I am a little obsessed with Abraham Lincoln, the 16th president of the U.S. My obsession started a couple of years ago when I read an excerpt in Atlantic Monthly of Lincoln’s Melancholy by Joshua Wolf Shenk (who taught at New School at the time, thank you very much).
The psychology (another obsession) aspect of the title combined with the history compelled me to read it. Then I bought the book. And then I never stopped talking about him.
Next came Manhunt: The 12-Day Chase for Lincoln’s Killer. It was a hard topic to read about, especially in the beginning when the writer detailed the events of that terrible day in April. Despite knowing what happens and despite the mere fact of history, I was stressed out as I read it through furrowed eyebrows and I uttered muted warning cries: “Don’t go to the theatre. Don’t go!” He always goes in the end.
And finally, last year, I read Team of Rivals, a Pulitzer prizewinning book by Doris Kearns Goodwin. (Here’s an excerpt from the first chapter, courtesy of NPR; and here is an interview with Ms. Goodwin from History.com about the tome.) And Steven Spielberg is using the book, adapted for the screen by Tony Kushner, for a movie called Lincoln due in 2009, the big man’s bicentennial.
There was just something about the guy that hooked me. Of course I say this based only on what I’ve read both by him and about him. I even read the stuff that said he was a racist. Good stuff that.
He was awkward, notoriously unkempt, and never slept. He was jovial, scary smart, and totally capable of admitting when he was wrong. He was funny, in touch with himself, and could tell a story and give a speech. And I’m not even studying him in school like this guy is lucky enough to be doing! I’m just a person 200 years after the fact capable of admiring a historic figure who was born both at the right and wrong time. Sometimes I wonder what would have happened had he not been killed. It’s a sad thing to wonder.
At least now, though, I get to show off some pictures that really have no place being shown except, say, on a blog of a fanatic on a certain day.
This is a wall at Plymouth Church.
(Oh, here we go with another story.) Last year I also read a book called The Most Famous Man in America by Debby Applegate. She also won a Pulitzer for her efforts to write about the life of Henry Ward Beecher, a preacher man who lived most of his life in Brooklyn Heights, was against the Civil War, and started Plymouth Church.
Me, apparently being obsessed last year with dead white American males in the 19th century, became interested in him. I did some more reading, raved about the book to friends who often rolled their eyes, and finally made my way with Meredith to Plymouth Church. It was, after all, only one train stop away (I did have to ask these same friends for directions via text.)
And I knew that Lincoln attended a sermon there.
We entered the church and asked the stern lady at the desk if someone could show us around. Five minutes later came out a nice lady who didn’t necessarily look excited to give an unscheduled tour, but I kind of softened my voice a bit, told her I was leaving Brooklyn for good and, well, could she show me where Abraham Lincoln sat. That did it.
But she showed us around, which was okay, too, because this church was also a stop on the Underground Railroad, so I was happy to learn about the history I’d already read about.
Finally, she opened this door and everything went quiet. I won’t say I felt any spirits, because I didn’t. But the church was beautiful, and she said most everything was as it was when Beecher preached. Finally I asked where He sat.
Of course I asked before sitting down. That was pretty off the hook. We finally got out of the woman’s hair, but she didn’t seem to mind talking to us. Nor did she seem to mind when I asked to take a picture with her:
We had to kind of rush to make it to our next stop, which was the Bodies exhibit at South Street Seaport. After that, we decided to take the Staten Island Ferry. For fun. So after leaving the exhibit, we walked under the FDR, crossed the street and passed Heartland Brewery. And, wouldn’t you know, out of the corner of my eye, I caught what I thought was a glimpse of Abraham Lincoln. Then I thought I was going a bit mad, still fresh off the buzz of my Lincoln state. But I stopped to have a look anyway.
And sure enough, there was my idol, this guy whose face makes me stop mid-stride, on a stein in the window of a brewery/restaurant chain. There might be worse things to have your likeness on.
Happy Birthday, Mr. President.
