Book Reports

Strange how different aspects of everyday life can converge just so, causing you to feel there might be some particularly significant meaning, if only you can divine what that could be.  That’s exactly what has happened recently.  Books read, some personally chosen, others almost at the insistence of friends, and some for book group, have seemed to address similar social issues.  Snippets of television programs caught while changing channels have underscored the topics. (Remember “All Of The Above”?  Didn’t I say I have that annoying knack regarding television?) Add my enjoyment of American history and the personal experiences of friends.  I tried to make sense of it all by writing most of it out.  As a rule I find that helpful.  Not the case this time.  

The occurrences, the timing of those occurrences, the mixture of my own preferences, decisions, and selections and those resulting from external influences, as well as my attempt to see from another’s perspective reminded me of eighth grade Algebra; lengthy word problems I was supposed to be able to organize in such a way as to come up with a solution.  (Just as an aside, who EVER thought it was a good idea to attempt to teach eighth grade girls Algebra?)    All I can say is that I feel as if  I’ve been following a curriculum of study.  And not just any curriculum; a very well developed one; designed to include various means and vehicles for learning.  I know; I know!  Sounds weird.  It does to me too, believe me!  But, that’s where I find myself. 

A number of the books I just spoke about caused me to go back and review in some detail the Declaration of Independence and our Constitution.  I want to share parts of some of those books.  They eloquently present actual truth with clarity and impact.  So much so that a sincere, even minimal, effort to compare and contrast the various situations described, with the assertions of the Declaration of Independence, not to mention the Constitution, will be revelatory, I expect. 

An Hour Before Daylight by Jimmy Carter has practically nothing to do with politics.  (I made sure before deciding to read it.)  Rather, it tells the story of President Carter’s boyhood on a Georgia farm.  He describes every aspect of his early life:  learning to fish, hunt, and run a farm; his friendship with the Blacks who worked on his father’s farm; his father and mother; his relationship and interaction with each, etc.  Along with all that I, the reader, was exposed to some of the science and complexities of farming.  It was American history and I totally enjoyed it.

Remember the Articles of Confederation?  You know, our first Constitution, replaced by our existing Constitution by delegates to the Constitutional Convention, held in Philadelphia in 1787?  At this convention there was a good deal of debate about how best to determine taxation and representation to the House of Representatives for each state.  It was eventually agreed that the number of representatives would be calculated by “adding to the whole Number of free Persons….three-fifths of all other Persons…”.   This “three-fifths compromise” allowed slaves to be counted as three-fifths of a person in order to increase the representation apportionment for sates in which said slave owners lived.  Slave owners received one more thing from their slaves; a valuable political tool to be used to promote their agenda.  But, the fourteenth amendment to our Constitution repealed that compromise.  That was in 1868.

However, that three-fifths continued to be a basis for purposes of calculation.  Give me a minute and I’ll tell you why I say that.  Miss Lillian, Jimmy Carter’s mother, was a nurse who cared for many in and around the small community in which they lived during his childhood.  She tried to keep up with any who were patients of hers;  she wanted to know about their care later on.  Some of the destitute patients had to be moved to what was called the “Poor Folks” home in Sumter County.  As a boy President Carter would, at times, go with her to these homes.  This is how he described one such place:  “a  large and somewhat run-down former plantation home with a broad front porch and a large vegetable garden on the side for white folks (emphasis mine), and two old houses nearby for blacks”.  Miss Lillian felt strongly that more should be done to care for them all.  She was pleased when finally the government increased the monthly stipend.  (State and/or federal government, I do not know as yet.)  The increased amounts?  $10 for white people and $6 for blacks.  And how many years had passed since repeal of the “three-fifths compromise”?  Remember, Jimmy Carter was not born until 1924! 

Another right was granted by the fifteenth amendment to the Constitution in February of 1870.    That amendment gave equal voting rights to various races, people of various colors, and former slaves.  Jimmy Carter himself saw from a personal experience the denial, or attempted denial, and abuses designed to disallow those equal voting rights.  He asserts that those with whom he felt the strongest bond as a boy were the black adults in his life.  He spent many hours in their homes and learned from them to fish and hunt with a dog.  Black boys were among his close friends.  Consequently he embraced the equality of rights.  But he stood alone.  And paid the price at times.  Racist groups of Sumter County boycotted his business, Carter’s Warehouse, on at least two occasions because of his “liberal” views on race.

Here’s an example of the extent of hate-inspired abuses in the early years of the civil rights movement.  Representatives from the Justice Department apparently visited black communities to inform them that the law guaranteed their right to vote.  Such a representative visited the church of Jimmy Carter’s older black friend, Willis Wright.  He was seen as a leader among his black neighbors.  He therefore was to be the first to try to register to vote in Webster County.  Upon arriving at the courthouse early in the morning he found the office closed.  It was “dinner time” before the registrar showed up to open the office.  Willis explained why he was there.  After being asked to wait a few minutes, the registrar presented him with written questions about citizenship.  Willis informed the registrar that the gentleman from the Justice Department had made it clear that blacks did NOT have to answer such questions in order to be able to vote.  At this point the registrar opened a drawer from which he withdrew a pistol and promptly placed it on the counter.  Referring to Willis with a vile epithet, he suggested Willis think it over for a few days before deciding what her really wanted to do. 

