Terrapin Station

Looking for fiction suggestions to make me think!

So what I do is, I read. 

That's one of my most basic identities. I'm a reader. Coincidentally, I have 2 degrees in literature. 

When I was in high school I used to set myself "summer reading projects" with the idea to read all of a particular author. So I'd go to my Houston Public Library (Kendall Branch) and check out all of Roald Dahl (a rude shock to read his adult work after James & the Giant Peach), Kurt Vonnegut, Herman Wouk, Wallace Stegner, etc. I have no idea where I got this idea, or how I picked the writers I included, beyond seeing they had a lot of books on the shelf. I also didn't really understand that my library might not, probably didn't, have all of the works of any author. I liked doing this because it was a challenge. 

After it took me 7 years to finish my Master's degree, I wasn't able to read for pleasure for several years. Finally, I got it back. Now I find myself reading a lot, some nonfiction and a ton of fiction, but not very much fiction that's challenging. I'm not apologizing for that...I've done my time. I'm not going to apologize for anything I read or don't read.

I have read a lot of nonfiction in the last few years about racism, cultural and social issues. This includes a good bit that's been challenging, stretching. 

BUT. 

I just realized something. In fiction, which is my escape, I tend to choose locations and people that are familiar...that look like me. And I didn't get that until I started a book recently (which I cannot find the name of) and about 10 pages in a character described herself as having "brown skin." I thought, "brown skin? huh, is she Hispanic?" and then I realized she is Black. The entire family was Black. I didn't get that until it was TOLD to me. I assumed they were "white like me." 

Yep. Not so woke, am I? 

So. I have a new summer reading project, which, now that I am out of school and retired, can last forever: reading fiction by people who don't look like me. Not all the time. But I need to stretch my imagination. I have a list. But any suggestions are welcomed. 

Free Inhabitants in 1860

 

Sarah Elizabeth Brown Swarthout, enumerated in line 11, was my second great-grandmother; that is, my grandmother's grandmother. My great-grandfather, her son Richard Brown Swarthout, was not born until 1862, so he is not included in this census. 

She is physically real to me because I actually own a few beautiful coin silver spoons engraved with her maiden name. They were wedding gifts. And I have some of her wedding silver flatware, with her monogram on it. 

All this to say:

The census form is titled "Free Inhabitants" and I am not being able to get over that today. It covers me like a mantle of bricks. 

About time, I guess. 

This good reflection by my friend Rosa about the National Memorial for Peace and Justice is on my heart today too. 

 

 

 

 

Book Review & Giveaway: Raising White Kids

Say something. Don't say nothing! 

Jennifer Harvey's Raising White Kids is an excellent introduction to the issue facing parents and grandparents of how to talk about racial issues that I was taught "it's not nice" to talk about. 

The fact that I phrase it that way tells you that I'm white. I should also say that I grew up in the South with tremendous privilege, many advantages, and virtually no Black peers at school. In the  1930's, my mother had to parade to the graves of Our Beloved Confederate Dead to lay a wreath (this was in Tallahassee.)  We had black maids when I was little and that was IT. I rarely saw and never met people who weren't Caucasian. 

My parents never, ever talked about race with us that I recall, beyond one time when I came in from watching TV and announced, "Black people are so lucky!" My parents looked startled and asked me what I meant. "Because their white teeth look so nice against their dark skin!" Mom and Dad sort of rolled their eyes and said, "well, maybe." I was aware that I had said something silly but they didn't go any farther with it. I slunk away, ashamed. 

Say something. Don't say nothing! 

Now, as I care for my almost four-year-old granddaughter, I want to do better, but I do not know how. This book gave me an introduction to ways I can improve on what I was (not) taught. 

Harvey gives examples of her own and other children saying things and asking questions that would have been quashed the way mine was back in the 70's, and discusses her responses and the conversations that followed. In that vein, my parents could have asked me more questions and explained a little bit about why black people actually have quite a bad time in America, and why. It would not have been too early to tell a 7-year-old those things. 

Recently I was playing a CD of children's songs for my granddaughter (we love to sing together and I sing her all sorts of things: hymns, folk songs, playground doggerel.) "Jimmy Crack Corn" came on and I fast-forwarded! Nash said, "why did you do that?" I said, quickly, "Gramma doesn't like that song." I missed the opportunity to explain to her WHY. Because it's a song about a slave caring for a master. Because it has a history in blackface minstrelsy. I just shut it down. I was embarrassed and scared. 

Say something. Don't say nothing! 

I read Nash a book about the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King on his holiday last month, and we talked about how sometimes people are not nice to others because of the color of their skin. I had planned that. I was ready for her questions. But it's the questions that she asks when I am NOT ready that I need to find the courage to face head-on. To wonder with her about them. Jennifer Harvey's book has begun to prepare me for the task. I expect to be uncomfortable and probably to stumble. But I am determined to try. 

 

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I received two hardcover copies of this book from Abingdon Press with the understanding that I would write an unbiased review and give away one of the copies. If you are interested in reading it, please comment here or on the Facebook post and I'll draw a name at random on March 15.  

