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. 

The books that ate my weekend

First, I read Prognosis: A Memoir of My Brain by  Sarah Vallance. This is in the Amazon First Reads series, pre-publication books that are available early to Kindle Unlimited readers. 

It's incredibly well written and fascinating. Sarah is a difficult person with a tremendously troubled family life, which surely contributes to her attitudes and actions. Her triumph over traumatic brain injury is amazing and fascinating.

What, then, to read next? 

I had picked up Tomb of the Unknown Racist by Blanche McCrary Boyd from the local library's New Acquisitions shelf. The jacket flap indicated that this was the third book in a trilogy, but each could stand on their own.

I checked it out and then, listening to an inner voice, read the other two on Kindle first. It was the right choice. 

None of this is light or easy reading, but it is fascinating and compelling. Violence, sexual politics, Southern heritage and that form of racism learned at the breast, all resounded for me. 

The Revolution of Little Girls

sets up the story and characters.  Time turns and curves in this novel, and I found myself moving around and back. Ellen Burns, the protagonist, has much in common with author Boyd. 

Terminal Velocity

shows Ellen in the next phase of her life, a passionate and dangerous series of events including a radical feminist commune. 

 

Finally, Tomb of the Unknown Racist explodes into exploration of white supremacist action in America today. It's a finalist for the Pen/Faulkner award and a great candidate. 

This book will horrify you, scare you, and amaze you. Through binge-reading these books, I've come to care about Ellen and this story. Racism has many sides and I think that we who are called white can profitably examine our own complicity through fiction, as well as in other ways. 

In addition, Sarah Vallance and Blanche Boyd are openly lesbian authors, as is Ellen is as a character. Lesbian fiction doesn't always come across my path, and as a cis-het woman I'm not usually looking for it. Reading these four books in sequence gave me a bit of an extended experience, also valuable in terms of cognitive dissonance. 

 

 

My community is praying

My community is praying. 

A two year old is missing from his apartment. He was taking a nap, his mama went to check on him, he was gone. Foul play has not been suspected so far. 

 

It's in my neighborhood; I live on Oak Street. 

Yesterday hundreds of volunteers, police from all over the area, search and rescue canines, and helicopters searched; and all night long, planes equipped with infrared sensors looked for him. 

Local social media is buzzing. Some of the comments are nasty. 

But this morning I walked those blocks, looking in places that have already been combed many times, and here is what I saw:

People praying. 

They were not kneeling or clasping their hands. It's a very diverse neighborhood with lots of faiths and no faiths represented. But every person was praying in some way. They were walking, looking, standing, talking, watching the helicopter circle. Every single one of them was thinking of Sarbesh, hoping that he will be found soon; thinking of his parents; thinking of the first responders and volunteers. 

People are praying in Denton, Texas. Please pray with us. 

TGIF

Brene Brown asks: this week, what are you trusting, grateful for, inspired by, and doing for fun?

Trusting: My own body. My own instincts. I keep saying that, week to week, because it's a huge shift. I'm not sure I've ever approached this level of peace with myself. 

Grateful for: the two sides of my family, which grew me and informed who I became. I spent the afternoon with cousins on my Mom's side who I don't know well but grew up hearing stories about.

I'm especially grateful for Graham, who is just younger than me and who is deeply interested in family history and stories. The gathering today at Grace's house was due to his questions. I also learned that he lives in Fort Worth, not far from me. He is clearly one of my people, and I didn't know that until today. 

1st row: Donia, Grace, Ann, Susan; 2nd row: Dallas, Graham, Frank, Bryant

 

Grace and Bryant: the oldest and the youngest of their generation. 

Me and cousin Frank (he introduced my parents!!)

Cousin Grace and me

Grace and Mom as babies. Cousins, 18 months apart. 

 

Inspired by: the groundswell of outrage for the imprisoned and abused children from the borders. We may actually be able to turn this ship. I have hope. 

 

Doing for Fun: Being at the beach. Being at the beach. Being at the beach. 