Willis went to Jimmy Carter for advice.  Although President Carter offered to go with Willis to the registrar’s office, Willis declined the offer, saying it would mean nothing if Willis did not show up alone.  He only wanted verification of his understanding and advice.  Jimmy Carter not only confirmed that the questions were not a requirement for voter registration, but that he, himself, could not answer all of the 30 questions.  Some of the questions?  Name ALL of the Supreme Court justices.  Give the legal definition of a felony.  Quote portions of the U.S. Constitution.  Explain when appropriate to depend on habeas corpus.  Willis Wright returned to the registrar’s office, making it known that he had consulted with Jimmy Carter, who had corroborated the fact that no citizenship test was required before registering to vote; and that, yes, he did want to register to vote.  He was then allowed to register. 

Cane River by Lalita Tademy, is, according to the author herself, a “work of fiction deeply rooted in years of research, historical fact, and family lore”.  She writes the story of four generations of her female ancestors, from those born in slavery to those who lived through the Civil War, and on into the early 20^th century.  Some truths I learned, either in summary form, or directly from the author’s wisdom expressed in dialogue:

A plantation owner had passed away and his property was to be auctioned off.  With respect to the plantation slaves:

“A dollar figure was suggested and declared among the assessors.  When they came to agreement they marked it down in the book.  A special notation was made for any defect, physical or mental.  On auction day it was honorable (my emphasis) to provide full disclosure among gentlemen, seller to buyer, of any damaged merchandise (again, emphasis mine).” 

A young slave, Clement, was allowed to marry (emphasis mine) Philomene, a young slave from a neighboring plantation.  The wedding ceremony went as follows:

“ ‘You, Philomene, do now, in the presence of God and these witnesses, take Clement to be your husband; Promising that so far as your present relation as a servant shall admit, you will perform your part of a wife toward him:  and in particular, You will promise that you will love him; and that as you shall have the opportunity and ability, you will take proper care of him in sickness and in health, in prosperity (Just have to ask, what prosperity??!) and adversity; and will cleave to him only, so long as God shall continue his and your abode in such places as you can conveniently come together…Do you thus Promise?’”

“’Oui…’”  (“Yes”.  French was their language.)

“’ I then, with the consent of your masters and mistresses, do declare that you have license given you to be familiar together as husband and wife, so long as God shall continue your places of abode as aforesaid; and so long as you shall behave yourselves as it becomes servants to do; For you must both of you bear in mind that you remain still, as really and truly as ever, your master’s property, and therefore it will be justly expected, both by God and man, that you behave yourselves as obedient and faithful servants toward your respective masters and mistresses for the time being.’”

(Note:  I read about a similar wedding ceremony in The Bondwoman’s Narrative, mentioned below.)

Clement, once married, asked permission of his master to work on a rocking chair for Philomene after his duties were done.  Permission was granted.  Clement was allowed to use oak wood from newly felled branches.  The chair came to be called “the moonlight chair”; it was at night that Clement could work on it.  He also had to ask Philomene’s master if she could be allowed to keep the chair. 

“He and Philomene…were allowed to own nothing (emphasis mine) by law.”

During the second year of the Civil War, plantation owners were gathered at the home of one for an afternoon “coming-together”.  Of course, conversation included the war and its effects, both economically and socially. 

‘”Just last week I had to turn two of my hands over to a Confederate impressment agent, to work on the defenses of the Red River.  There was no refusing.  I can only hope that when I get them back, they don’t have Yankee fever, spreading foolish ideas and dangerous habits they’ve picked up to the others.’”

“’Monsieur Greneaux reported two runaways last week…’”.

‘”We keep ours close to home.  No more passes…’”.

“’The longer the war goes on, the slower mine work…’”.

“’I see it on my own farms…The Negroes in the field and the house are skating along the ragged edge of disobedience.’”

One of the women at the table, someone new to the group says:

“’This is going to be a long war…Too many lives will be lost to defend the right of a few to own slaves.’”

Within days the gentleman who hosted the afternoon get together received an anonymous package of tattered petticoats and an attached note:

“’Rich Man’s War, Poor Man’s Fight’”.

That same gentleman, being under the age of 45, was to serve in the Confederacy.  For a “fee”, not payable in Confederate money, he could, because he had twenty slaves, be exempted.  He was told about the “twenty-Negro law”:

“’The Confederate Congress says one man can be exempted for every twenty Negroes on a plantation.”

And this same man’s view regarding education after the war’s end:

“(he)didn’t hold to the notion the carpetbagger government pushed, that all children should attend a public school set up in the parish, regardless of their color, race, or previous condition of servitude, mixing indiscriminately.  No good could come from that.  It was wrongheaded to expect his taxes to pay for children he didn’t know and had no responsibility for, whose own parent couldn’t pay for their education.  Everyone should take are of their own.  He had engaged tutors for all of his children, white or colored”.  (emphasis mine)

For the 1880 census, the oldest black female family member was home alone when the man came to gather information.  Her assessment shows how she had to respond to such situations in the past:

“He seemed a pleasant enough white man, unlikely to do immediate harm…”

In answering his questions about who lived in the house:

“She told him she couldn’t help him out on the spelling of the names, he had to puzzle that out for himself.  They didn’t get to reading, writing, and spelling until Emily.” (emphasis mine)

She wondered:

“Could he even understand the pride in being able to say that Emily could read and write?”

