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The Epic of Gilgamesh: What it means to be Remembered

This morning, my coworker told me that Saturn is returning, signifying a threshold life change for people around the age of 27 (I’m 26, with plans of being 27 one day). I’m holding faith in this- since I graduated college, I’ve existed in a liminal space, floating between different ideas of what my life can become. I’ve traveled, experienced, survived, and found a tenuously teetering form of stability, but I don’t know what to do next. I was supposed to be in Australia in 2020, New York in 2021, and home to Portland in 2023 with my name being read as the newly elected mayor. For a variety of reasons, mainly related to the pandemic, this future didn’t come true. Here I am. 

Many of my peers have expressed roughly the same feelings to me- whatever level of success we find ourselves at this moment, there seems to be a general lack of something, whether something else or something more. While it’s not supposed to be any way, it wasn’t supposed to feel this rudderless. Last night, I was looking through my books and came across The Epic of Gilgamesh, which I threw on my shelf to prove to anyone visiting my room that I read old stories with ancient lessons. I actually haven’t read Gilgamesh since ninth grade, when I began my four years at a new high school, knowing nobody. I remember the fear I felt then- being the new kid, not understanding what it meant to be a biracial man in America, not knowing what was coming next for Nathan, recently post-braces. 

For those of you who haven’t heard of the Babylonian poem, Gilgamesh is the titular king of Uruk, an ancient Mesopotamian city on the banks of the Euphrates River in modern-day Iraq. Gilgamesh, a demi-god, is the strongest person in the world and lives a life without care or consideration of others until he meets Enkidu, a man from the wilderness who is almost as mighty as him. They become fast friends and the king is tamed by companionship- even the Babylonians knew that true godliness is the friends we make along the way. However, after Enkidu’s death through Gilgamesh’s thoughtlessness, the king goes on a quest in search of immortality (I won’t give away the rest of the story in case this description piques your interest). 

I may end up writing two essays (I’ll reread the second half of the epic and decide after that) but, in reading the opening half, I see the anxieties I have about growing older reflected in the king’s words. I was fortunate enough to grow up with parents and family who supported me fully- I never felt like I couldn’t have anything I didn’t put my mind to. I was in the “Talented and Gifted” program in elementary and middle school, went to high school, graduated college, and am currently working a stable job while studying graduate-level English. Through all of this, I’ve never felt like I’ve had any direction. I’ve always been envious of my friends who knew what they wanted: write music, study engineering, become a lawyer, sell art on the beach. I’ve wanted so many things with half my heart, too afraid to focus my interests into one space. Maybe this comes from adoption- I’ve had an incredible life filled with love and support from all four of my parents- I’ve wondered if I never started anything with all my focus because I would let down everyone who sacrificed so much for me if I fail. 

There’s a monster in the forest outside Uruk, Humbaba, who everyone in the city fears. Gilgamesh, hero of heroes, is intent on killing the demon. When his counselors beg him to reconsider, king looks at Enkidu and laughs, asking “‘How shall I answer them; shall I say I am afraid of Humbaba, that I will sit at home all the rest of my days?’” (Sandars, 74). I like studying English because it comforts me to know that, 4,000 years ago, people were also wrestling with a fundamental question: are we meant to exist or are we meant to live? To live in fear is to live a limited life- if he does not meet the monster, Gilgamesh will not be able to walk in that forest, to live free in the world. The challenge is in front of him, one which he does not have to face, but he will not be satisfied if he does not approach it with all his might. We’re tied through history within our humanity, our fears, and how we face them. 

My computer is full of first halves of first drafts. Part of me isn’t satisfied with anything that may need editing (we’ll see how I feel about this piece), part of me is afraid of bringing something to this world that won’t be what I imagine it to be, and part of me is afraid of committing to something and then learning that it wasn’t the best use of my life. I’ve never known how people can dive into dreams, swimming through the risks, trusting themselves to find success based on who they are, especially those who don’t have a solid base of friendship and love beneath them. With all his pride and confidence, I’ve wondered if Gilgamesh thought he was going to die- he must have known that was a possibility. 

But I love the question that Gilgamesh asks Enkidu: shall I say I’m afraid, that I’ll live in fear? The world is too big and bright and full of life to close myself off from it. Gilgamesh presses forward because the answer to “Am I meant to live forever?” is an overwhelming “no.” 

Yet, the same motivating force behind Gilgamesh’s spirit doubles as the force which plagues the king, that he will die one day. Gilgamesh, speaking to the god Shamash, recognizes that “...man perishes with despair in his heart.” He sees that his lot in life will be a body floating in the river, for “whoever is tallest among men cannot reach the heavens, and the greatest cannot encompass the earth” (72). Gilgamesh wants his name “...where the names of famous men are written; and where no man’s name is written [he] will raise a monument to the gods,” putting him higher than the names that he remembers from his own histories. 

The king wants to be remembered, as we all do. While we may recognize and accept the inevitable passage of time, there’s a reason we try to control our cars when they hit a patch of ice. There may be something even greater than this after this life but it’s not promised- what we are guaranteed are the breaths we take now. The desire to be remembered is something uniquely human, folded within the idea of validating oneself within the shared experience- it can be as high-society as Shelley’s “Ozymandias” to when a middle schooler writes “I was here” on the door of a bathroom stall.  

This essay isn’t going to come to a conclusion with an answer that hasn’t been heard many times before: you can’t control how you’ll be remembered so you might as well do what you want. You’ll be judged either way, that’s okay. But I think it matters that we care how we’re seen, how we’re remembered, when we have the time to do these things (I’m sure Napoleon’s biographers have some of the details wrong). Taking the moment to be kind, reflecting and growing, understanding. You’ll be remembered as so many things by so many people and all we can fully control is what we do in these moments, here on the living ground. My mantra recently has been “today-” I don’t know about the future, but I can do anything today. It may all change tomorrow, but it’s in my control today. The forgiveness I give myself in it all is what will be remembered when it’s all said and done. 

My coworkers and I were shooting the shit this morning when I internally shrugged and brought up these thoughts with them. Thankfully, they had been in the place I was and offered great pieces of advice, namely to just do the damn thing because “when you’re old and gray, you’re going to look back and be so proud of yourself for doing it.” Sometimes, that’s what it’s all about. It’s not for anyone but yourself in the future because the world was lacking something and you were the only one who did something about it. 

Thank you.

I don’t want to commit to one thing because it seems as if I would need to give up everything else. I couldn’t write a poetry book, my movie about a girl and an elder god, my nine-novel story that takes place over a thousand years, a podcast based on puns of my name (Imaginathan), a memoir about my young life as an adoptee, or anything else. That “or” is what’s stopped me for so long- the idea of sacrifice, all good things need sacrifice. I don’t know all you want in the world but, maybe, we can have it all today. 

Peace and be wild,

Nathan

Works Cited

The Epic of Gilgamesh. Translated by N. K. Sandars, Penguin, 2006.