Cognitive dissonance and Terence Crutcher and the police

Once, in a long ago church group, we were asked our passion. One of the group members said, "cognitive dissonance." She was a teacher of Rhetorical Analysis who worked in a local community college, and she relished working with young people and challenging their life-long assumptions. 

In psychology, cognitive dissonance is the mental stress or discomfort experienced by an individual who holds two or more contradictory beliefs, ideas, or values at the same time; performs an action that is contradictory to one or more beliefs, ideas, or values; or is confronted by new information that conflicts with existing beliefs, ideas, or values.^[1][2]

Leon Festinger's theory of cognitive dissonance focuses on how humans strive for internal consistency. An individual who experiences inconsistency (dissonance) tends to become psychologically uncomfortable, and is motivated to try to reduce this dissonance—as well as actively avoid situations and information likely to increase it.^[1]

As an Ennegram 9, I tend to be especially uncomfortable with dissonance, and try to resolve it. But, because the worst thing about my Enneagram number is also the best thing, I am absolutely always able to see both sides of an argument. (this just happened in my workplace BTW, and can be very frustrating to my colleagues who want me to join them on the Black and White Train to Absoluteville.)

So here's the thing that's making my mind explode:

I just completed my second week (of 13) of the Denton Citizens Police Academy. I've met quite a few of the members of the police force and staff so far. To a person, they are an exceptionally professional and well-trained group, with a reputation in the region for their excellent training (the Academy serves numerous cities and counties in the area). Their Community Oriented Policing program does a great job, in conjunction with CPA graduates who serve in the Police Auxiliary as volunteers. 

One Thing: I need, I want, to support the police and to help them be better. The Denton group admit that they are not perfect, but they work awfully hard.

Another Thing: Terence Crutcher was unarmed, and was murdered by Tulsa police officers. I've seen the video. How those officers were not wrong, I cannot see it.

How do I hold these things in tension? I'm sure I have friends who will say that by befriending and supporting my local police, I'm working against the interests of my sisters and brothers of color. 

I am a fervent supporter of the Movement for Black Lives. I'm committed to working to better understand my own learned racism and to try to make a difference in my community and the country. 

The only action I can think of to take is to continue to listen to all the different voices as much as I can. To talk with people of every viewpoint. To refuse to end up mired in fear, exhaustion, and unwillingness to address the issues. 

And to pray.

 

Step Over the Wall

Anxiety. I haz it. I'z had it for a long time. Forever, maybe.

It's well controlled now. I have had it much worse in the past. I remember telling my doc (this was 25 years ago) that I was terrified of being Vestryperson of the Day at a former church, because it meant I had to help usher and greet people.

He laughed at me (yes, he did) and said, "Well, people walking into church for worship on a Sunday morning are not particularly likely to attack you!"

Right. "Fear" is not the right word. It was anxiety about knowing what to say. About being able to make other people feel comfortable and welcome, when I felt miserable and uncomfortable in my own skin.

(This is background.)

Last week, there was a notice going around Facebook inviting people to wear black on Sunday the 14th in solidarity with #BlackLivesMatter. Then, that grew to encourage a visit to a Black church on Sunday the 14th.

So, I went to Saturday evening service at my own church, to meet our new rector who will start in the Spring. I acolyted there on Sunday at the early service. And then I drove to Dallas, to the Friendship-West Baptist church. I knew about that church because my friend Wil Gafney has preached there in the past, and I intended to go to that, but did not make it. I knew they were having a march and "pray-in" after the service.

First, I wondered if other options might be closer to me, so I Googled for churches nearer my own Episcopal church in Keller/Southlake. (If you do not know this area, and church culture, you are not laughing the way the local folks are. The closest AME or other black-identified churches are in Fort Worth.) So, I decided to make the trip to Dallas.

I arrived at the church in good time and sat in the parking lot for a few minutes. I was very, very nervous. Visiting a church of my own denomination is really hard for me! with people who have the same skin color as me! Would the people of Friendship-West think I was using them for my racial sensitivity project? Should I even go in?

Fortunately, I did.

I spoke to a nice lady at a welcome desk who told me how to get to the sanctuary. It's a HUGE facility and that wasn't immediately obvious.

I found a place to sit and felt very self-conscious. I didn't know the songs, there were no hymnals! Ack! But it didn't take too long before we were invited to hold hands with someone nearby and pray for them. And later to greet the folks around us. We sang some great songs and I realized that I was moving to the beat the way I do in my own church...usually I am the only one doing that :)

At some point I realized: This Is Not About You. I had a little laugh at myself. I calmed down some. I grew up being carted along to services at Assembly of God and charismatic churches, so really, it wasn't all that different from that. Except that was a long time ago, and there was not a racial difference then.

When I went up to put my offering in the basket, I saw my friend Wil! She gave the prayer at the end of the service.

People were so welcoming and gracious. It made me want to go back there again, and sing and really dance.

What did I learn, stepping across the barrier in the most segregated hour of the week? That I have nothing to be afraid of (which, really, I already knew that logically, but anxiety is not very logical). And yep, there is a lot to be angry about, ashamed of. There is a lot of work to do. There are a lot of people to sit beside.