One of the younger generation lived with a white man, the father of her children.  He was eventually forced to stop living with them because of threats to their safety.  He wanted, however, to leave his children his property and money upon his death.  He explains to the mother of his children:

“’I went to the lawyer again, today.  He said I don’t have much of a chance, that I have to give it up…Trying to pass my land to the children.  He says it can’t be done inside the law.  That even if it was legal, the town wouldn’t stand for it.  He says only so much can be given because they’re illegitimate, but it’s really because of color.  He won’t help.’”

“’I should be able to do as I please with my own money.’”

Her response:

“’That’s not the world we live in.’”

Years later, when elderly, this same black woman goes to “town” to purchase a few items.  She walks 3 miles through Louisiana woods to the road to catch a bus.  It had been 5 years since she had been on the bus, but whites were, of course, in front, and blacks in back.  Seeing no one who would recognize her, and confident of her lighter coloring, she takes a seat in front.  At the store there is a young man who does not know her.  He politely asks if can help her and tells her he is glad to see her in the store.  While waiting on her, another woman enters and tells the young man what she requires.  He explains he will help her once he is done with Mrs. Fredieu.

“’Excuse me?  You’ll help me now.  Miss Emily will be glad to wait.’”

The young clerk understands what he did not previously, switches to Emily’s first name rather than last, and tells her to step aside.  As he finished completing that white woman’s order, another enters.  He asks how he may help her.  She reminds him that Emily was there first. 

“’She knows her place.  I can help you next.’”

The woman does not object, immediately grasping the situation.

Emily leaves the store without waiting for her “turn”.  While waiting for the bus she is hungry and thirsty.  A black man passes her and goes to the back door of a nearby café.  He reemerges with a brown bag.  Emily declares to herself:

“’I’ll never be hungry enough to go to anyone’s back door.’”

When the bus arrived and Emily got on, she was the only passenger at that point in time.  She lifts her chin, pays her fare, and walks “deliberately to the front seat”.  (I must say, for me, the book could not have concluded better.  I was mentally cheering Emily on, and I was proud of her.)

The Bondwoman’s Narrative by Hannah Crafts, and edited by Henry Louis Gates, Jr., is considered to be the first book written by a female slave, perhaps the first book written by any black woman.  It has been authenticated in various ways through the study of the paper, the ink, the vocabulary, etc.  When Hannah was still small enough to be allowed a little play time, she was instead secretly taught to read and write by some kind neighbors.  Since this was illegal, those neighbors were arrested.  Hannah kept teaching herself in any way she found possible, even if listening when others were being taught and she was there to serve.  She eventually was able to “pass” (escape) and become free.  Following are some passages I found particularly powerful.  (Note: The editor was adamant that any misspellings and/or grammatical errors should be printed just as written by Hannah.  I have done likewise.  So, for example,’ it’s’ as opposed to ‘its’ is what was in the original text.  Another example is the spelling of judgment.  You will notice an “e”.  I point this out to remind you that Hannah was, in good part, self- educated.)

Hannah and another woman, her (former) mistress were, for a time, incarcerated.  Hannah’s comment: 

“At finding ourselves, and without having committed any crime, thus introduced into one of the legal fortresses of a country celebrated throughout the world for the freedom, equality, magnanimity of its laws, I could not help reflecting on the strange ideas of right and justice that seemed to have usurped as place in public opinion, since the mere accident of birth, and what persons were the least capable of changing or modifying was made a reason for punishing and imprisoning them.”

In that prison they met a Mrs. Wright, who had attempted to smuggle a neighbor’s young slave, Ellen, out of the country.  Ellen’s master had sold her to a slave-trader to take to the New Orleans prostitution market.  Mrs. Wright’s thoughts:

“I used to hate slavery…born in a slave state, educated in a slave state, with slavery all the time before my eyes I could see no beauties in the system.  Yet they said it was beautiful, and many thought me a fool for not seeing it so, but somehow I couldn’t; no I couldn’t.

“…I have learned what all who live in a land of slavery must learn sooner or later; that is to profess approbation where you cannot feel it; to be hard when most inclined to melt; and to say that all is right, and good; and true when you know that nothing could be more wrong and unjust.”

Mr. Trappe, a slave trader, explained his point of view:

“My conscience never troubles me…The circumstances in which I find people are not of my making.  Neither are the laws that give me an advantage over them.  If a beautiful woman is to be sold it is rather the fault of the law that permits it than of me who profits by it.  If she sells cheap my right to purchase is clear; and if I choose to keep her awhile, give her advantages, or otherwise increase her attractions and then dispose of her again my right is equally unquestionable.  Whatever the law permits, and public opinion encourages, I do, when that says stop I go no further.”

He went on to offer advice to Hannah:

“I shall tell you…Good sense must long ago have taught you that obedience was the chief essential to one in your condition…that you must never dream of sitting up an independent will – must have no mind, no desire, no purpose of your own…but never for a moment forget that submission and obedience must be the Alpha and Omega of all your actions.”

On a night in Washington, DC, Hannah made this observation:

“Congress men jostling each other at street crossings, or perhaps losing their foothold, where a negro slave was seen slipping and sliding but a moment before.  Alas; that mud and wet weather should have so little respect for aristocracy.”

