On Friday evening, I went to see Urinetown in an effort to stay in touch with modern satire and, more importantly, to complete my convocation credit. The production was pleasant. I found it amusing how many words in the English language rhyme with “pee,” including liberty, chastity, and happy. I thought about this for hours afterwards, even as I gallivanted through the city. At one point, a girl introduced herself to me saying, “Hi, I’m Ashley,” and my only response was, “Chris [handshake],” and, “your name rhymes with pee.” I was awfully sad when I came to the realization, later, that there is no chance for a sequel because comedy does not rhyme with “crap” or “shit.”
I am not here to document the show, however, or my opinions of it. I am here to recount a strange but miraculous event that occurred just prior to the beginning of the second act. I am still unsure whether or not what I witnessed was real or a hoax; but whether or not it was or wasn’t, I still have confidence in the potential of the words delivered.
As I was talking with a lady friend of mine during intermission, the lights dimmed in the theater, which, although it seemed early for them to do so, I took as the signal to silence myself and assume the musical- watching position. I waited for the cast to take the stage but there was nothing. I waited some more, but still nothing. Thirty seconds passed and the crowd began to get restless (as did I because it is one thing to have to listen to a musical, and it is another to anticipate having to listening to it). Then there came a sound from stage left—a rhythmic scraping. Slow but steady. Like the noise a broom makes upon the floor. It grew slightly louder, and louder, until finally, a man appeared. He was dressed in all white and hunched over a bit, carrying a chair. In his mouth, which was roofed by a puffy, white moustache, he held a cigar. This he puffed so furiously that one could have mistaken him for a white locomotive. I knew in an instant who it was. And so did the audience. They laughed and applauded as he made his way to center stage, which took him nearly two minutes to do so on account of his pace. When he finally got there, he put the chair down, and slowly took a seat, leaning back for a second and drawing heavily on his cigar. He exhaled, squinting his eyes, and began to speak.
I am not an act in this show; I never was meant to be. In fact, I tried in every which way to avoid interrupting it. But President Fisher insisted that I take the stage this evening. You see, about a year ago, he asked me to be a speaker for your lecture series on the meaning of Freedom. I was honored, to say the least, by this, and without hesitation, began to make the trek from Connecticut to Nashville. Unfortunately, it takes me fortnight to get anywhere, and I am now nine months late. I apologize for that and I would like to apologize to the actors who are being so rudely kept from their performance—as it appears an old man who can barely walk across the stage is more entertaining than the lot of you.
I must say, I have not spoken before so many people in one place since the first lecture I ever gave back in 1868. There were sixty-five people in the audience. All of whom were there not to listen to the material I had prepared, but to listen to me deliver a modern rendition of Hamlet’s soliloquies, as my ticket man had falsely advertised. You see, in my day, Shakespeare was wildly popular. He could capture an audience much the same way that reality television does now. It just goes to show that fiction never changes. Only the reality through which we view it. Unless that reality is an audience of sixty-five expecting to see Prince Hamlet, then they get up and leave. I am proud to say that there were two people remaining when I had finished speaking. They were my mother and my sister, who were proudly seated before me in the front row—and fast asleep.
Anyways: the meaning of freedom. I must admit that I have forgotten what I was going to say about it. This is probably because, in all honesty, I do not know a single thing about freedom. I am an American, yes, this is true; I have not one, but two American flags hanging on my porch—one is my own and the other I took from my neighbor after he voted for John Kerry; I can sing the national anthem in 8 different languages; I am apt to quote Benjamin Franklin and Abraham Lincoln more often than Jesus; And last but not least, I have an extreme abomination for a Frenchman. Yes I am an American: I own a firearm and a wife. And it is this combination that has kept me imprisoned for the past 125 years.
So, no. I do not know a single thing about freedom. Nor a single thing about free speech. For the only man who knows free speech is a dead man. He fears no opinion but God’s. And most of the time he doesn’t believe in God.
I found it strange that as I made my journey down to Nashville, and told passersby that I was on my way to give a lecture at Belmont University, that they had no idea there was such an institution by that name in Nashville. In fact, they told me I must have been mistaken—that I was actually headed to Vanderbilt University; that Vanderbilt was the only university in Nashville; and that all other universities that purported themselves as universities were mere heretics to education. But I am pleased to find, as I always am when it happens, that I was right and you do exist, Belmont.
I imagine, though, that this is rather frustrating. I imagine that when you go home to wherever you go home to and you tell people that you earning your degree at Belmont that they sometimes ask you how it is that you are receiving an education from a horse-racing track. I also imagine that when you are about town and people ask you what it is that you are doing here, and you tell them that you are a student, that they quickly respond, “Oh, do you go to Vanderbilt?” And when you tell them calmly, “No, I go to Belmont,” a blank stare comes across their face. They scratch their head. Furrow their eyebrows. Much in the way a chimpanzee would if you tried to teach him the story of Creation. Until finally they respond with a look of genuine awe, “I had no idea that horse-racing track was in Nashville.”
This problem you have, Belmont, of escaping from beneath the long shadow cast by Vanderbilt is nothing new in this world. It is an age old pattern of the universe. But you should look at it this way: that where there is one, there is always two and often the second supercedes the first. Why, history proves this over and over again. Let us take for example Adam and Eve. It is said in the Bible that God made man first. He made him from the earth. Then He decided that man needed a companion, perhaps some opposition; that a simple indolent existence of hunting and fishing was too easy. So, from one of Adam’s ribs, He made Eve and she became his counter. He called her Woman. Because she was taken out of Man, so said Adam. This moment marks in the history of Man the largest mistake he ever made. Though, I cannot blame him. As the first man, he was not privy to the knowledge that we men have today—which is still very little and much guesswork—that you must never tell a woman two things: who she is or that she is a little portly for the dress. Because if a man does, he can count on being proven wrong or reminded of what he said, once, for the rest of his existence. The feminine memory is an astounding vault. Where gilded retorts can be stored securely until it becomes necessary to flaunt them once more. As a result of his naming of her, and his subsequent creation of subservience, she has spent the past 6,000 years asserting herself in the world. The past 100 years to be specific. But Woman has finally emerged from beneath Man’s shadow. And secured herself a right to vote. She has earned herself a college education. And she has dropped the apron, stepped out of the home, and made for herself a career. I don’t care what the feminists say; they are wrong. The triumph of women’s suffrage can be summed up into one phrase: that’s what she said. Why? Because, back in my day, she would not have said anything. She remained silent. We said the phrase one way and only one way and that way was: that’s what he said. And by he, we meant God.
At this point he leaned back again and took a long puff of his cigar, then exhaled slowly, watching the movements made by the smoke.
My wife tried for many years to quit me of cigars. Told me that I made the house stink and that I’d ruin my teeth. But she failed to understand that there are certain things a man will never quit. There are certain things—traditions, pastimes, customs, whatever you want to call him—that are so ingrained into his daily routine, they have become apart of his identity. His religion. And if I am bold enough to leave you with a definition of freedom, then I will say that it is not a thing granted to you by a government or God but a fearless defense of everything that is you. Freedom is self-patriotism. We must learn to ignore the opinions of man and fix bayonets upon our rifled souls.
Good night, Belmont, and thank you.
He shuffled off stage for the next two minutes, puffing away on his cigar and leaving behind him in the smoke an airy past. Like a hazy memory, surreal and questionably imagined.
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