Today I found
something interesting in my pile of quarters out of the laundromat change
machine, and it looked like this:
Before I get
into what this coin signifies, let me start off by saying that over the past
twenty years I have been collecting the U.S Mint’s quarter series, first of the
states and territories, and then of a national park or monument selected from
each. The last of the parks series was Alabama’s contribution, the first new
quarter released in 2021. The next quarter released a few months later was of George
Washington’s crossing of the Delaware…
…which
suggested that the next series would be of historical events, which I thought
would be pretty “cool” and useful for people who know little of American
history. However, if that was the plan it apparently was shelved, probably
because it would be too “male-centric”—which we can deduce the Mint decided,
because the next series will be “Prominent American Women.” This means, of
course, that the Mint apparently gave in to pressure to tell “herstory.” Well,
fine, that just means I won’t feel any “pressure” to rummage through my laundry
quarters for the next five years.
Anyways, the
first to be so honored is the recently deceased Maya Angelou, who some people
call a poet, but more accurately defined as a racial and gender activist who
uses the poetry medium to express her self-obsessions. I admit I am not a fan
of poetry, and for those who find little value in it, Angelou will suffice as
exhibit number one. Angelou has been the subject of a lot of controversy about
whether her poetry qualifies as “great” or merely “mediocre.” Some of the poems that
Angelou is best known for, like “Phenomenal Woman,” which I first encountered pasted
on the wall of someone’s office and took an immediate dislike to because of its
obsession with self, and “Still I Rise,” which again sounds more about the
author’s personal conceits than a “poem.”
The U.S. Postal
Service actually had to provide a tortured explanation for the 2015 stamp
commemorating Angelou when it used a poetry line that has been attributed to
her, but in fact she did not write at all. Her most famous (I guess) poem—which is
insinuated by the bird on the quarter—“I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings,” is
accused of being a rewrite of poems written by Paul Dunbar and Joan Anglund,
the latter who apparently was the actual author of the alleged Angelou poetry line used on the stamp. On Quora, people
suggest that her “cliché-ridden” poems were more “performance art,” closer to
song lyrics or advertisement slogans. Another likens them to McDonald’s
cheeseburgers; they sell a lot because they “taste” good, high on fat content,
less so in protein.
While there are
many legitimately great black poets, like Langston Hughes and Elizabeth Bishop,
they don’t attract as much attention as Angelou because she “speaks” to a base that is as self-absorbed as she was. Another
problem for me is that on the level of “pure” poetry, Angelou is about as phony
as they come. Her “poetry” can easily be broken down to its lowest common
denominator: just write out some random thoughts or something that’s bugging
you, then break it down into random lines or phrases without any particular
rhyme or reason—and voila! you have written a poem! Take for example the
following from “Caged Bird”:
The free bird leaps on the back of the wind, and floats downstream till
the current ends, and dips his wings in the orange sun rays and dares to claim
the sky. But a bird that stalks down his narrow cage can seldom see through his
bars of rage, his wings are clipped and his feet are tied so he opens his throat to sing. The caged bird sings with fearful trill of the
things unknown, but longed for still, and his tune is heard on the distant hill,
for the caged bird sings of freedom.
As long as we remember that
Angelou “borrowed” the ideas for this poem from others, even I admit that this
is one her least offensive to non-political sensibilities. But this is supposed
to be a “poem,” and this is the completely arbitrary and nonsensical way she
broke it down to turn it into a “poem.”
The free bird leaps
on the back of the wind
and floats downstream
till the current ends
and dips his wings
in the orange sun rays
and dares to claim the sky.
But a bird that stalks
down his narrow cage
can seldom see through
his bars of rage
his wings are clipped and
his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.
The caged bird sings
with fearful trill
of the things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom
Still, I admit that I’m not a fan
of poetry, so how can I be a proper “judge” of it. But there is that odd bit of
poetry that does sticks in my mind as worthwhile that isn’t a pop song lyric,
such as this excerpt from Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass:
I think I
could turn and live with animals,
they are so
placid and self-contained,
I stand and
look at them long and long.