A young female slave, who had given birth to a child fathered by her master, killed both her baby and herself because she was being banished, sent away with nothing and no way to sustain herself.  About that situation Hannah wrote:

“Dead, your Excellency, the President of the Republic.  Dead, grave senators who grow eloquent over pensions and army wrongs.  Dead, ministers of religion, who prate because poor men without a moment’s leisure on other days presume to read the newspapers on Sunday, yet who wink at, or approve of laws that occasion such scenes as this.”

Other observations of Hannah:

“…those that view slavery only as it relates to physical sufferings or the wants of nature, can have no conception of its greatest evils”                                                                                                                                                               

“The greatest curse of slavery is it’s hereditary character.  The father leaves to his son an inheritance of toil and misery, and his place on the fetid straw in the miserable corner, with no hope of possibility of anything better.  And the son in his turn transmits the same to his offspring and thus forever.”

“What do you think of it Doctors of Divinity?  Isn’t it a strange state to be like them….It must  be a strange state to be prized just according to the firmness of your joints, the strength or your sinews, and your capability of endurance.  To be made to feel that you have no business here, there, or anywhere except just to work –work –And yet to know that you are here somehow, with once in a great while like a straggling ray in a dark place a faint aspiration for something better, with a glimpse, a mere glimpse of something beyond.  It must be a strange state to feel that in the judgement of those above you you are scarcely human, and to fear that their opinion is more than half right, that you really are assimilated to the brutes…that even your shape is questionable as belonging to that order of superior beings whose delicacy you offend.”

“It must be strange to live in a world of civilization and, elegance, and refinement, and yet know nothing about either, yet that is the way with multitudes and with none more than the slaves.  The Constitution that asserts the right of freedom and equality to all mankind is a sealed book to them, and so is the Bible, that tells how Christ died for all; the bond as well as the free.”

Personal Reality Show - The Prequel

I can’t get some of what I’ve read and learned recently out of my thinking.  I just can’t.  It seems that some initially unrelated things are meant to work together in some way as to give meaning.  If only I knew what that significance were and/or how to put the puzzle pieces together!  Since I don’t, I’m just going to take up where I left off last time.  I’m going to do a “prequel”, if you will, to Personal Reality Show. 

Saturday night we watched the end of the movie Deep Impact.  We had never seen the movie, but it wasn’t difficult to figure out the plot had to do with a meteorite hitting earth.  I can never make it all the way through a movie until 11:00 PM.  Never.  But, of course, I did last night.  Seeing some of earth destroyed by a tsunami of unheard size and strength was awful, truly!  It made me slightly sick on my stomach.  I felt like my breathing was too short and too fast.  I certainly felt anxious.  I had hated seeing the resulting scenes from Japan’s tsunami on television news.  But seeing it in movie form gave me the mental picture of what it had been like for the poor Japanese victims during the tsunami itself.  Yet, at the same time it gave me, what I consider, an apt description of what the knowledge I’ve gained in the last month or so has done to/for me.  It, just like that meteorite colliding with earth, has made a deep impact on my heart to the degree it has, I think and I hope, sharpened my capacity to envision the real-life story line of others. 

I’ll illustrate that, for purposes of this writing, once again in reference to our treatment of Native American Indians. So let me create another personal reality show.  I’ll be the “star” in this one.  And I will imagine it is a reality show from another time, but a reality show nonetheless. 

I am a young woman of Native American Indian descent.  (Did you really think I would say 62 year-old?)  Along with my mother and father, I have been moved to a totally different part of the country.  Our life here is very different from what we’ve known.  We didn’t want to leave.  My older brother is buried near where we made our home.  He was a brave warrior and at first tried to help our nation protect our land.  But there were too many of them.  

That’s not to say there aren’t some compassionate, sympathetic, and generous white people.  There are.  One woman, in particular, has shown concern and love for my family.  She has taught me to speak the English language and to read and write it as well.  Although I very much enjoy reading and writing, it has also been a source of deep sadness, confusion, and more disillusionment.  You ask why.  I’ll try and explain it.  Be patient with me if, in my struggling to do so, it takes a few minutes.  But I will start at the beginning and try. 

Once I had mastered reading, my friend wanted me to begin to read her religious book, the Bible.  She always took me to get-togethers at which she and others celebrate their God.  Now I am expected to faithfully read portions of this Bible and to know much of what it says.  I have learned that God has a son whose name is Jesus.  He is frequently mentioned and held up as the example for the white people to follow while here on earth.  I like this Jesus.  He eats with people who are not considered important.  In fact, He eats with people who are called sinners.  They don’t worship God or live right.  I like a God that would bother with me.  And it would take a special God, because my skin is much darker than any of the whites. And it has a slightly reddish cast.  And from what I understand my people are uncivilized; we are definitely not acceptable as we are, even to the white “friends” we have.  But it sounds like this Jesus is so special a God that He would consider us passable enough to come and share our evening meal with us.  

In addition to this Bible, I have been encouraged to read the documents written by white people when they founded their nation.  They are most proud of those documents.  They are exceedingly proud of what they call liberty.  But when I read their Declaration of Independence, it called our Indian nations savages!!  I learned that means lack of kind or compassionate treatment of an adversary or prisoner; abstaining from causing or allowing harm to another.  And if being called such a vile and unfair thing were not hurtful enough, we were described as “merciless”.  But when my mother pleaded to be able to stay close to where my brother’s spirit resides, they cared not.  Nor have they cared that the elderly of our tribe have found it difficult to adjust to a different climate; to different foods; to their entire lives being so different. They have not fared well.  It seems to me that the white leaders are not allowing harm; they are causing it. 

