Returning to the Spouter-Inn from the Chapel, I found Queequeg there quite alone; he having left the Chapel before the benediction some time. He was sitting on a bench before the fire, with his feet on the stove hearth, and in one hand was holding close up to his face that little negro idol of his; peering hard into its face, and with a jack-knife gently whittling away at its nose, meanwhile humming to himself in his heathenish way.
But being now interrupted, he put up the image; and pretty soon, going to the table, took up a large book there, and placing it on his lap began counting the pages with deliberate regularity; at every fiftieth page- as I fancied- stopping for a moment, looking vacantly around him, and giving utterance to a long-drawn gurgling whistle of astonishment. He would then begin again at the next fifty; seeming to commence at number one each time, as though he could not count more than fifty, and it was only by such a large number of fifties being found together, that his astonishment at the multitude of pages was excited.
With much interest I sat watching him. Savage though he was, and hideously marred about the face- at least to my taste- his countenance yet had a something in it which was by no means disagreeable. You cannot hide the soul. Through all his unearthly tattooings, I thought I saw the traces of a simple honest heart; and in his large, deep eyes, fiery black and bold, there seemed tokens of a spirit that would dare a thousand devils. And besides all this, there was a certain lofty bearing about the Pagan, which even his uncouthness could not altogether maim. He looked like a man who had never cringed and never had had a creditor. Whether it was, too, that his head being shaved, his forehead was drawn out in freer and brighter relief, and looked more expansive than it otherwise would, this I will not venture to decide; but certain it was his head was phrenologically an excellent one. It may seem ridiculous, but it reminded me of General Washington's head, as seen in the popular busts of him. It had the same long regularly graded retreating slope from above the brows, which were likewise very projecting, like two long promontories thickly wooded on top. Queequeg was George Washington cannibalistically developed.
Whilst I was thus closely scanning him, half-pretending meanwhile to be looking out at the storm from the casement, he never heeded my presence, never troubled himself with so much as a single glance; but appeared wholly occupied with counting the pages of the marvellous book. Considering how sociably we had been sleeping together the night previous, and especially considering the affectionate arm I had found thrown over me upon waking in the morning, I thought this indifference of his very strange. But savages are strange beings; at times you do not know exactly how to take them. At first they are overawing; their calm self-collectedness of simplicity seems as Socratic wisdom. I had noticed also that Queequeg never consorted at all, or but very little, with the other seamen in the inn. He made no advances whatever; appeared to have no desire to enlarge the circle of his acquaintances. All this struck me as mighty singular; yet, upon second thoughts, there was something almost sublime in it. Here was a man some twenty thousand miles from home, by the way of Cape Horn, that is- which was the only way he could get there- thrown among people as strange to him as though he were in the planet Jupiter; and yet he seemed entirely at his ease; preserving the utmost serenity; content with his own companionship; always equal to himself. Surely this was a touch of fine philosophy; though no doubt he had never heard there was such a thing as that. But, perhaps, to be true philosophers, we mortals should not be conscious of so living or so striving. So soon as I hear that such or such a man gives himself out for a philosopher, I conclude that, like the dyspeptic old woman, he must have "broken his digester."
There has been a lot of ink spilled about Queequeg. He is the "other" in the novel, and yet he comes across as the most civilized and most composed character in these opening chapters. Ishmael calls him "savage" and "cannibalistically developed." Yet, there he sits in the Spouter-Inn , warming himself at the hearth, paging through a large book, with great dignity.Human beings are way too inclined to judge people by appearances. I have often observed to life-long Christians that if Jesus Christ actually stepped into church, wearing his robes and sandals, looking Middle-Eastern and unwashed, he wouldn't be ushered to the front pew or given a cup of coffee and some cookies. No, my guess is that Jesus Christ would quickly be given a police escort to the nearest homeless shelter, after being detained for a little while for questioning by ISIS agents.
Tattoos. Piercings. Mohawks. A skin tone other than snowy white. Weird accent. All those things pretty much mark a person for ridicule and suspicion. The United States is not alone in this. All over the globe, people have become incredibly intolerant of the Queequegs of the world. Daily, it seems, I I read about attacks and deportations and refugee camps.
In my country, so-called "Christians" seem to forget that, for a while in the Roman Empire, followers of Jesus Christ were fed to lions on a frequent basis. We (and I count myself as a Jesus geek) were the "other" for a very long time. Just like Puritans were religious refugees from British persecution. Chinese immigrants were forced to build railroads and keep to themselves. You name an ethnic group (Italian, German, Irish, Japanese) and, at some point in the history of the United States of America, that ethnic group was subjected to discrimination.
However, when the discriminated become the discriminators, they tend to forget the past. Power is a terribly corrupting force. It makes those people petty, mean, and self-serving. Just read the Congressional tax bill, if you don't believe that. We are in a time of universal selfishness. Everyone seems to be worried simply about themselves and their personal struggles, without understanding that compassion and acceptance works both ways. I buy a Happy Meal for a homeless person standing outside of Walmart, offer a smile, a handshake. Treat that person the way I would like to be treated. Down the road, who knows? I might need food or a kind face or human contact.
Today, I was struggling with a blocked sewer in my home. I called every single local plumber in the Yellow Pages and on the Internet. I received exactly three calls back, and all of them carried the same message, "Sorry, can't do it. Try this plumber instead." About an hour-and-half ago, I was pretty desperate. Then, my daughter decided to take a hot shower. She said the bathtub filled up for a little while, then, suddenly, there was a large burp from the drain, and all the water drained. My sewer is clear. Granted, it's not a miracle along the lines of healing a leper or walking on water, but, in my book, it counts as a moment of grace in my life.
It doesn't take much to be kind. To help a fellow human being out. Remember, that girl sitting in the booth next to you at McDonald's with the blue hair and eyebrow piercings might look like a "savage" or "cannibal" to you, but she's not. She's Jesus Christ. Mohammed. Buddha. Queequeg. She deserves your compassion. Your understanding. Your love. She deserves healthcare. A living wage. Warm clothes. Food. Education. Those aren't luxuries. Those are necessities.
That's my challenge to my fellow Christians reading this today. Disturb the comfortable. Comfort the disturbed. Pretty much that sums up the message of Jesus Christ.
Saint Marty isn't feeling quite so disturbed now that his toilet is flushing properly.
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