In April 1865, the day after General Robert E. Lee surrendered to General Ulysses S. Grant at Appomattox, impromptu crowds swarmed throughout Washington D.C., and up to the White House in a jubilant scene much like what we are sure to see in two weeks, after UT beats Alabama.
The crowds, rejoicing and singing, repeatedly called for President Abraham Lincoln to appear. The president did so and briefly addressed the crowd. Before he retired, he inquired as to whether there was a band in the crowd. Upon hearing there was, the president asked if it would favor him with a “particular tune,” which he had always found to be “one of the best tunes” he had ever heard — then the president, after four years of fierce civil war, requested that the band play “Dixie.”
I ought to warn you that this may be an apocryphal story. I recently heard it in a speech, and I don’t have a historical source for it (if you do, please let me know). But I Googled the story and found it online, so that’s good enough, right?
I would like very much for the anecdote to be true, I think, because it’s almost unbelievable. After four years of some of the bloodiest fighting U.S. troops had ever seen, President Lincoln somehow not only resisted the temptation to disparage the defeated Confederacy but overcame whatever antagonism he may justifiably have felt for the South, using a seemingly minor event, like a song at a celebration, to encourage a reconciliatory spirit in the North.
Who does that? Were I him, not only would I need longer pants, but I would be perturbed, to put it lightly, with anything that reminded me remotely of the South. Sweet tea and fried chicken would be a thing of the past. I would buy my cotton from England and my whiskey too — no Jack Daniels or Jim Beam for me. But Lincoln asked to hear “Dixie.”
As silly as my jokes above were, you and I both know plenty of people (including myself) who would not have been able to ask to hear “Dixie” the day after the Civil War ended. To be able to make such a request, Lincoln had to value the interests of others (in this case, the nation) over his own feelings. And what’s more, the president had a legitimate reason to resent the South. Instead, as the story goes, he looked past the claims of his emotions and looked after the cares of others. Why? And how? From whence does such self-control come?
The coming-of-age novels you and I read in elementary and secondary school presented a fixed progression of the growing-up process. Protagonists encountered trials and tribulations, struggled slightly, but eventually, inevitably, made the hard choices and came out psychologically and morally mature in the end. If only life were so simple. Characters in books can look back and pinpoint where things changed for them, but our lives are infinitely more complex — fact is stranger than fiction and less predictable. In life we constantly face and respond, in one way or another, to various situations. Who we are, you will not be surprised to hear, is formed by the responses we decide to make to these situations.
Shakespeare’s Cassius claims that “men at some time are masters of their fates.” We humans can, in large part, determine our paths. Do you agree? If it’s true, a heavy burden lies on our shoulders: We ourselves are responsible for our character or lack thereof. If we are masters of our fates, we have to decide what we would like our fates to be. Will we be children forever, our words and actions subjected always to our caprices and the fluctuations of our tempers? Or are we willing to do the hard work of growing up? Will we learn self control and die to ourselves, putting the interests of others above our own?
I find I’m too scared, or too weak, to do that. My default state is to seek my own good and comfort, and that is easier, and less costly, than the alternative. It’s much easier to stay silent when someone at a party makes a sexist/racist/homophobic joke; easier, and more fun, to blow off an obligation, whether it be work, a school assignment or some other commitment, because I’d rather hang with friends than fulfill it.
I own a collection of Flannery O’Connor short stories. The title of the collection, and the first story, is “A Good Man Is Hard to Find.” I remind myself of this title in relation to dating to comfort myself, and because I think I’m oh so witty, but I worry that maybe the phrase is truer than I know. How many individuals do you know capable of reaching out to others, across their own pain, insecurity and personal prejudices? And why do we settle for less than this from “good” men and women? And from ourselves?
—Leigh Dickey is a senior in global studies and Latin. She can be reached at [email protected].
