The Good Ship Amistad

"James Madison, Alexander Hamilton, Benjamin Franklin, Thomas Jefferson, George Washington… John Adams. We’ve long resisted asking you for guidance. Perhaps we have feared in doing so we might acknowledge that our individuality which we so, so revere is not entirely our own. Perhaps we’ve feared an appeal to you might be taken for weakness. But, we’ve come to understand, finally, that this is not so. We understand now, we’ve been made to understand, and to embrace the understanding… that who we are is who we were. We desperately need your strength and wisdom to triumph over our fears, our prejudices, ourselves. Give us the courage to do what is right. And if it means civil war? Then let it come. And when it does, may it be, finally, the last battle of the American Revolution." — Anthony Hopkins "Amistad"

"I will call upon my ancestors at the time of judgement, and they will come, for I am, right now, the sole reason that they existed." — Djimon Honsou "Amistad"

I watched Amistad again last night.  A terrific movie.  A phenomenal one.  Anthony Hopkins is truly amazing.  Everytime I get to the end it gets me thinking about something very poignant, at least to me.  It is the meaning of all our life, what we are doing, why we are doing it, where we’ve come from.  It is all important.  It is all intertwined.  Of course, with all things that strike a person, it certainly speaks to something we deeply believe, perhaps puts words to a formerly mute dissenter in our soul, one who rattles his chains mouth open and silent whenever we feel cynicism creeping in.  That is what those words above do to me.  They make me believe in where I’m going and they make me value where I’ve come from. 

My parents and my brothers do not feel like a family to me in the way I believe  family should feel.  What or whose fault this is I’m not really sure anymore.  I’m sure blame lies with all of us, but even then, our souls cry out to portion it out and find whoever holding the most to be lynched at least when we’re feeling vindictive and betrayed, lost in a way that we feel is only due to the fact that who we once were was shattered by something out of our hands.  That vengeance is a weakness that humanity possesses. 

Some people say that humans are defined by their strengths.  Others say their weaknesses.  Others say nothing at all or something completely different, but I think we are defined by everything and even each other, whether we like it or not.  I don’t believe, even, that what others color us as is necessarily a horrid thing.  There is something to be said for the impression others have of us…good or poor.  There are people who think very little of me and they must be given their proper time and place, as I have many a time only perpetuated their dislike.  And the question then becomes, would I rather be benevolent and good over all, or do I allow myself to indulge in the weakness of letting certain people whose beliefs are so starkly different, who are antagonistic to no end, who seem utterly despicable and disgusting to me and my own sense of right and wrong, of letting those certain people be hated by me.

I allow myself that.  But I know I do.  And that is not a good thing.  It is not something anyone should accept.  It is something that those stronger and better than me should try and break me of, hope that I break, and encourage me to break.  The failure for me to do so colors me as much as them and I must always remember this.  It is a reason I sometimes, and seemingly arbitrarily, strive to be good to those who I don’t feel deserve it.  Or sometimes I feel that everybody deserves to be treated well and that doing viscious things to them solves nothing.  I find a lot of what humanity finds satisfying solutions to be as soothing as watching the last ember die in a fire on a cold night.  It cuts me to the bone the clarity that suddenly washes over me when I see people act in a way I think is poor.  Or what’s more, when I see people act in a way that they know and feel is poor themselves.  And there are no apologies for it.

I am sorry.  I am always sorry.  I will always have some sadness in my eyes because I cannot help but feel sorry.  For what?  For so much.  For every love that I have ever failed to keep until I was unable to breathe.  For every friendship that has fallen aside, every acquaintance I didn’t help to bud, every enemy I only antagonized more, for every day that I fail to make a colossal stride forward in my writing or in my life.  And yet somehow, I enjoy my life greatly and find it very fulfilling.

I have the love of an amazing girl.  She is truly beautiful.  She is gorgeous.  She is wonderful.  She is complicated.  I like that.  Sometimes, things she does I don’t agree with.  She can say the same of me.  But we keep going.  And when we are together, it is like we are uniting two halves of something whole…and something magic.  Apart, there is something fantastic and alluring about us still, something that says, this thing is incomplete, but together with whatever other half is out there, oh the things that can be done.  We spend much too much time apart.  It weighs heavily on us.  Her more than me, I’d dare say.  However, her pain weighs so heavily on me it sometimes just makes me feel like not getting up.  I try not to let it though.  It is unfair to her.  Of course, this double-edged sword means that when I act too lightly, when I persevere too successfully, I feel like I’m making her presence near me seem cheap.  That being strong is only making her hurt worse and feel more estranged.  I don’t really know what to do.  But rest assured, we will make it.  It will be a struggle, but we will make it.

She is coming to me soon, the not too distant future.  And she is leaving behind a great deal.  I wish I could show her how it never gets left behind truly.  That everything that we do is part of who we are and never goes away, colors everything we will ever do ever after…but perhaps that’s only with me…maybe only I feel that way.  Maybe I am that way.  Not only as in alone and solely, but only as in of us two, that is a way we differ.  Perhaps I should have guessed as much when every place I go to feels like home.  A true home.  Even my home where I hated growing up all those years, even the home in the eyes of someone who did horrible things to me when I was younger, who I just want to hurt.  But what good would it do?  I’d feel weak for doing it.  They were weak then.  They thought they were strong, mostly because they thought I was strong and that beating me proved they were stronger.  But I was weak too. 

I want to keep writing but I don’t have any words.  I’m tired now and dont feel satisfied with what I’ve written yet.  It feels incomplete.  Maybe that’s just the way it goes.