Excuse me.
I enclose my name - asking you, if you please - sir.
To tell me what is true?
Excuse me, Colonel Higginson. I'm here for the job interview.
Of course.
Come in, my brother. Come in.
Apologies for the delay. I've just returned from Hilton Head.
I did some strategizing there with the brigadier general.
Still find all this military stuff a bit bewildering, but…
if it helps advance the cause of abolition, then I'm in.
And I understand that you have also done some work for this great cause.
I ran a small abolitionist paper out of New England.
Of course. The Constellation. I know it well.
-You do? -Brilliant writing in that paper.
And you lent a substantial amount of help to our mutual friend, John Brown.
May he rest in peace.
May he rest in power.
Can I get an amen, my brother?
Amen.
It was your connection to Mr. Brown and your work in The Constellation that
made me want to hire you for this job.
What-- Really?
You see, Henry, I firmly believe
that the first man who organizes and commands a successful Black regiment
will perform the most important service in the history of this war.
You know, Lincoln is not convinced yet. But I truly believe that
these men have the capacity to fight, and we're gonna prove it.
Eventually, Lincoln will sign the Emancipation Proclamation,
and this is gonna become a federally authorized regiment.
But to get there,
I must prove to all the…
let's call them skeptics,
that these men are as brave, as disciplined,
and as learned as any white soldiers.
-I see. -Damn it.
-There I go, centering whiteness again. -Excuse me?
It's always a challenge, how to have this conversation,
because, you know, the standards that are being applied,
well, obviously those are the standards of white supremacy,
the very system we're trying to dismantle.
But at the same time,
if my soldiers don't learn to read and write--
Shoot, there I go again.
Not "my soldiers," that's paternalistic.
I'm really trying to police my language. Not "police," patrol--
No, that's problematic as well.
Damn!
I'll do better.
Sorry. What's the job?
I want you to teach the formerly-enslaved men
of the First South Carolina Volunteers to read and write, while at the same time
acknowledging the painful histories and racist power dynamics
embedded in the very language of English itself.
What do you think? Do you have the bandwidth for that?
I want to assure you that,
although this was until very recently a functioning slave plantation,
we are now operating in a safe space.
I would be honored to work as a teacher with your regiment.
Hell yes!
Look at us! We're shaking the table.
Indeed.
We are movement-building.
Solidarity is a verb, my brother.
This right here, us, these relationships,
these are the true front lines.
And we are gonna win this war.
Your new South Carolina Volunteer students await you.
You'll know them by their red pants.
Go. Start changing lives.
Okay.
Hey
Hail O the time draws nigh
All right, come on. Let's go.
Hey
Hail O the time draws nigh
Whoa, horse in the valley
-Hey! -Horse in the valley
Hail O the time draws nigh
-Who's gonna ride him? -Hey!
-Who's gonna ride him? -Hail O the time draws nigh
Whoa, look over yonder
Hey!
-I see the sun -Hey!
I see the sun!
Hail O the time draws nigh
Hey! It refuse to shine
-Hey! -It refuse to shine
Hail O the time draws nigh
Oh, it's Judgment Day!
-Hey! -It's Judgment Day
Hail O the time draws nigh
Hey.
-Hey! Ha, ha, ha! -Hey!
Ha, ha! Hey!
Hail O the time draws nigh
Hey!
Are you guys ready to get some education?
Who's this buckra with the chair?
Gentlemen, my name is Henry.
Your commander, Colonel Higginson,
has hired me to teach you to read and write.
What is he saying?
Why he talk like that?
My dude, what is that accent?
-You think I have an accent? -Yeah.
Interesting.
To my ear, you all are the ones with the unusual dialect.
You call it Gullah, if I'm not mistaken. Native of the Sea Islands.
Quite a melodious sound,
but a bit difficult to pick out certain words.
He talks like a fancy cat who drank too much milk.
Bro, stop that.
Well, as a matter of fact, I am from Massachusetts.
Oh, no!
Yeah. Yep.
That's pretty rich.
Buckra coming around here talking about he free,
when he live in a place with the word "massa" in it.
But no, it's mass-achoo-shits.
Master-two-shits?
It sound like he sneezing.
I definitely heard "massa."
Yeah, it's offensive.
You don't say massa round these parts, buckra.
Ain't no massas round here. We free.
Not free yet.
Freedom is a state of mind.
