If There's A Heaven, Give 'Em A Show
In defense of living an inspiring life.
Senior year of college I tried reading Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman. Clearly I must not have viewed myself as a spiritual being, or understood the ethos of America, or known how to read, ‘cause I couldn’t handle it. It was a daring attempt and almost an utter failure.
To get in the right headspace, I sat on a rocking chair on the doorstep of Fort Hill in the heart of Clemson’s campus. Despite its central location, most students hardly even notice Fort Hill, or know that it’s called that. It’s a big, ostentatiously white plantation home, hidden by tall trees and intentionally overgrown shrubbery, looming silently atop one of Clemson’s many hills. Rumor stated that if you entered the house prior to graduation, you were doomed to never graduate. It wasn’t true - I went in and came out alive.
The curse was likely fabricated to prevent students from learning that their school’s namesake owned slaves and had Confederate sympathies. But honestly, you could have discovered that Thomas Green Clemson owned slaves without needing to go into his house. He was a rich landowner in the mid-1800s, all it takes is a glance at his enormous white-columned southern mansion for you to do the math and figure it out for yourself.
However, this made-up curse and the house’s associations with slavery aren’t what kept students away. They just didn’t give a shit.
This great white building was a useless relic from a past they don’t belong to, and don’t care about. There was nothing to be learned from it – there was enough learning being done on campus anyway, no need to seek out more.
Thomas Green Clemson reading in his yard at Fort Hill, likely the 1870s-1880s. To the right, where the rocking chair sits empty beneath the four columns, is where I sat.
Anyway, shaded by enormous branches and the population’s lack of interest, I went unbothered as I struggled through Song of Myself. It was the perfect environment - Whitman wrote Leaves of Grass in 1855, about America and himself in that time period. This was as close to 1855 as I could get on campus. I felt a part of history. Maybe Clemson himself read these same words, right here, right when they dropped.
The building itself is historic, not just because it’s old. It’s preserved - (against some students, alumni, and administrators’ collective wills) - to stand for as long as our nation stands, due to its spot on the U.S. National Register of Historic Places. Future Vice President John C. Calhoun wrote his theory of nullification feet away from where I sat. One could reasonably claim that the intellectual arguments for secession and the American Civil War started where I discovered my inability to understand Whitman’s Song of The Answerer.
Anyway, I couldn’t get into it, and it was my own damn fault. I just wasn’t smart enough, and also, girls in back-to-school clothes kept floating by in the distance, transporting me back to 2022. The back of the book contained his more palatable poems, ones that are ten lines or less such as O Me! O Life!, which concludes with the line:
“That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.”
Hell yeah. I got something out of this.
The powerful play of life has always been running, and will go on long after you contribute your verse. That doesn’t mean that your verse isn’t important.
I was just a measly business student, unable to understand poetry, sitting where one of the greatest statesmen of our history developed the theory that sparked the Civil War. Calhoun and Clemson started the play that goes on in those upstate South Carolina hills, had lead roles in Act 1 and left a much bigger mark than I did. Yet, I still had a role, and the opportunity to write a verse, say a line, and maybe even steal the show.
You probably don’t know anything about your great-grandparents. However, without them, you, your siblings, your parents, their siblings, their parents, and everyone in between would never have existed. Though no one remembers their verse, it was important nonetheless.
Now - what’s better than a verse? A monologue, a scene, a whole damn episode, a show.
I don’t think I came up with this saying - pretty sure I read it somewhere, but I can’t find where. It goes like:
If there’s a heaven, give ‘em a show.
Say you don’t believe in heaven and you end up being right - it turns out heaven does not exist. That’s fine, you got me - I was wrong, and none of this ever mattered.
Now say there is a heaven, and it’s full of every good person that has ever added to the world. Wouldn’t you want them to be entertained? If you don’t believe and heaven turns out to be real, it’ll just be awkward when you finally arrive. Everyone will pretend you don’t exist, the way that you did to them.
Assume there is always someone looking down from heaven, watching, expecting not to be disappointed. The veteran actors who exited stage north put a lot of work into this little number called life, and letting them down would disrespect the whole production.
I happen to believe in heaven and that the crowd up there doesn’t want to be let down. A main life goal of mine is the following: When I get there, I want them to know who I am. I want to have given ‘em a show.
I made ‘em dance, I made ‘em laugh, made ‘em put their face in their hands, shake their heads, wonder what the hell I was thinking. I made ‘em throw their hands up in celebration, dry their eyes, I made ‘em gasp, sigh, hold their breath, shout, jump for joy.
I made ‘em excited, I made ‘em nervous, I thrilled them, energized them, pissed them off and changed their minds. I made ‘em grimace in pain and get choked up when I redeemed myself. I made ‘em sing and clap along, embarrassed and overwhelmed them, feel pride and hope and surprise.
I made ‘em believe that their powerful play will be alright after all, that it’s in good hands, and will be passed along to good hands.
I confused ‘em a lot and they might have chuckled when I tried and failed to understand some simple poetry.
Above all, I didn’t bore them, I gave ‘em something to talk about. I contributed my verse, put on a show, exited stage north and I watched with joy as the powerful play went on without me.