While I know you can find such suppers in the U.S., it was never something that came across my radar until I moved to Beijing. And while I have indeed been in Beijing for three of Burns' birthdays, his birthday just happens to fall during what is typically my Spring Festival break. And while a night of drunken, literary revelry with a bunch of Scots actually sounds like a good time, it's not been enough of a draw to delay a trip to say, Thailand or Vietnam in the middle of a cold, polluted Beijing winter. But this year, my break doesn't start for another week, so I found myself in the city for the famed evening of poetry and haggis.
My grades and comments were complete, my lessons for next week are (largely) planned, and I discovered that a Scottish friend of mine wasn't leaving town until Monday. I enlisted her help as translator, and away we went. You should know, while she is proper Scottish like, she is vegetarian, hates neeps (turnips), and doesn't care much for whisky. Yup, it was going to be an interesting evening.
Still, we donned our posh frocks, and I started practicing my best Britishisms. (See aforementioned posh frocks.)
The evening began as one might expect. We were in a small room of the local English-language bookstore/cafe/lending library. My Translator immediately proved her worth by noticing the piper, noticing the kitchen door, and selecting seats that were likely to place us far away from the path of said piper (thus saving our eardrums from some undue trauma). We sipped on our whisky (she's not totally averse to the stuff, she just prefers rum), ordered some microbrew, and prepared for the impending mayhem.
A local expat of the artistic variety (who I've met briefly at some film screenings she organizes) was the MC for the event. She also happens to be Scottish. She explained the sequence of events: Some poetry, some haggis (a vegetarian version was an option, much to my Translator's relief), some piping, some speeches, maybe some more poetry, the Toasts to the Laddies and Lassies (war of the sexes, Scottish style), and then a little open-mike for more poetry or what-have-you.
I got a gleam in my eye. My Translator looked at me and said, "No, you are not allowed." Which of course just meant that I would have to.
The MC also mentioned that she was playing the role of an adult, had not taken out "the girls" for the evening, and was wearing a high-necked dress. Fortunately, though, I had given my girls a little breathing room. (I guess it's true what they say: There can be only one.)
Bringing the Translator was definitely a wise move on my part. Not only is she my friend and good for an evening out, she provided some rather interesting and fairly key bits of information. That one poem? That was two woman comparing types of male genitalia. That thing he keeps saying? Women are the devil. She also shared some experiences she had at Burns' Nights back in Scotland when she was in the... I don't know, whatever the Scottish equivalent of the National Guard is called. I guess they cut the haggis with a proper sword. And it was far more... debauched than the event we were at. (Looking around the room, there average age of the attendees was obviously on the higher end of the scale. Mid-40s probably.)
Incidentally, my first experience with haggis was just fine. It tasted a lot like deconstructed shepherd's pie or a looser sort of meatloaf. And this was Beijing, so there's a good chance there were lungs mixed in with the oatmeal. (Ed. note: Still not puking more than 24 hours later. I'd say it was a success.)
Towards the end of the planned program, a Welsh bloke got up to sing a Welsh song (peoples colonized by the English tend to stick together). I started calling for Delilah (as you do). You might recall that I worked with a number of Welsh blokes for the last two years and was inducted into what I will call "The Cult of Delilah and All Things Tom Jones." He laughed it off, sang a rather pretty number in Welsh, and sat back down.
Some more beer and whisky later, the planned portion of the evening came to an end. It was time for submissions from the audience. The Welsh Bloke got back up and... he sang Delilah! I joined in, loudly, from the back of the room. I got some mild encouragement to join him up front, but I demurred (well, as much as one can while belting out the lyrics to a song that glorifies philandering and domestic violence).
My Translator knew what was coming next, and she still was skeptical, but I convinced her I could do it. Would do it. And it was her own fault, anyway, for telling me I couldn't.
So when the Welsh Bloke sat back down, I immediately got up and strode to the front. (I already had support from my end of room.) I gave them a brief introduction:
- I had nothing up my sleeves and no notes,
- I had been forbidden to do what I was about to do, so I hoped they would support me (of course a room of tipsy Brits shouted their approval),
- What I was about to do was sometimes criticized as being a bit long, so I would give them a (slightly) abridged version,
- And if they did find themselves getting bored, since I had brought "the girls" out with me, perhaps they would still find something worthwhile about my performance.
There are strange things done 'neath the midnight sun by the men who moil for gold
The audience began to quiet. They sensed they were in for something special.
The poem (Robert Service's "The Cremation of Sam McGee", if you haven't figured it out yet) begins with a description of Sam, a man "from Plum Tree down in Tennessee" who "was always cold" although "the land of gold"... "holds him like a spell" even though "he'd sooner live in Hell". There is a description of the cold in Alaska ("if our eyes we'd close, the lashes froze, 'til sometimes we couldn't see") and then Sam asks his friend for "a last request." Namely, when he dies (which he is predicting will be soon), he wants to be cremated so as not to spend eternity in an "icy grave".
And at this point, I realized I had them. The silence in the room was deep and total. I had their eyes. I had their hearts. I had their minds. I had them in the palm of my hand. They were listening to the story and I was building suspense (with the help of Robert Service, of course).
It is every wanna-be storyteller's dream come true.
I. Had. Them.
My Translator stood up with her camera to get video of it. (She has since expressed sadness that she didn't start from the beginning.) They laughed at the funny bits. They followed the suspenseful bits. They wanted more (and I don't think it had anything to do with the girls).
I skipped the two stanzas in the middle that I usually get all mixed up anyway (in the interest of time and as a nod to my Translator's wishes — but I really didn't need to. They would have followed me to Alaska itself. And I did miss one rhyme (maybe two) towards the end. ("I was I was sick with dread, but I bravely said...") I didn't try to fish for it (I was a few whiskys and beers in by this point of the evening, remember), but gave them a "something something that rhymes" and kept going with "I guess he's cooked and it's time I looked".
When I reached the end, when Sam exclaims that Cap needs to "close the door" because "he'll let in the cold and storm" and "since he left Plum Tree down in Tennessee, it's the first time [he's] been warm", they didn't jump all over ending praying for it to be finally over. They didn't want it to end. They waited with bated breath. And I finished the way it should, with a quiet repetition of the opening stanza.
And then. Yes, Gentle Reader. Oh yes. They applauded. Not just applauded. They cheered. They STOOD! I got a standing ovation!!!
I have delivered this poem before. It is my "party piece". And a long one indeed, usually leading to a fair amount of consternation from my listeners (hence my Translator's injunction against recitation — she had witnessed a previous, even more drunken, version while camping with my A Level compadres). They are always impressed with my ability to memorize, but they can't quite wait for it to end. They really aren't listening to the story.
But what I realized was that those tellings were just the necessary steps to be prepared for this night. I needed that, so that when I did find myself in a room with 40 slightly pished Brits gathered together to appreciate poetry, I would be ready.
It was grand. Ace, really. Just ace.
Afterwards, I got more than a few compliments, and the same question: How is it that you know the poem?
And I know I usually give long-winded responses to most questions. Typically, I have complicated reasons for the things I do. But not this time. There is a very simple reason why I have this poem memorized, and no, it has nothing to do with being crazy, a language arts teacher, or even a crazy language arts teacher.
Nope.
It's my Dad's favorite poem. So knowing it isn't strange at all.
*Once the Internet decides to work enough to email said video file, I will upload it for you to enjoy. You really can hear the silence, the appropriate laughter, and, of course, the cheering at the end.