Yo, Erasmus, cut that shit, man.
Well, we're more free than we were.
We're nowhere near as free as we could be.
-Now you spittin'. Now you spittin'. -I like him.
Gentlemen, if I may, I am going to help you get free.
And just how you gonna do that?
I'm gonna teach you the crucial skills of literacy--
You gonna help us get some clean uniforms?
You fixin' to get us paid to fight this war?
You gonna get Erasmus a pair of pants?
I'm just trying not to be a stereotype.
More importantly, you gonna put some weapons in these hands?
We at war, buckra. Maybe you ain't heard.
-Guns and money. -And shoes.
-And better food, maybe. -In that order.
You mean, they're not paying you?
Man, they pay us dust.
Well, they do feed us, so dust and grits.
They say they'll pay us ten dollars a week.
Which is less than what the white men get paid.
They don't even pay us that.
Yeah. So how about you go tell Colonel Higgity-piggity
that we ready for our paychecks.
We want that shit in cash, man.
-That part. -So…
they're not paying you,
and they haven't been giving you the right clothes,
and you said you haven't been receiving proper training with weapons?
Proper training? They won't even let us touch a gun.
All we do is stupid endless drills and dig giant holes for no reason.
The army says we can't be trusted yet with weapons.
The army says we have to wait, that we have to prove ourselves.
We soldiers as much as any white man, fighting on their side,
and they afraid of us.
We're not fighting on their side.
You're not?
No.
We're fighting for ourselves.
This is our war.
It's not the same as theirs, and it never will be.
Well, whatever war I'm fighting,
I know I ain't gonna win it without a damn gun, buckra.
What is "buckra"?
It mean "white man."
It's a Gullah word.
It's a joke, man. Loosen your collar.
So, can you get us some guns, Mr. Master-two-shits?
I will talk with Higginson, and I'll see what I can do.
-In the meantime-- -Yeah, what?
In the meantime…
maybe we can learn the alphabet.
What's the matter, Edward? Bad news?
It's always bad news, this damn war.
It's turning the whole nation into barbarians.
Yes, it's a real hellscape out there. What's happened now?
My brother, Samuel, writes me that his neighbor's plantation was ransacked.
Union army came through like Viking invaders, tore the place apart.
Carved their names into the mantelpiece when they were finished.
Well, I've always said he never should have moved to Georgia.
It's a little late for that. He's lived down south for decades.
He's raising a family down there.
Where are you going?
-I have a date. -With whom?
Somebody you definitely wouldn't approve of.
"I celebrate myself,
I sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you."
Excuse me, I'm looking for--
Pardon me, have you--
Coming through. Coming through. Let's keep it moving, people.
Gosh! Sorry! Hi, I'm looking for Walt Whitman.
Well, then it's your lucky day because I am Walt Whitman.
Oh, my God-- Incredible, I can't believe I found you.
Why? It's not hard to find me.
After all, I am everywhere. I am everything.
I am the paving man, the canal boy,
the deckhands, the clean-haired Yankee girl,
the conductor, the squaw.
I am the rattlesnake, the alligator, the panther, the black bear.
I am Walt Whitman, cosmos, democracy, Manhattan.
I am New York.
Okay. I'm Emily Dickinson of Amherst.
New England. Massachusetts. Boston town.
Yes, well, near-- near Boston.
O, my soldier.
The bugles and drums give you music, and my heart--
O, my soldier, my heart gives you love.
This is-- This is why I'm here. This is why I came to see you,
Mr. Whitman, I am a poet.
A poet.
So then you must know the urge.
The urge and urge and urge.
Always the procreant urge of the world.
To sing the song. To chant the chant. To join in the great and infinite chorus!
I'm moving on.
Yes! Yes. So I am a poet just like you,
and someone told me that if I want to write great poetry--
-Yes? -Then I need to be like you,
and I need to go out into the world and confront its pain.
So you're into pain, huh?
Yeah?
Well, then you've come to the right place! This is New York City, baby.
The Bronx is up, the Battery's down, and pain is everywhere.
Follow me, Emily Dickinson. Let's go hurt ourselves.
-Good morning! -Nice to see you.
I'm sorry.
My God, it's such terrible news from Savannah.
I wish there was a way that I could help my brother,
but I'm not even sure that they're delivering
the letters that I write him anymore.
This damn war.
