Slow Havamal: 49

[kylec]

In the 49th verse, Odin gives his clothes to a pair of scarecrows he encounters in a field. They think they’re human once clothed. Nakedness makes a man feel ashamed.

The Old Norse word translated as scarecrows actually means something like “tree men” or “wooden men,” which may be religious idols, Crawford notes, but a scarecrow is a convenient modern image: a man-like figure dressed up to appear human. The sense I get is that a traveler feels sorry for a couple of poor wretches and gives what he can barely spare to grant them a basic dignity.

Until they’re clothed, our scarecrows are less than human. It’s not enough to have the form of a man. There are certain behaviors, customs, and beliefs that make a man complete. Having some pants on is one of them. We can’t run around naked and expect to be treated well by our peers. While biologically human, there is more to feeling worthy and enjoying social participation. I’ve often seen homeless people around town in various states of undress, or clothed in filthy rags. They’re human beings just like me, but few people want to associate with them. I don’t. What they’re missing isn’t just a wardrobe. It’s a set of practices that establishes them as equal members of a community, and a way of thinking about themselves in relation to others. The wealthy in earlier times often spoke terribly of the poor, and though it’s no longer fashionable to express anything but pity and charity, actual attitudes have changed little. In practical terms, we all have standards that we hold others to, and those who fail to meet them can hope to be ignored and fear much worse.

Odin’s act is to grant two such beings a fundamental element of dignity. Though they may not qualify yet, he treats them as such, giving what he can probably ill-afford to spare. A common praise in the South is that someone would, “Give you the shirt off his back.” He’s so generous he would rather suffer himself than see another person cast beneath him. In The Dawn of Everything by Graeber and Wengrow, we meet the little-known historical figure of Kandiaronk, a Wendat tribal statesmen who debated with the French with great virtuosity about the superiority of the ways the Native Americans treated people. While the Europeans scraped together whatever wealth they could as an end to itself, Kandiaronk’s people would never let a member of their community go unclothed, unfed, unsheltered.

There are complex arguments for why that may not be so simple anymore as homeless populations take over the American urban landscape. But Havamal isn’t a poem of public policy. It concerns the standards and behaviors of individuals on the course of their journeys. Both Odin and Kandiaronk may think us inhuman for walking past someone in need with our shirt still on our back, or they may understand, and hope that we would apply the lesson non-literally where we can.

I think that lesson is that all of us need much more than bare subsistence to feel a part of this thing we call humanity. Sometimes those in need of something vital are well-dressed and hard to spot. Sometimes, on certain days, it may be ourselves. Those things may be material—it’s hard to worry about other things when you’re naked and starving—but they may be subtle, as well. Verse 49 bids us to be aware of what it is we need in our own lives to feel whole; what others might need in theirs that differs from our own needs; and to give what we can to a scarecrow whenever possible, because we all take our turns standing watch naked in the field.