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This Day in World History

March 2, 1855

Alexander II Becomes Czar of Russia

Aleksandr II Imperator Vseross. Source: New York Public Library.

Two strong influences stamped Alexander’s character. One was the autocratic personality and rule of his father; the other was his education, tinged with the principles of liberalism and romanticism. He ascended to the throne with Russia in a crisis, fighting the Crimean War against the Ottoman Empire, which had the support of Britain and France. The fighting continued for nearly a year, but Alexander had to sign a treaty making concession.

Russia’s defeat convinced him that he had to modernize the nation and spurred a program of industrialization and liberal reform. New railway lines were built, universities and courts were reformed, and there was even some steps made to reduce censorship. The signal achievement of Alexander’s reign was the emancipation of the serfs, as tens of millions of peasants were released from centuries-old feudal bonds and even given land allotments. The reform failed to produce a viable class of small farmers, however.

Another liberalization, with Russia lightening its grip on Poland, led to nationalist revolts there and the growth of radicalism both there and in Russia. Alexander responded by strengthening the secret police, which produced more unrest, further suppression, and several assassination attempts against the emperor. In 1881, he leaned once more toward liberalization, signing a decree on March 1 that would create a new constitution. That very day, he was wounded fatally in a terrorist attack, dying one day short of the anniversary of the day he took the throne.

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This Day in World History

February 11, 1889

Emperor Meiji Issues New Constitution of Japan

On February 11, 1889, Japan’s Emperor Meiji furthered his plan to modernize and westernize his nation by promulgating a new constitution. The new plan of government created a western-style two-house parliament, called the Diet, and a constitutional monarchy — though one with a Japanese character.

When Prince Mutsuhito became emperor and took the ruling name Meiji (“enlightened ruler”) in 1867, he was determined to break with his late father’s traditionalist policies and embrace western ways. He took several steps in this direction. Along with creating a public school system and enacting land reforms, the Meiji emperor created government ministries.

The crowning governmental reform was the new constitution, which embraced the idea of citizen participation — though no plebiscite was held to give the public a voice in the document either as a whole or in detail. The emperor declared that the new constitution arose from his desire “to promote the welfare of, and to give development to the moral and intellectual faculties of Our beloved subjects.”

The constitution was modeled chiefly on the Prussian constitution, a fairly conservative document that subjected parliamentary rule to the power of the monarchy. Thus, the Meiji constitution began by declaring the emperor to be sovereign and “sacred and inviolable.” The emperor was named commander of the armed forces and given the power to declare war or make peace without needing to consult with the Diet.

The constitution was chiefly written by Itō Hirobumi, one of the elder statesmen who effectively ran the Japanese government. Itō and his colleagues assumed that they would be chiefly responsible for running the government and making policy and the emperor would not become involved except occasionally.

The Meiji constitution remained in force in Japan until after World War II, when a new constitution creating a stronger parliamentary system was adopted.

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This Day in World History - Control of the Roman Empire was in the balance when the armies of Constantine and his brother-in-law Maxentius clashed near the Milvian Bridge, north of Rome. Despite having a smaller army, Constantine triumphed—a victory made secure when Maxentius drowned in the Tiber River while trying to escape. Constantine’s victory left him in command of the western half of the Roman Empire—but it also had more significant consequences.

This is the week—some 42 years ago—that I became an American citizen. I was remembering the day fondly, and decided to make a poetry connection. I was 10 years old and my German-born parents were becoming naturalized citizens, so I was, too. I remember getting out of school, going to the Dallas courthouse, the seriousness and the celebration, and the chocolate milk shake that followed. What a day! A few years later, as a teenager, I helped my Oma (grandmother) master enough American history in broken English to pass the questions that were asked of her as she became an American citizen, too. This is the little old lady who stood up to Hitler and was a German refugee fleeing with five children and an elderly mother in tow. I am still touched when I see swearing in ceremonies and look at all the different faces that are proud to call the United States home. I know it may seem corny, but this is very real in my family.

