Friday, August 7, 2009

The Man in the Stovepipe Hat

This post is not about moving to Philadelphia.

This post is not about pre-graduate school anxiety, nor frustration at the cost of things in the real world.

It is not about hopes, dreams, credit cards, ponies, new activities, rainbows, small children, or even witty prose [we have Andrew for that].

It is a post, in fact, about Abraham Lincoln.

I don't know what made me pick up my old book from when I took Civil War, that "selected writings and speeches" collection--essentially Abraham Lincoln's Greatest Hits. Maybe my dad mentioned a great Lincoln book that he was reading at the time (he's read lots of them), and I recommended this one to him as a great portrait of our 16th president. But then I saw all my neon Post-It Notes, peeking defiantly out from between the pages, and the near-constant underlining of a scratchy blue pen on EVERY PAGE, shouting out that this was no ordinary textbook. I enjoyed it. And so, as I prepare for my move (next week!), I've decided to read it again.

I guess it's appropriate that I should be reading the work of one of our country's greatest patriots as I head off to a city so steeped in history. Civil War (the class) really drove home how possessed Lincoln was of a unique and powerful vision. Despite the historical displacement of over a hundred and fifty years, his writings, in many ways, retain their relevance. It's really amazing. And it makes me wonder why, with such eloquent and insightful guidelines for political discourse available, with such a conceptual model of well-applied canniness in government... I don't know. Perhaps more men and women involved in politics should study history in addition to law and the modern political process, and at that, history beyond the immediate fifty- to one-hundred year timeframe, beyond that which can be integrated into slash-and-burn politics. It seems short-sighted to me to do otherwise.

There's one particular passage that stands out in my mind (on page 58, those of you who still have this book), excerpted from Lincoln's speech about the Dred Scott decision. It reads as follows:

"I think the authors of that noble instrument [the Declaration] intended to include all men, but they did not intend to declare all men equal in all respects... They defined with tolerable distinctness, in what respects they did consider all men created equal--equal in 'certain inalienable rights, among which are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.' This they said, and this they meant. They did not mean to assert the obvious untruth, that all were then actually enjoying that equality, nor yet, that they were bout to confer it immediately upon them. In fact they had no power to confer such a boon. They meant simply to declare the right, so that the enforcement of it might follow as fast as circumstances should permit. They meant to set up a standard maxim for free society, which should be familiar to all, and revered by all; constantly looked to, constantly labored for, and even though never perfectly attained, constantly approximated, and thereby constantly spreading and deepening its influence, and augmenting the happiness and value of life to all people of all colors everywhere."

Ah, the American ideal, and so well put. To subscribe to this ideal, to believe in it and to strive for it even while falling short because we are human and fallible... it is a beautiful thing. And I can't wait to be in a city where the legacy of history and ideal breathes through the essence of the place. Not perfect, not by far... but trying.

Get ready, Philly... here I come.

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