It was in a grade school declamation contest that I first became acquainted with my captain. There I was on stage, knees shaking, sweaty palms gripping the microphone like a lifeline. At that point, I had proven all medical theories wrong: Yes, you can continue to live even after all the blood has drained from your head and your vocal chords have sunk to the bottom of your feet.
After opening and closing my mouth like a guppy a couple of times, I finally managed to squeak out the first line of my piece:
O Captain! My Captain! Our fearful trip is done, The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won.
The judges probably attributed my trembling voice and teary-eyed rendition to the poem’s tragic content.
I won second place with that poem and I didn’t even know the poet who wrote it. It was only years later that I came to truly appreciate the poet, the unconventional and controversial free thinker, the champion of the working class, the man himself: Walt Whitman.
Years later, amid battling teenage angst, peer pressure, and the uncertainty of not knowing whether I would eventually grow breasts or be perpetually flat-chested, only one thing remained constant  that garrulous voice in my head saying:
Have you learn’d lessons only of those who admired you, and were tender with you, and stood aside for you?
Have you not learn’d great lessons from those who reject you, and brace themselves against you? Or who treat you with contempt, or dispute the passage with you?
No, I do not always hear ringing in my ears or a cacophony of voices in my head (at least, not constantly  Sybil, is that you?) ‘Tis my captain’s voice, coming across from the 19th century, giving me an oddly reassuring cocked-eyed view of the world and men. Believe me, when you’re an insecure 13-year-old, it is a relief to know that the world is imperfect, that despite the other Walt’s (Disney)fairy-tale version of happily ever after, princes and princesses, nobody gets it right the first time. Life, that is.
An imperfect life, full of invisible battle scars and struggles… and yet… still hopeful, forever dreaming the dreams of the innocent, most of the time disillusioned with mankind but cocking an eyebrow at the ridiculous frailties of men, the faithless meandering of the soul and the childlike wonder at the vastness of the universe.
Through the years, I have thumbed through Walt Whitman’s Leaves Of Grass and found inspiration within its dog-eared, brown-with-age pages. The words leapt out and grabbed me.
Camerado, this is no book,
Who touches this touches a man,
(Is it night? Are we here together alone?)
It is I you hold and who holds you,
I spring from the pages into your arms…
Each stage in my life has somehow, in one way or another, found solace in and a kind of empathy with the earthy poetry and lusty prose that is unmistakably Whitman.
I felt an affinity that traversed generations and reached out from the pages of the book. I felt that link, that connection with Walt especially when I graduated from the University of Santo Tomas. With a degree in journalism tucked under my arm, cloaked with the confidence and arrogance of youth, I felt invincible, footloose and fancy-free.
"Song of the Open Road" sang to me:
Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road/Healthy, free, the world before me/The long, brown path before me leading wherever I choose…
Leaves of Grass is Whitman’s autobiography in flowing prose disguised as poetry. A collection of one man’s life and conviction. While one can admire the beauty of words put together by other famous poets like Tennyson, Byron and Dickinson, good ole’ Walt, on the other hand, dispensed of his era’s literary themes, scoffed at traditional lyrical styles, romantic verse, and formal eloquence. And still… still… his poems grip you by the throat. That stark portrayal of life, the gritty horrors of war, the hardships, sensuality, tragedy, irony and comedy. Unmistakably Whitman: unapologetic, arrogant and painfully honest.
Exactly like life. No soft and easy ride here, but a long, hard one.
I remember the time when my father had a stroke. He was a diabetic and had to monitor his blood sugar level regularly. Too busy running the family business to undergo a regular checkup, he was not aware that his blood sugar levels had shot up alarmingly until he went into a diabetic coma. He was rushed to the hospital and confined in the ICU for one month.
At that time, I was working as a writer for a women’s magazine. A happy, single woman who was on the verge of finding fame and fortune (or so I thought). Yes, Walt! I was not just going to contribute a verse but was determined to write a whole chapter to this so-called life!
That day, February 19, five days after my dad celebrated his birthday, he suffered a stroke. And that day changed the course of our lives forever. My Open Road had just turned into a dirt road.
Hast never come to thee an hour,
A sudden gleam divine, precipitating, bursting all
These bubbles, fashions, wealth?
These eager business aims  books, politics, art, amours,
To utter nothingness?
My father never fully regained the use of his right side. Suddenly, the man whom we all (there were seven children in the family) leaned on and depended upon for our every need, could not even stand on his own, could not talk clearly, much less write his name.
My eldest sister and I had no choice but to take his place in the family business. Like fish out of water, we were forced to learn the business on a crash course or face imminent bankruptcy.
Deep inside, I mourned the passing of my childhood dreams, of becoming a great writer, of traveling all over the world. But more than that, I mourned for the man who was once vibrant, active, and strong. A man who had worked all his life, yet had never really got the chance to enjoy the fruits of his labor, who had yet to see the world, to relax and truly live. In one twist of fate, his chance of that was taken away. I’m sure when he woke up that fateful morning, he didn’t know that by nighttime, he would be a disabled man, that his body would betray him, break his will and spirit and kill his dreams.
Yet, yet, ye downcast hours, I know ye also,
Weights of lead, how ye clog and cling at my ankles,
Earth to a chamber of mourning turns  I hear the o’erweening, mocking voice,
Matter is conqueror  matter, triumphant only, continues onward.
I understand your anguish, but I cannot help you,
I approach, hear, behold, the sad mouth,
the look out of the eyes, your mute inquiry,
Whither I go from the bed I recline on, come tell me;
I had no answer then. At least none that would miraculously heal a broken spirit. What now, my captain?
O me! O Life of the questions of these recurring.
The question, O me! So sad, recurring  What good amid these,
O me, O life…
Wherever the road will take me, whatever the future brings, I will always be thankful to Walt Whitman. In a world where one part is eternally shrouded in darkness, he alone has made me look forward to the other side.
Thank you, captain, for making me crave the light, for taking that endless journey with the faithless, and for prodding me through life. You’ve answered my eternal question:
"What for?"
Answer:
That you are here  that life exists and identity,
That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute
A verse.