And there are many poets who have written about their feelings about this country, both good and bad. Maybe that’s why I love Langston Hughes and his “I, too am America” poem—although I recognize a very different struggle there. Or why I relate to Janet Wong’s poem, “Speak up” about kids taunting a child who speaks another language. Many Latino/Latina poets have addressed this issue of immigration, language difference, and cultural assimilation in their work, including Pat Mora, Gary Soto, Juan Felipe Herrera, and Francisco X. Alarcón. One poetry collection that really speaks to me on this issue is Monica Gunning’s America, My New Home (San Francisco, CA: Children’s Book Press, 2004). Although Gunning is my mother’s age, and comes from Jamaica not Germany, her poems speak with wonder about the contrasts between her old home and new home, and about the challenges in straddling old ways and new, in ways that echo my own experiences and emotions. Across cultures, there are still children for whom “home” is a very real question, whose families talk seriously about loyalty and identity, and who walk the tightrope of keeping family traditions while being “real” Americans.

I looked for the perfect poem to share and decided to try an experiment. My 19 year old son has been educating me about “mashups,” a new trend in music to blend parts of many different songs into one. It’s led to interesting discussions between us about artistic freedom and copyright infringement, but it has also prompted me to think about what that might look and feel like in other arts—like poetry. So, with all due respect to two fantastic poets, Langston Hughes and Walt Whitman, here is a “mashup” of two of their poems meshed into one: “I, Too” and “I Hear America Singing.”

I, too, sing America.
I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear;

I am the darker brother.
They send me to eat in the kitchen
When company comes,
But I laugh,
And eat well,
And grow strong.

Tomorrow,
I'll be at the table
When company comes.
Nobody'll dare
Say to me,
"Eat in the kitchen,"
Then.

Besides,
They'll see how beautiful I am
And be ashamed—

I, too, sing America.
I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear;
Those of mechanics—each one singing his, as it should be, blithe and strong;
The carpenter singing his, as he measures his plank or beam,
The mason singing his, as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work;
The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat—the deckhand singing on the steamboat deck;
The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench—the hatter singing as he stands;
The wood-cutter’s song—the ploughboy’s, on his way in the morning, or at the noon intermission, or at sundown;
The delicious singing of the mother—or of the young wife at work—or of the girl sewing or washing—Each singing what belongs to her, and to none else;
The day what belongs to the day—At night, the party of young fellows, robust, friendly,
Singing, with open mouths, their strong melodious songs.

I, too, am America.


Thank you, Langston and Walt. Langston’s words are in brown and Walt’s are in green. FYI. What do you think? Is this poetry sacrilege? Or new and innovative? I’m not sure…

Join the rest of the Poetry Friday Round Up at The Simple and The Ordinary.

Picture credit: Me at 5, attending kindergarten in Germany

I love Deborah Wiles' stories. The Aurora County All-Stars is no exception! She has this incredible way of making me feel the small town in such a way that makes me yearn for a sleeping porch, and want to start canning some fruit!

This is a story about baseball, poetry and family. House Jackson is sitting in the room with 88 year old Mr. Norwood Rhinehart Beauregard Boyd when he takes his last breath. House calls the town doctor, and then high tails it out of there. Why did he leave so quickly, and what was he doing there in the first place?

House's first love is the baseball team that he and best friend Cleebo Wilson head up. Every year they have one official game against the team from the neighbouring county. Last year House had to miss the game. His arm was broken, you see. Broken because of none other than Frances (call me Finesse) Schotz and her modern dancing. This year, House is ready and he can't wait for the game.

But the town Mamas have another plan. They want all of their sons and daughters to be in a pageant celebrating the town's history, because golden son and soap opera actor Dr. Dan is coming back into town. And who is going to direct this play that just happens to fall on the same day as the annual baseball game? Miss Finesse Schotz, that's who!

What follows is a beautifully layered story about family history, death, memories, poetry and baseball. And all of the characters cast : House, Cleebo, Honey, Frances, Ruby Lavendar (!), Leonard, and all of the townsfolk, have a magic to them. This is a quiet sort of story that will stay with the reader for a long time.

It's like Oz, where I'm headed -- somewhere over the rainbow. Places I've never been, people I've never met -- but no strangers. In Book-Tour Oz, we are all kin.

If you are making your way to this journal for the first time, you'll see I've been practicing, in anticipation of your arrival. You can familiarize yourself with the room by scrolling down this page.

You'll find the tour schedule on the left -- hope I'm coming to a theater near you! You can easily sign up to receive journal entries in your email inbox each day. (And you can easily quit whenever you want.) You can sign up to have this blog added to your feedreader. You can just pop in and visit when you feel like it. I'll keep the front room picked up and make sure there's a pitcher of sweet tea in the fridge.

Scroll down and you'll read about the road trip that intrepid Harcourt book rep Michael Hill and I took to The Happy Bookseller in Columbia, South Carolina last Thursday.