The first line of this same document declares that they believe ALL men to be created equal, and that they have rights called “unalienable”, meaning they can’t be surrendered or given away.  But my people did NOT surrender our rights.  They were taken away, as were our lands.  This Declaration of Independence really doesn’t say the rights can’t be taken away, I guess. 

I barely verbalize to myself yet another thing about this written avowal of their beliefs I find no way of explaining.  If we had to be called “merciless” and “savages”, would it not have at least been fair to say that these founding fathers, as they are called, while determining the sort of union/nation to form, were influenced by the Iroquois Indians and their system of government?

I must return to the religious book.  There is what they call a passage in this Bible where it speaks of looking intently (I but recently learned this word.  I feel sure its usage is correct here.) into a mirror to really see what we are like.  That passage warns against looking in the mirror, but afterwards walking away and allowing the reality of what was seen about ourselves to be forgotten.  So there is no change in life based on what was seen in the mirror.  That causes me to think of another question I dare not ask, except to myself.  If the white man really looked into that mirror and wanted to see himself, would he not have to conclude that he has acted as a savage to my people?

God’s Son, this Jesus, acts so differently from what I see among those who constantly speak to us about Him.  I have seen Him take nothing away from people.  He only gives.  He gives friendship and acceptance to those considered unworthy.  He gives them freedom to be who they are and enjoys them such as they are without citing a long list of things they must change about their physical way of life.   He gives sight to those with none.  He restores life to his friend.  He takes care of sick people, whether they are Jewish or not.  He even washes the feet of His disciples!  Yet these, His white followers, do not wash the feet of others.  In fact, some have slaves to wash theirs!!  And those that do not, are, for the most part, strangely silent.  Yet their Declaration of Independence says that when abuses and usurpations are prevalent, designed to reduce a people to absolute despotism, it is not only the right of those people, but their duty to throw off such a government.  The white man must not see that right and duty as belonging to anyone of color, neither my people nor the slaves?

This Jesus speaks plainly when telling His followers how to act towards other people.  He says not only to love God, His Father, but also to love your neighbor as you love yourself.  I wonder if any white woman would feel loved if she were made to leave her home, the home near where her dead son lies?  To leave the area in which she has lived since birth?  And I wonder if any elderly whites would feel loved if forced to leave their home where they are comfortable and which has special meaning to them?  I do not tell my friend, but in the lives of her white leaders I see no evidence of this loving others as you love yourself.

Personal Reality Show

Shortly before 5:00 AM and here I am.  But I awakened a few minutes after 4:00 with what I guess I’ll term a “personalized dramatization”.  You see, I recently read how at least some of the land wrestled away from Native American Indians was used.  In order to be allotted to our “citizens”, the lands had to be surveyed and divided up.  This took several years.  Maps of the divided lands were drawn on small cards.  At publicized events these cards, along with some blank ones, were put into a wire cage.  Then people were allowed to draw, in hopes of a card showing the property lines of land that would then be theirs.  One draw was granted to every white male.  Married men and widows with children received two free draws.  And extra chances were given to Revolutionary War veterans who had distinction of some kind.   Sound fair?  Someone comes, and in one way or another, you are moved from your land so it can be given to others?

Well, I must have had that on my mind.  On waking, I immediately began to think about what if that could happen to us, right now in 2011?  The sense of loss would vary from family to family, I think, depending on the family’s stage of life and what events of life have “taken place” in what they call home.  That home, of whatever type, and the property on which that home sits can have emotional attachments you need.  Maybe it will make sense if I share the “personalized dramatization”.

I like the location of our house a lot.  We’re on a cul-de-sac a good ways away from any main road. There are plenty of tall pines.  We have no streetlights, which is actually one of my favorite things.  The night sounds can be heard so easily.  Somehow I find them reassuring.  And there are no obstructions to the night sky.  The back offers relatively complete privacy.  There is a creek and plenty of vegetation that makes for a restful and peaceful spot.  At times a large heron visits and stands in the water’s middle.  We have seen a red fox across the creek taking on nap on a sunny Saturday morning.  Squirrels seem to have a lot of fun playing tag up and down the trees.  There are several different kinds of birds that visit.  And often enough there are butterflies.  When we first moved here a bird kept repeatedly hitting the kitchen window.  We didn’t know if this had been its nesting place before the house was built or exactly why that bird would spend hours trying to fly through the window.  We finally placed a little stuffed rabbit in the window trying to dissuade the bird so it wouldn’t hurt itself. 

Last July we completed a kitchen remodeling.  It was good therapy for the four of us.  I guess you could say it ended up being like Art Therapy.  We all had input in how to give me more preparation space and provide an area for guests to visit with me while I might be completing dinner preparations.  But I wanted to be able to see outside the kitchen window to the back.  I actually wanted to focus on that “picture”.  My husband and son-in-law did all the work.  Trista, my daughter, and I had final say on the design details, of course.  But it really ended up being a pretty equally shared project.  Not only is the kitchen great and I TOTALLY enjoy it, but it is attached to a family of four trying to handle the death of a child. 