You know it's dangerous for us to be corresponding with Confederates.
-It makes people talk. -What the hell am I supposed to do?
Cut off my own flesh and blood because of geography?
You know that's not the way I operate, Mrs. Dickinson. Family is what matters.
Why on earth are you scratching yourself like that?
Me, scratching? You're the one that's scratching.
I am?
Yes, I am.
I am itching. Why does my clothing itch?
Yes, mine do too.
What in God's name?
Did you forget to do the laundry this week?
How dare you suggest that I would ever forget that, Edward?
You know I live for laundry day.
-Then what the hell is making me so itchy? -I have no idea.
I can only assume this must be Maggie's fault.
Maggie!
Do I contradict myself? Very well then, I contradict myself.
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.
Whitman, keep it down.
I will keep it down, and I will keep it up.
And I will keep it going on and on until the break of dawn.
You see, I'm a poet of the body, and a poet of the soul.
So, what is pain to me but just another side of pleasure?
What is a poet but just one facet of the all-powerful universe itself?
You are not just Emily Dickinson, you are everyone.
You are every man here.
So you must not just ask the wounded person how he feels.
You yourself must become the wounded person.
My brother, when that bullet hit you,
did you feel all that this country has been?
And did all that it ever might be run through you?
-Yeah. Yeah, for sure. -Are you America?
Yeah. I think so.
Yes! Yes, you are. And so am I.
And so is she, and so is he, and so is every man here.
And so America is the greatest poem.
Let's move on.
I'm not sure I'm catching all of this.
What? No, don't try to catch it.
Instead just let it go.
Drop out of your brain down into your body and feel.
The pleasure, the pain, the sunlight, the shade.
Just exist as you are. That is enough.
-I'm dying. -Yes! You are dying.
And you are lucky. Do you think it is lucky to be born?
Well, I hasten to inform you it is just as lucky to die.
And every man here is dying.
Every man here is dying of multiple causes:
gangrene, syphilis, dysentery, gunshot,
bayonet, dysentery, dysentery, dysentery.
-Louisa? -Emily.
-You know her? -This is Louisa May Alcott.
It's so good to see you here on the front lines.
-What are you doing here? -I'm also a Civil War nurse.
Yet another surprising, but legitimate actual fact about me.
You know, I get so much great material from doing this.
I'm learning a lot, but great fiction is always based in fact,
and this place is chock-full of specificity and detail,
you know what I mean?
Right, you mean, like,
the inextricable nature of death and life, of pain and ecstasy?
Yeah. No, like how wounds actually smell bad.
Honestly, when some of these guys show up here,
it is the vilest odor that has ever assaulted the human nose.
It's kinda gross, but, you know, facts are facts.
He's gone!
He died in your arms! Oh, life! Identity!
-This is really, really great material. -The powerful play…
I'm gonna take some notes. Death sells.
Poor boy.
Daddy. Daddy, is that you?
Yes. I am your daddy.
Sometimes we pretend to be their family,
so they feel they get the chance to say goodbye.
I am your father.
And I am your son,
and your mother, and your neighbor.
Yeah, he just takes it a little bit too far.
-Sure. -My son, how is your bloody stump today?
Daddy, 'tis fearsome indeed.
Well, it ought to raise your spirits to know
I've brought your dear sister here to see you.
Sister? My sister Annabelle, is that you?
Yes. Yes, I am your sister.
Sister! I cannot enter into the kingdom of heaven
until you wish me farewell.
Won't you grant your poor brother one last kiss?
Come on. He gave his life for the Union.
Give him a smooch.
For Christ's sake.
Come here, boy.
Walt, come on, too far.
Like you never saw two men embrace on your dad's commune.
Who needs a drink?
'Twas a Friday morn when we set sail
And we were not far from the land
Our captain, he spied a lovely mermaid
With a comb and a glass in her hand
Oh, the ocean waves will roll…
What is this place?
Pfaff's Beer Cellar, the greatest bar in New York City.
It's amazing. You can smoke inside.
Shall we?
And the landlubbers lie Down below, below, below
The landlubbers lie down below
-Austin, keep it down, please. -Okay.
You'll wake him up.
Okay.
He is pretty cute, isn't he?
Can tell just by looking at him he's a Dickinson.
You doubted that?
Don't rock the bassinet. You'll wake him up.
I'm not rocking it, okay?
You need to trust my instincts more.