You'll read about my love affair with Sandy Koufax and the 1960s Los Angeles Dodgers and see how my admiration finds it way into ALL-STARS. (And take a look at the comments -- you'll see that I wasn't the only fan in love with Koufax!)

You'll see how I spent my summer -- and learn some about my family, Atlanta, and my new.... husband. (Hint: it's not Sandy Koufax. But he's fine...so fine... and it's his birthday today. Happy Birthday, Jim!)

You'll meet wonderful North Carolina teachers who are writing their personal narratives.

You'll find that I'm just as nervous about this tour as I say I'm not. Something like that -- do read "Shirley Jackson and the Book Tour." You'll find that I'm excited, too. Those opposites that Uncle Edisto speaks about in LITTLE BIRD... they catch me up every time.

And if you scroll to the bottom (not far), you'll read Pat Grant's thoughts on why THE AURORA COUNTY ALL-STARS is a great American novel. Bless your heart, Pat.

Pat and Elisabeth Grant-Gibson own Windows, A Bookshop in Monroe, Lousiana. I met them on tour with LITTLE BIRD in 2005. These women -- and their staff, and their community -- are amazing. They host The Book Report every Wednesday morning -- "A scintillating once-a-week, one-hour radio magazine about books originating live from the KMLB studios in Monroe." Check them out!

I'm going to check out a suitcase. I'll be living out of it until the end of September. I can't wait to clap eyes on old friends, make new ones, and bring stories back with me to tell for years to come. I tell my students that every moment we live is our story. And each person's story is important -- it connects us to all of our stories. Walt Whitman knew it:

"Come, said the muse, sing me a song no poet has yet chanted; sing me the universal."

Poetry Friday was at Farm School this week, and I'm squeaking in with just a few hours of Friday left. And I'm wracking my brain, because earlier in the week I had a poem all picked out for today, and now I can't remember it. Whitman, I think it was Whitman. Hang on, it's coming to me. The girls and I were reading—OH THAT'S RIGHT! The grass.

The older my children get, the more children I have, the more Whitman means to me. He understands about wonder.

Leaves of Grass, Section 14, Poem 6

A child said, *What is the grass?* fetching it to me with full hands;

How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is, any more than he.

I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven.

Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
A scented gift and remembrancer, designedly dropt,
Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we may see and remark, and say, *Whose?*

Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the vegetation.

Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic;
And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones,
Growing among black folks as among white;
Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, I receive them the same.

And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.

Tenderly will I use you, curling grass;
It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men;
It may be if I had known them I would have loved them;

It may be you are from old people, and from women, and from offspring taken soon out of their mothers' laps;
And here you are the mothers' laps.

This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers;
Darker than the colorless beards of old men;
Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.

O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues!
And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for nothing.

I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and women,
And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken soon out of their laps.

What do you think has become of the young and old men?
And what do you think has become of the women and children?

They are alive and well somewhere;
The smallest sprout shows there is really no death;
And if ever there was, it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it,
And ceas'd the moment life appear'd.

All goes onward and outward—nothing collapses;
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.

It was Walt Whitman's birthday yesterday, so I thought I'd share with you a couple of his poems of which I'm fond:

O Captain! My Captain!

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, The ship has weather'd every rack,
the prize we sought is won, The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring; But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.
O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; Rise up- for you the flag is flung- for you the bugle trills,

For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths- for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck,
You've fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,
The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
But I with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

This poem was, of course, made more famous by its use in the Robin Williams film, Dead Poets Society, which film I confess I love, not least because of its emphasis on poetry and its use of Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream (which, at present, is the one Shakespeare play I most want to see live).


A noiseless patient spider

A noiseless patient spider,
I mark'd where on a little promontory it stood isolated,
Mark'd how to explore the vacant vast surrounding,
It launch'd forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself,
Ever unreeling them, ever tirelessly speeding them.

And you O my soul where you stand,
Surrounded, detached, in measureless oceans of space,
Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing, seeking the spheres to connect them,
Till the bridge you will need be form'd, till the ductile anchor hold,
Till the gossamer thread you fling catch somewhere, O my soul.

Don't we all do this - throw out bits of ourselves (not necessarily our souls - depending on your belief or not in souls), hoping to find someone or something to give us an anchor in life... ?

I love the last line of that first verse - just the way it rolls off my tongue as I say it... Read the rest of this post