Right now Allan and Ale are building a screened in back porch, which will be on the opposite side of the kitchen from where we now have a small deck.  Once we install a ceiling fan we will be able to spend time outside in the fresh air on days when the heat index is just too high to think about middle of-the-day physical activity.  I can sit outside on the deck and read for a few minutes in the afternoon most of the year.  So I’m looking forward to being able to sit outside and read in the summer months too. 

I like ground cover.  Years ago my Dad gave me what I call myrtle, but I don’t think that is quite accurate.  But, anyway, I have uprooted and moved that myrtle with me for the two moves since he gave it to me.  I explained immediately to the realtor each time that it needed to be clearly understood that the myrtle would be dug up and going with me. 

I tell you all of this to show what all a house can be.  It can represent effort to survive the tragedies life may send.  It can offer comfort and pleasant memories from the past or from a loved one now gone.  It can be a symbol for the family unit.  It can be a refuge. 

Before I leave off the groundwork that I hope gives meaning to my point, let me add an even more powerful illustration.  Let’s switch to Trista and Ale’s home.  First there is Natalia’s room, designed by her Mommy and remodeled by her Daddy.  But also there is “Natalia’s Garden”.  When Natalia died people were calling and asking what they could do.  No, “asking” is the wrong word.  I would say it was more like they were “pleading” with me to tell them what they could do.  The back yard was going to be used for her memorial service.  (Whenever it might be that Trista could get out of bed, focus to plan the memorial, and get to the point where she could be around people, as opposed to not leaving the house except when absolutely necessary, and with the shades pulled or curtains drawn so as to cocoon herself as a way to survive.)  Friends wanted to plant something for Natalia in the backyard.  They did so and it mushroomed from there.  Through these friends others sent monetary contributions specifically for what came to be called “Natalia’s Garden”.  So much was given that a new beautiful new wooden privacy fence was installed, numerous new plants were purchased, stones added to make a path to the gazebo, and to Natalia’s special flowers.  All the work was done by Allan, Ale, and friends who would show up and work all day.  My sister sent a garden stone beautifully engraved with Natalia’s name.  The backyard became the most wonderfully beautiful and peaceful haven.  Since Natalia was cremated, it became the place to which Trista and Ale could retreat and could feel like they were close to her.  And it became a visual representation of the concern and support lovingly offered by so many. 

Okay, now back to the “what if”.  Can you imagine, given what I’ve shared with you, what it would be like if right now a group of people forcibly took either our property and home away from us or Trista and Ale’s away from them?  And sent us somewhere not of our choice?  How could Natalia’s Garden be given to someone else by lottery?  Or to someone else because of their political position of power?  That’s exactly what happened to both our Native American Indians and to those of Jewish descent prior to World War II.

Actually feels different when put it in terms of ourselves and our families, doesn’t it?  Maybe when we fail to experience something from a “what if” or “let me put myself in that position” way, it is like watching TV on an old black and white television.  There’s far more static than picture.  We simply can’t get the rabbit ears adjusted so the picture comes in even partially clear.  It’s too much work and effort.  It’s not worth the time. We give up; go on to whatever attracts our attention.  BUT, when put in terms of a “personalized dramatization”, the static dissipates. 

Wait a minute!  A preferable term might be “Personal Reality Show”.  That might relate better.  And I do want the picture to be seen as if on a large, high-definition screen.  So, make yourself and your family the reality show “stars”.  Imagine that although you were hesitant to do the show, they made it worth your while, so you came to see it as a profitable way to spend some of your time. I think you’ll find it one reality show truly worth watching. 

All Of The Above

I have a knack for catching just a few minutes of something on TV that I find disturbing and which sends me off to investigate.  Darn!  I like the idea that ignorance is bliss.  I do.  I don’t really want to be distressed any more than I have to!

A few weeks ago I turned on the weather channel to see our “Local on the 8’s”.  But, of course, at that very moment a reporter for the channel was interviewing a woman, of at least middle age, whose Cordova, Alabama home had been knocked off its foundation in the tornado that had hit her town of 2,000 on April 27^th.   She had evidently applied and qualified for a single-wide mobile home provided by the Federal Emergency Management Agency.  However, within a short distance of where her very damaged house was located those delivering that FEMA home were stopped.  They were told to turn around; there would be no delivery because a city ordinance bans that type of mobile home in residential areas.  If I remember correctly, the woman said she had been living in a motel but financially could not continue to do so.  She did not know what she was going to do. 

Now, here’s the kicker.  Some of the city’s official buildings were temporarily housed in that same type of FEMA trailers!!  So the report also included a clip of the reporter asking a city official, as well as the mayor, about the obvious discrepancy.  The first official explained that the ban did not apply to businesses.  The mayor said the city ordinance would remain.  In other words, there would be no temporary waiver, as some other cities also destroyed by a tornado, were doing. 

I didn’t know what to feel.  I couldn’t decide which emotion was most prevalent at the moment.  I was totally conflicted.  Disbelief, disgust, distress, discouragement, and depression were all there.   Instantaneously.  All I know is that during the rest of the day I felt so sad for that woman.  On top of probable feelings of loss, confusion, fear, uncertainty about her future, and any other emotion you might think of, she got rejection.  She, in essence, was being told that her life was of no matter.  An ordinance was valued more than she.  That’s exactly how I see it.  And I’ve said it before.  I would very much like to think that everyone facing any of life’s disastrous events would receive the same kind of care and concern that we did.  And to the same degree.  No one can change the outcome of a tragedy.  But the response makes the outcome more bearable.  It helps to stabilize you at a time when you’re completely undone.  It offers some comfort. 