I can be a good father, you know.
In my experience, good fathers just stay out of the way.
Austin, you'll wake him up. Please.
I had a little nut tree
Nothing would it bear
But a silver nutmeg
Austin, please stop singing. You will wake him up.
Please, he's sleeping.
-King of Spain's daughter -Austin, he is sleeping.
Came to visit--
-Austin. -I know how to take care of him, Sue.
He's my son.
Have you been drinking again? You always sing when you're drunk.
I hope our child doesn't inherit all your traits.
You're far too cerebral.
You need to get out of your mind and into your body.
To be a great poet, you have to feel everything.
All this I swallow, it tastes good, I like it well, it becomes mine.
I am the man. I suffered. I was there!
Yes!
Bartender, another round!
-The agony. -It burns.
Scratch me harder, Maggie.
What the hell is causing this infernal itching?
-Is it poisonous ants? -That don't seem likely, sir.
I'm thinking there's a much more reasonable explanation.
Yes? Like what?
My common sense tells me that it's probably elves.
-I'm sorry, did you say-- -Elves. Tiny men.
Always full of mischief, they are. Spreading their powders around.
Their powders?
Normally, it's a good sign to have elves in the house.
Somebody must have done something to upset them.
The elves are upset.
Looks that way.
-And now they've become disruptive. -Edward, what are we gonna do?
We do not have magical creatures living in this house, Mrs. Dickinson.
Monster!
Lavinia, what the hell happened to you?
Why are you covered in dirt?
I buried myself alive.
May I ask why?
To honor the fallen soldiers.
I wanna experience everything they experienced.
I wanna feel all their pain. Brings me closer to them.
That's why I dismantled my canopy bed and started sleeping in the barn.
You've been sleeping in the barn with the horses?
That would explain the smell.
Yeah, I slept in the barn last night.
But, unfortunately, the cot was infested with fleas.
-Fleas? -Fleas?
Aye, fleas. Not elves, fleas. 'Twas my next guess.
-You brought fleas into this house. -And that's why we're itching so badly!
Yeah. Absolutely.
Damn it! They're everywhere!
Edward, how do we get rid of them?
We need to fumigate. Fill the house with sulfur. Everybody out.
Has anyone seen Emily?
Wow. I feel crazy.
Yes. Good. Poets should feel crazy.
Crazy and wild and free.
But I can't stop thinking about the dying soldiers.
-They were all in so much pain. I-- -Pain is good for a poet.
All feelings are. Yeah, the more intense, the better.
We must feel maximum pain and maximum pleasure.
So, tell me, Emily Dickinson,
what turns you on?
I don't know.
Of course you know.
Come on! What turns you on? What riles you up? What gets you hot?
-I'm thinking-- -No! Stop thinking. Stop thinking.
-Just say it. Say it right now! -Okay! It's Sue.
Now we're talking.
Okay. So, who's Sue?
Right. Well, Sue is my--
-She's my-- -Your?
Okay, she's sort of my friend.
Right, she's sort of my sister.
And she's also my sort of my…
-Lover? -Yeah.
Fabulous! Yes.
And is it with Sue that you drain all the pent-up rivers of yourself?
Excuse me?
Is it with Sue that you wrap a thousand onward years?
Is it with Sue that you envelop? Sue that you draw close?
Sue that you cannot let go?
Is it with Sue that you interpenetrate?
What?
Well, yeah.
Say it then! Shout it out loud! Free love! Free expression!
Sex, sex, sex.
Let me tell you, whether you sing a song, or make a machine,
or go to the North Pole, or love your mother,
or build a house, or black shoes,
anything, anything at all, is sex, sex, sex.
-I love Sue. -I can't hear you. I can't hear you.
-Scream it. -I love Sue!
Okay?
I love Sue! And I want her! And I can't get enough of her!
And if I was on my deathbed right now, all I would want is Sue!
Hell yes!
Now that's a poem.
Wanna dance?
Hang on. Hang on, I'm still trying to understand if my poetry--
No, my dear, stop trying to understand and just feel.
When you give, give yourself.
Drink with the drinkers. Dance with the dancers.
Come on!
New York is back!
This is my letter to the World
That never wrote to Me -
The simple news that nature told -
With tender majesty
Her message is committed
To Hands I cannot see -
For love of Her - sweet - countrymen -
Judge tenderly - of me