ENFORCEMENT

PREAMBLE
A Reflection on Creativity and the American Spirit
When Walt Whitman wrote, “The United States
themselves are essentially the greatest poem,” he
was not discussing literature. What Whitman praised
so prophetically was the vast and transformative
creative energy that characterized his young nation
and, indeed, democracy itself. The Greek root of poet
means one who makes, creates, fashions, composes.
The United States created itself—politically, socially,
and culturally—from the pieces of a colonial empire,
and that early appetite for growth and experimentation
has never been sated. American history is a tapestry of
human achievement woven from innumerable threads of
individual acts of imagination and innovation.
To be creative and productive, a society must respect
the dignity of labor. Whether people work with their
hands or their minds, they deserve to benefit from the
fruits of their own labor. A product is not less useful
because it is intellectual, intangible, sometimes even
invisible. It is easier to steal a song than a cow, but a
musician needs to earn a living no less than a dairy
farmer. The world craves new songs as much as it does
fresh butter. The chest a cabinetmaker sells exists
in three dimensions as a physical object, and every
passerby recognizes its value. A photographic image or
pharmaceutical formula can be expressed in only two
dimensions on paper or a screen. In such insubstantial
form, they may seem negligible until the photograph
changes public opinion or the formula saves a patient’s
life. Intangible products generate tangible value, and
their creators should share in those benefits. Value is not
expressed in tonnage.
“I hear America singing,” Whitman wrote. The song he
heard was the melody of workers rapt in the act of creation
enlivened by the expectation of enjoying the fruits of their
labor. He knew it was a song as diverse as humanity:
The carpenter singing his as he measures
his plank or beam,
The mason singing his as he makes ready for work,
or leaves off work,
The boatman singing what belongs to him in his
boat, the deckhand singing on the steamboat deck,
The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the
hatter singing as he stands,
The wood-cutter’s song, the ploughboy’s on his way
in the morning, or at noon intermission or
at sundown,
The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young
wife at work, or of the girl sewing or washing,
Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none
else,
In this famous hymn to labor, Whitman forgot to mention
himself and his own enduring song. His words have
outlasted the works of the carpenter and mason and still
move millions across the world—he sang what belonged
to him and no one else.
Dana Gioia
Poet Laureate of California
PREAMBLE