Find a song, video, poem, etc. that you feel is especially relevant or meaningful to your identity and explain why.
Invictus
William Ernest Henley Out of the night that covers me, Black as the pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be For my unconquerable soul. In the fell clutch of circumstance I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeonings of chance My head is bloody, but unbowed. Beyond this place of wrath and tears Looms but the Horror of the shade, And yet the menace of the years Finds and shall find me unafraid. It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll. I am the master of my fate: I am the captain of my soul. |
In Flanders Fields
Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae In Flanders Fields the poppies blow Between the crosses row on row, That mark our place; and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns below. We are the Dead. Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved, and now we lie In Flanders Fields. Take up your quarrel with the foe: To you from failing hands we throw The torch; be yours to hold it high. If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders Fields. |
"Invictus" by William Ernest Henley taught me how to live, and keep living. I find myself always coming back to the words of this poem in the darkest of times.
It is a reminder that regardless of what horrors are inflicted upon me, no matter what injury I sustain, I must sustain it. I keep doing this until the day I die, so that I may walk to heaven's gates to say that I had survived the odyssey of life, that I had gone in unwilling to give in. It was of even greater significance to me when I discovered it a few years ago. I had just married my wife Cathy, she was pregnant, school was not turning out well, my family and I were on poor terms, and my job and home were a mess. I had considered suicide several times, Cathy and I were fighting often, and things seemed hopeless. But suicide wasn't just an escape, I genuinely believed I would be doing others a favor if I were to disappear. Although I couldn't disappear, I could only think of the next best thing. But I feared death, and I feared to commit to a decision as final as the one on my life. As you can see, I was a young foolish boy, afraid of so many things.
This poem found, and told me to stay the course, to play the hand dealt to me in life. I had hope, until I learned my unborn child was diagnosed with a chromosomal disorder called Trisomy 18.
It is a reminder that regardless of what horrors are inflicted upon me, no matter what injury I sustain, I must sustain it. I keep doing this until the day I die, so that I may walk to heaven's gates to say that I had survived the odyssey of life, that I had gone in unwilling to give in. It was of even greater significance to me when I discovered it a few years ago. I had just married my wife Cathy, she was pregnant, school was not turning out well, my family and I were on poor terms, and my job and home were a mess. I had considered suicide several times, Cathy and I were fighting often, and things seemed hopeless. But suicide wasn't just an escape, I genuinely believed I would be doing others a favor if I were to disappear. Although I couldn't disappear, I could only think of the next best thing. But I feared death, and I feared to commit to a decision as final as the one on my life. As you can see, I was a young foolish boy, afraid of so many things.
This poem found, and told me to stay the course, to play the hand dealt to me in life. I had hope, until I learned my unborn child was diagnosed with a chromosomal disorder called Trisomy 18.
I would only find some form of solace when I discovered "Flanders Fields", a poem written in response to the seminal tragedy that was World War I. This is the only way I can describe what the loss of my son was like, a seminal tragedy, for I lost him to the cruel and random force of chance. The only difference being that wars are avoidable, chromosomal disorders are not. I still remember the ultrasounds the doctors would show us of his defected heart, his cleft lip, because regardless of the problems they were showing me I couldn't help but see the most perfect, beautiful little thing in the fuzzy image that was supposed to be my baby. I know there might be something deeply wrong to compare the horrors of World War I to the death of my son, but at the time when I heard the choir sing the sadness and utter destruction of peoples and hearts that the war had left behind, I couldn't help but feel myself bleed emotions that I didn't know had been hidden in the infinite depths of my sorrow. Only now did I know true loss. Now I knew what it truly mean to lose hope.
But perhaps the comparison is still arrogant, and unearned. I don't know what it's like to lose a child who is older and whom you are friends with, I don't know what it's like to suffer from a terminal disease for months, I don't know what it's like to watch the loved ones you know and care for disappear from your life. All I know is that I lost a bright light in my life, and that he lays somewhere out there, a gravestone marking that he had existed. So I think of those red poppies filling those fields, and the blue forget-me-nots that remind me of my son. I think about the endless potential my son had to enjoy life if he had been one of the tens of thousands of babies who turned out fine. I think about his little hand, and his little foot, of which I will never be able to hold again, nor the fact that I will never sing him his lullaby, nor that I would never hear him cry. I waited eight months and about two weeks for him, but I'm still waiting. I'm still waiting.
But perhaps the comparison is still arrogant, and unearned. I don't know what it's like to lose a child who is older and whom you are friends with, I don't know what it's like to suffer from a terminal disease for months, I don't know what it's like to watch the loved ones you know and care for disappear from your life. All I know is that I lost a bright light in my life, and that he lays somewhere out there, a gravestone marking that he had existed. So I think of those red poppies filling those fields, and the blue forget-me-nots that remind me of my son. I think about the endless potential my son had to enjoy life if he had been one of the tens of thousands of babies who turned out fine. I think about his little hand, and his little foot, of which I will never be able to hold again, nor the fact that I will never sing him his lullaby, nor that I would never hear him cry. I waited eight months and about two weeks for him, but I'm still waiting. I'm still waiting.
Works cited:
The Forget Me Nots. N.d. Twitter. Web. 22 Jan. 2017. <https://twitter.com/ekforgetmenots>.
Henley, William Ernest. "Life and Death (Echoes)." A Book of Verses. London: D. Nutt, 1888. N. pag. Print.
McCrae, John. "In Flanders Fields." Punch 8 Dec. 1915: n. pag. Print.
Shopperanas. Flouwers. 2012. DeviantArt. Web. 22 Jan. 2017. <http://shopperanas.deviantart.com/art/flouwers-325279878>.
The Forget Me Nots. N.d. Twitter. Web. 22 Jan. 2017. <https://twitter.com/ekforgetmenots>.
Henley, William Ernest. "Life and Death (Echoes)." A Book of Verses. London: D. Nutt, 1888. N. pag. Print.
McCrae, John. "In Flanders Fields." Punch 8 Dec. 1915: n. pag. Print.
Shopperanas. Flouwers. 2012. DeviantArt. Web. 22 Jan. 2017. <http://shopperanas.deviantart.com/art/flouwers-325279878>.