A year and six months ago, I told a woman that I couldn’t promise justice for her fallen friend, but I would do my best. She cried because she didn’t know what I meant but knew I was speaking for someone she loved. I couldn’t promise it, but it did happen. Sometimes, that’s how the story ends.
Cyrano begins in a theater and ends in a cloister. That makes perfect sense if you’ve read the play. Cyrano has neither life nor love when the curtain falls, but he has his white plume. Understanding that can be quite different, depending on who you are.
There is no honor in defending the strong. I don’t like discussing what I’ve done defending the weak and won’t often do it. That sounds like an exaggeration, but it’s a deflection. Defending the defenseless means that you absorb the wounds meant for them, but you have the capacity to fight back while they might not. That’s why it’s honorable.
Cyrano’s sword, my pen. My sword, Cyrano’s pen. I get them confused. There have been times when I hid from the world because my sword craved blood and my pen craved ink. Blood, ink, swords, pens, white plumes—becoming a man is a complicated matter.
God made me strong when I didn’t deserve it. He made me keenly aware of the weakest and most defenseless among us. I suspect this is some vestige of an ancient talent for predation. Men like me identified the weakest in the herd so we could fill our bellies without risking our necks. Somehow, it evolved from “This is what you shall eat” to “This is what you must defend.”
I know men who only want to be around the strong. Being among the well-defended makes them feel safer. Feeling safe, and feeling honorable are very different things. You become honorable by making those who weren’t defended feel safe. There is almost no other way.
I don’t know how I’ll die. I hope it’s with a sword or a pen in my hands. I hope it’s in the execution of something honorable. I have no desire to die among the well-protected.