Several weeks later I had not heard any update about the matter, so I did a little research.  Now, in fairness, I have not checked since then.  So if things have changed that would be great.  But, even if the city council has since temporarily waived the ordinance, the damage is already done.  A waiver after the fact cannot take away the initial discouraging and hurtful response.   

Here’s what I found from my research:

• One man, also made homeless by the tornado, thought he was finally getting help when a truck came to his property with his FEMA mobile home.  He received a call that the home was illegal in the city.

• The mayor said that new single-wides aren’t allowed and a tornado isn’t any reason to change the law, even temporarily.

• One councilman with 30 years of service believes the ordinance should be rescinded for a period of 18 months.  That period of time would coincide with the time frame for which FEMA trailers are intended.

• He has reported that no one else supports this proposal.

• On Wednesday June 8^th there was a joint press conference with local, state and federal emergency management officials. 

• The lone councilman mentioned above said he was disturbed that more Cordova residents were not notified of the conference. 

At that press conference the mayor further clarified his position:

ü  He believes the solution for the Cordova residents made homeless by the tornado, among other things, is to rely on church organized programs that fix existing homes for rent or for purchase.  (Does that mean there were so many empty houses prior to the tornado that churches bought them as investments?  Or does that mean you would give your house to the church and you could either rent it or buy it back once it was repaired?  I hope someone asked for further explanation of that point.  Again, in fairness, I am writing what I found on several different sites.  It may be that the reporting is weak and that it was clear at the conference.)

ü  He said ONE home has already been dedicated for use by victims free of charge and 12 more are lined up for POSSIBLE use.  (Emphasis entirely mine.  But that emphasis seems fair and appropriate.  This was reported as being said at the press conference on June 8^th.  The tornado devastated the town on April 27^th.)

ü  Single-wide mobile homes would slow down the recovery process.  The alternative is permanent housing.  (I wonder if any reporter asked him why permanent housing of city buildings was not readily available.)

ü  The city is going to be better and stronger.

ü  They might be a little smaller, but they are going to be better.

ü  The city has to look at the long-range plan.

ü  Officials at the press conference could not say how many Cordova residents are still without adequate housing.   (Will this hurt re-election campaigns for any of those elected to their positions, I wonder?)

ü  “Cordova’s record stands for stubbornness.  We don’t mind a good fight and never back down from anything.”

Wow!  Where to start?  How about the church thing?  I assume the mayor’s contention that churches are the answer means he believes in them?  Maybe even attends one?  Doesn’t seem unreasonable, does it?  Let me start there, but I will also assume he does not attend and explore that possibility in just a minute.  Just to be fair. 

§    What kind of church does he personally attend?  If it is one of the Christian faith, I wonder what he does with the example of the Good Samaritan?  Or the example of the friends of the paraplegic wanting to help so badly that they lowered the man down through a roof? 

§    Do his Sunday beliefs not apply any other day of the week?  Do they not apply at his work place?  Do they not apply to his “neighbors” that Jesus spoke about?  Nor to “the least of these”?

§    Can he cite any example where Jesus thought law was more important than human needs and hurts?  I doubt it.  Jesus even disobeyed the law against healing on Sundays! 

And what about if this mayor does not personally attend church or have any personal religious beliefs?  He still obviously thinks churches have a place in society, does he not?  So, assuming this to be the case, I would ask:

§    Have the churches in his area organized themselves in such a way that they are ready at all times to provide major services in the event of a natural catastrophe? 

§    Do they, especially in this economy, have the resources to continue to provide such services, even if they are organized to do so?  Or, have they, like other charitable organizations been hurt financially?

I guess that’s enough about his church comment.  How about his ready knowledge of relevant numbers?  The terms “one” and “12 possible” don’t give me any confidence the churches are on top of the situation.  But Mr. Mayor seems impressed.  And what about the fact that not one local, state, or federal official could decisively say at the press conference just how many residents were still homeless?  I’m being too hard on them, I know.  There are, after all, a total of 2,000 residents.  And don’t forget they only had 42 days to figure that out since the tornado struck.  Maybe they should have asked for help from those church organizers. 

While I’m talking about emergency services being provided, I can’t help but ask.  How do you focus on  “long-range plans” in the first days after devastation?  Doesn’t the fact that you have emergency management agencies helping with city businesses indicate “immediate” and “urgent”?  How do you skip over the immediacy and urgency of need for residents?  Oh, sorry, I forgot.  The churches have that one house ready and 12 possible others.  That meets immediate and urgent need, I guess. 

And, what about the mayor’s words:  smaller, better, stubbornness, and never?  (As in “We might be a little bit smaller, but we’re gonna be better.”  And “Cordova’s record stands for stubbornness.  We don’t mind a good fight and never back down from anything.”)  I see them as flashing neon lights.  “Smaller” is kind of faded and the light blinks on and off behind the word.  So it could easily be missed.  But, “better” is part of the same sign, and its bulb is burning steadily.  So it makes the “smaller” easier to see too, as long as you read them together. 

