,
Great the daring and venture of sailors on new explorations.

Great are yourself and myself,
We are just as good and bad as the oldest and youngest or any,
What the best and worst did we could do,
What they felt . . do not we feel it in ourselves?
What they wished . . do we not wish the same?

Great is youth, and equally great is old age . . . . great are the day and night;
Great is wealth and great is poverty . . . . great is expression and great is silence. 

Whitman effuses with optimism, cheer, egalitarianism, and boldness.  This is the entrepreneurial spirit coupled with an all-embracing, democratic mysticism that’s uniquely American.  Where else in the world will you find a mystic writer spending a page describing the beauty of a smith toiling before his bellows or a carpenter leveling a roof? It’s this earthy, energetic strength that settled the West, drove the Nazis off the coast of Normandy, and helped generate over 500 Silicon Valley unicorns.  This is what makes America great: its vision, its people drawn from the world over, its swagger, its “hell-yea, I can do this!”  And the fact that so many have actually come here and got it done.

Over the last few decades, much of the research in psychology, education, and business management has shown time-and-again that criticism, focusing on one’s weaknesses, and punishment are partial and inefficient ways of inspiring change.  Instead, offer praise for the good that’s been done, lead with strength, and incentivize with reward, rather than punishment. This doesn’t mean punishment or criticism has no place, rather, it should take second-seat to positive incentives. If I tell this to most parents about raising children, they’ll enthusiastically agree, but if I say we should apply these principles to our own nation, our own politics, our own communities, it suddenly becomes incomprehensible or impossible.  I’m denying or excusing or perpetuating violence, yet when we do it with our children we’re encouraging them to grow into resilient, compassionate, confident individuals. What gives?

America’s national discourse has lapsed become increasingly toxic.  There are very real differences, different values, different visions for the future. I don’t want to pretend that just speaking made all of this happen: economic, social, education, and a wide range of other factors have been driving this trend for decades.  However, I worry that, on a national level, we’ve become toxic abusers who claim to act in the name of righteousness, without examining whether our tactics and strategies will help us reach our goals, or work against us.

I want America to be great.  I know it can be great, just as I know each child, each person can be great. Not great in the sense of the richest, the most powerful, the strongest. This is a greatness which depends on others for its satisfaction. Whitman’s vision of America, American greatness is not dependent on America being better or greater than any other nation, just as his love of man or woman doesn’t depend on they compare to others, it’s great because it is itself.  It’s great because it’s an imperfect, contradictory, wretched and inspiring work-in-progress. And it’s great because of what it can be just as much as what it is, just as we all are, just as all countries and counties are.  Great.

But Whitman’s life, our own, and America’s life is one of contradiction and imperfection.  As Whitman wrote:

Do I contradict myself?
Very well then . . . . I contradict myself;
I am large . . . . I contain multitudes.

It is true for America and it is true for us.  That’s part-and-parcel of being a human and a nation.  But Whitman’s words are a reminder to fall back in love with the person, the family, the community, the country, the world, the history – sordid, glorious, multitudinous – that is our life.  It’s a reminder to lead with love and strength, rather than hatred and despair.  It’s a reminder of the greatness and goodness of life, of myself, of a blade of grass, and the mightiest empire and the lowliest tribe.  This indomitable love and celebration of the world should be the basis of life and of politics. I shall court no less.

*1: Hutchinson, George; Drews, David (1998). “Racial Attitudes”. In LeMaster, J.R.; Kummings, Donald D. (eds.). Walt Whitman: An Encyclopedia. New York: Garland Publishing. Retrieved October 10, 2020.