They do not
sweat and whine about their condition,
They do not
lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins,
They do not
make me sick discussing their duty to God,
Not one is
dissatisfied,
Not one is
demented with the mania of owning things,
Not one kneels
to another,
Nor to his
kind that lived thousands of years ago,
Not one is
respectable or unhappy over the whole earth.
Man, ain’t that the truth—and
unlike Angelou’s fake poetry, each line actually has an independent meaning,
and is not just a fragment from a complete sentence.
As I say I don’t read poetry, and
I couldn’t write any even if I wanted to. However, when I was in college I read
The Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin,
which I found an amusing read, not just for the anecdotes but the style and the
way certain words were (or were not) capitalized. I also found the story of the
demise of Thomas Paine rather interesting, so one day I decided to amuse myself
and wrote out the following verse satirizing the "style" of the time:
I, Thomas
Paine, here do solemnly submit to the american People
who owe a
great Debt to my person for their Freedom
a humble
request to remember their dear Brother
to embark
on a Mission to recover his poor Bones
and
return them to their proper resting Place.
Tis’ a
sad Tale of public Forgetfulness,
Whilst
the People drool over sporting Heroes and thieving Merchants
the memories
of defenders of Liberty fly from the avaricious Mind.
‘Whilst
the perpetrators of Tyranny
display their
deceased Despots in open Forum
for the oppressed masses to cast fearful
Glances upon,
this
poor Foghorn for the public Welfare
hast his
poor Remains interred in some Moldering Box
in an
english Attic in a part Unknown.
Reviled
and scorned I was by the american People
when I
advanced to carry my Ax and rent a Path
through
the Jungle of religious Superstition,
for
declaiming the odious enslavement of the black Race
and the plain
Murder of the Native Race.
Perjured
by the beneficiaries of my Labors,
abandoned
by my Friends,
and at
last departing from the living Penniless and Forgotten.
Refused
proper burial in a Cemetery,
my
unhappy Body was interred on a weed-run Farm
my
gravestone Profaned by the rabble of Liberty.
For ten
years Common Sense wept bitter Tears
when an englishman
perceived the errors of my countrymen,
and
endeavored to restore my Repute to good Standing.
Unhappily,
William Cobbett, as he was known,
Though animated
by a great oversupply of Idolatry,
stole
away my troubled Bones and sailed forth to england.
Greatly
distressed by my Removal from my beloved Land of Liberty,
further
indignities awaited me
as my
poor Bones were deposited in a wooden Box,
ogled
upon by the Gross eyes of Freakish nature.
Mister
Cobbett, who displayed such great Devotion for my life work,
soon
tired of my Bones.
But yet
desirous of constructing a Monument in my Honor,
removed
locks of Hair from my poor Skull
to sell to
souvenir Leaches
and thus
raise funds for this Project.
This Enterprise
was for naught, however
asking
for too low a Price for my Locks.
For well
nigh sixteen Years my bones languished in London Town,
until
Mister Cobbett received his just Desserts and expired.
His son
sought to auction away my Bones,
but the
auctioneer Refused,
since
not all englishmen are lacking in Humanity.
Consequently
my remains were left to idle Forgotten within this attic,
its
precise location obscured by the passage of the many Years.
In light
of all of these various and sundry Outrages,
I call
upon you the ungrateful Heirs of Liberty
to
remove yourselves from your tired Fundaments
and
refrain from empty Exalting and endeavor
to
conduct a Search for the Humble T. Paine’s Bones
and
bring them hither to the land he did Create.
But in
the event that my Bones are now but Dust,
let it
be remembered that my curse upon the Conscience of Malfeasants
will not
be so easily cast aside.
Let the
Woe of my present Disposition,
serve as
a warning to you as to the fate of misemployed Liberty
that it
too may crumble beneath the weight of countless lies and misdeeds
that
pass without heed beneath the fog of Apathy.
If this
be in truth the ultimate disposition of both my remains and my legacy
at the
hands of daylight Heroes who twitter upon the sound
of
‘worn’ Honor and ‘jaded’ Principles,
then
indeed these are Times that try a dead man’s Soul.”
At least this got a chuckle from the history professor I
showed it to.