The “stubbornness” sign is meant to be impressive.  But the lights around it are overly bright and right down gaudy.  Next to a sign advertising “compassion”, for example, it would look like the cheap sign it really is.  Along with its sister sign, “never”, the two remind me of a group of tacky lights on the strip of Las Vegas, flashy but promoting nothing of value or substance.  A lighted sign reading “compromise” put next to the “never” sign would look like the Eiffel Tower lighted at night next to the half lit and broken neon sign of a roadside dive; one a beautiful monument to human work and interaction, the other signifying an isolated, uglier side of humankind. 

I don’t know.  My brain can’t grasp this particular situation.  It just can’t.  But I have figured out which emotions from my list of choices that I feel now.  All of the above.

What It Means

I put our flag out a short time ago.  Over the weekend I gave thought to my own, private little ceremony.  I determined what the ceremony would signify and what it would most certainly NOT represent.  Part of it I can explain perhaps somewhat coherently.  Other parts, not so much.  These other parts are reflective of where I am in my journey of grief and reevaluating the world around me.  Those I might just have to do the best I can and tell somewhat in story form. 

Let me begin by clarifying in my own mind what putting our flag out does NOT mean to me.

• It, for sure, does NOT indicate a nationalistic point of view.  Although that stance seems to be growing in popularity, I actually abhor the idea that we would promote our own interests to the exclusion of others. 
• It does NOT mean that I think that our country and we Americans are the superlative form of all that is good.  Our history proves otherwise. 
• It does NOT mean I am American before I am anything else.  I am first a part of all people that, according to my belief, were made in the image of God Himself. 
• It does NOT mean I think I love my country any more than anyone who might disagree with me on issues, or who might not be displaying a flag.  As I’ve said before, I find that implication arrogant, judgmental, and offensive, to say the least.

Now let me attempt to verbalize what it does convey for me. 

• It indicates what part of the world I am from, just as simply and straightforwardly as it does during a parade of countries during an Olympic competition. 
• It does mean that I think the ideals symbolized by the flag are worthy.
• It definitely is a way to express my personal appreciation for living in a country where a kid like me, without resources, could get an education.
• It reminds me of what we can be.  We can be generous, unselfish people like my friends Donna and Jonathan, who are right now in Haiti, doing what they can. 
• But it also conveys the necessity for and appropriateness of national self-reflection.
• It does indicate grieving for any families, from any country, who have lost loved ones to war.  And the remembering of those who have died fighting in war.

Now, the hard part; sharing the thoughts I am unable to boil down to a few words.  I can only describe the mental journey and impressions that have come to mind.

Like all parents, I always, always, prayed that nothing would happen to my child.  I would remind God that I simply could not stand that.  Little did I know I would not only have to go through a child’s death and grieve her, but watch my child suffer the worst pain, all while being helpless to relieve any of that suffering.  I was thinking about that the last few days.  I went back to a question I had asked myself frequently once we went to war in Afghanistan in 2001 and especially once we invaded Iraq in 2003.  I would sometimes see a television interview of parents who had just lost a son or daughter in the war.  And I would wonder how they could say their child died for our freedom.  I didn’t feel like my freedom had anything to do with Iraq. 

And I would wonder why aren’t these parents angry, very, very angry?  Why don’t they hate politics and the politicians who sent their child into that war?   I didn’t like to think that I could hate someone, but I felt very sure I would. 

I was convinced that, in addition to hatred, I would be filled with frustration beyond what I could imagine.  I would think that I don’t even know why my child died.  I would want to know why my child was even there? 

Now that we have experienced the death of a child, I REALLY don’t understand.  What must it be like if you are a grandparent and lose a grandchild in these wars?  I, of course, know the grief that person would go through.  And I know the distress of watching your child suffer.  But, I haven’t had to deal with what I consider, for some, at least, would be overwhelming frustration that the person lost died based on “policy”.  Based on decisions made by men who did not even know that grandchild’s name.  How would you not resent that? 

I tried to look up the number of children deaths in both Afghanistan and Iraq this morning.  I didn’t really find an exact number for children alone.  I checked a number of websites.  The best that I could come up with is that in Iraq alone, well over 100,000 non-combatant civilians have been killed by military action.  (Evidently some think this estimate is smaller than the actual number.)  And it is estimated that over one-half of these have been women and children.  

I wanted to know the number but then again, I did not want to know.  So I was probably relieved I was unsuccessful with that research.  The number would be too much for me.  Because yesterday I kept picturing in my mind some little boy in Afghanistan kicking a rock down the road, having a pretty good time.  And a little Iraqi boy of the same age, drawing in the dirt with a stick he just found.  And a little girl who was watching out the window, checking on the world outside.  Her mother was keeping her safely inside; or so she thought.  I can only assume some innocent children have died doing just those kinds of things.  So I was thinking about them and the elderly, and all those so defenseless and utterly without power. 

When I put our flag out, I was remembering any who have died in our country, as well as those whose lives have been taken from them in other countries.  And I thought about all the families across the globe.  I thought about that grandparent whose child saw his/her own child die because of war and is now watching the resulting suffering.  Their nationality didn’t come to mind.  It was unimportant.  I had a bond with them, a bond international in breadth.  We could meet and each have his/her country’s flag.  But those flags would be completely irrelevant to us. Our shared human experience and condition would be what mattered.  Or it should be, unless some grieving parent and/or grandparent blamed my country for a child’s death.  And what could I possibly say in defense?