TIM SYCK

To the Writers of Yesteryear

A response to Walt Whitman's “Poets To Come”

To the writers of yesteryear, let it be known,
That your work was not in vain.

Every poem, every story, and every song,
That I have happened across had meaning,
For your work meant something to me.

No matter how anonymous your jotted thoughts may have been,
No matter how well your works are known by scholars,
No matter how ancient your words may be,
In that moment, I could see through to the true you.

Let these words justify you! For your existence impacted mine!

May this cycle never end,
Like a living, breathing creature of emotion and knowledge,
May my words one day impact another,
So the cycle can continue again.

Uncultured

What is culture?

That is the question my professor gave us
It was a question that perplexed me
e
What is culture?

It is something I never really thought about
Something I’m not sure I really understood

Merriam-Webster defines culture as the beliefs and customs of a group of people
An answer as sterile as it is unsatisfying
What counts as a belief?
What do you mean by customs?
Where does the group begin and end?

My search continued

So I asked my coworker

What is culture?

My coworker shrugged
Unsure of how to answer
He supposed it’s what you do that makes you part of a group
Having a job makes you part of the company culture

Another unsatisfying answer
Surely there is more to culture than being a cog in a machine
Or is culture like a machine of humans working together?
If that is the case, then how does one find a machine to fit in?

I continued to ponder

I decided to ask one of my classmates

What is culture?

She thought for a second
And then spoke with confidence
Culture is the people you belong to
She was black so she was part of black culture
I was white and part of white culture

I smiled but secretly thought that was a silly conclusion
How could one’s skin determine one’s culture?
Having blue eyes or big feet doesn’t make me part of a group
It is simply how I turned out for whatever reason

There had to be someone who could help

I was on the phone with my mother when I asked

What is culture?

She gave a “welp”
Then paused to think
She assumed that where you came from determined culture
We were part of a family
And part of a nation

I didn’t have the heart to tell her the holes in her theory
I don’t even like most of my family
Let alone share beliefs with them
And a person’s geography can change whenever they like
So am I really a countryman when I can get up and leave?

The question became an itch I couldn’t quite scratch
I thought and thunk and kept on thinking
The question was driving me insane

I was standing in line at the grocery store
When in a moment of desperation
I turned to the man behind me and asked

What is culture?

The look he gave me was all the answer I got
And everything clicked into place

He looked at me like I was a freak
Like I was barbaric
An outsider

Uncultured

My question was doomed to be unanswered
I could memorize every definition
I could ask every human alive
I could look at it from every possible angle

But how does a man explain that
Which he has no experience of?
The crux of the issue
Was that I never belonged
I was an outsider, a freak
Forever doomed
Or perhaps blessed to be

Uncultured

An excerpt from my story Night City Aliens, Chapter 11: No More Pretending

“That’s…” Wander couldn’t put his thoughts into words. He had seen many weird and ‘messed-up’ things as Sylvia would put it. He had traveled to several galaxies in his long, long life. There was always some cultural wrong that needed to be unlearned. But this one was new for him. This odd lack of privacy was uncomfortable.

“Sylvia is wrong,” V murmured, just loud enough for Wander to hear. “Night City was fun at first, but it’s turning into my hell.” She held up her empty glass, watching the ice spin and slowly melt. “And the worse part? I can’t escape. No matter where on Earth I go, corpos will be there watching. And if I leave Earth, I’ll be hunted down by everyone I’ve hurt.” V paused before letting out a sad chuckle. “I just realized I’m on borrowed time. I give it a couple months at best before word gets out that I’m alive. Then all the other aliens will come to Night City to put my head on a pike.”