Zion Cemetery, Frisco

Frisco, Texas used to be one of those little wide spots in the road in North Texas. In the years since I've lived here, it's exploded, especially in this past year. Population is now 177,286, while in 1990 it was 6517. 

I had an errand to run there today and passed by the Zion Cemetery, so I stopped in on my way home. 

It's on a fairly steep hill for this area. The marker gives the history: 

Though it was very muddy from recent storms, I wandered a bit. 

 

My grandfather's gravestone says, "A loving and honest man is the noblest work of God." So I loved this one. And the lichen!

 

This one breaks my heart. Did Mr. Hawkins never marry? Did his wife end up somewhere else? Surely she's not still alive...! I can't make out the smaller inscriptions. 

 

"Just in the morning of his day, in youth and love he died." 28 years old.

 

And here's some proof that it's still very much an active cemetery. I know this name; Noles Equipment was their business. Cemeteries tell me parts of stories, and obituaries, which I adore, tell more. Here's Mrs. Noles' obit. 

 

There's also a "ghost story" associated with this cemetery, but it's so stupid and disrespectful that I'm not going to link to it. 

 

I stood on that hill and wondered what the folks who started being buried there in 1859 would think of the view now. Take a look and a listen. There's wind noise, but there's also road noise from 423, and construction just to the south, and houses as far as the eyes can see. The sleeping acre is at peace, but with a little more competition than there used to be. 

 

 

 

Pick Three?

A few weeks ago I attended a Chamber of Commerce event for Women in Commerce. One of the speakers reviewed a book by Randi Zuckerberg called Pick Three: You Can Have It All (Just Not Every Day). Zuckerberg is the sister of Mark (Facebook) and developed Facebook Live. 

via marybethbutler.typepad.com

Unoffendable

Okay, here's what I'm thinking about in my spiritual life.

Amy reminded me recently that our Enneagram teacher, Suzanne, says that "the healthier we are in our numbers, the more unoffendable we are." 

Surely I've heard Suzanne say it a lot of times, but when I heard it a few weeks ago, I heard it in a new way. 

I am a VERY defensive person. I can get offended very easily if I think I'm being blamed or attacked. Now, sometimes I'm right to be offended, and that's perfectly fine, and it's fine to respond appropriately.

But I'm also finding that it's a very simple way of refusing to even consider the thing I'm offended by. I don't like conflict, and to avoid conflict within myself, I point the finger right back at the other party. (My mother in law used to say that if you point a finger at someone, you usually have three fingers pointing back at yourself. This is never not true, at least not so far.)

Another way this shows up is by getting snarky, or righteously indignant. Oh, my, I can get way down into the weeds when I'm thinking about how bad someone else is! It's a great way to feel better about myself and I can spend a lot of time on this. 

I realize that this is a little bit backwards way to do it. When I am healthy in my number, I will be unoffendable...and/but working toward health in my number, I am thinking hard about why and how I get offended, and trying not to go there. 

I didn't get a "star word" this year, so my self-identified one is "Unoffendable.) 

 

 

 

I can cook!

That is, I can arouse myself from the torpor of daily living to chop things and make a meal. 

It started with egg salad from our Easter Egg hunt finds. I chopped celery, onion, eggs, added mayo. Pretty simple. When I finished, there was a real, created product for Ken to eat. 

I was astonished at how good that felt to do, and how long it seems to have been since I've done that. We've been eating frozen food, take out food. 

This past week: 

I made an apple dump cake in the crock pot. I bought and chopped toppings for tacos, and I remembered cilantro (which I never do). I made a pot of pinto beans. I have ingredients for soup and for quiche.

This is not cordon bleu stuff. But it is creative act. It is nourishment. It is nurturance. 

Grief is not forever. 

I arise a little more every day. 

The next part

Yesterday I saw my counselor. She asked how I was, and I said, "I'm good." "I can tell, she said," your energy is totally different today."

I've been dragging in there. I've been dragging everywhere. I've been getting out of bed, no problem, but having a real problem STAYING out of it. Daily naps, some of which lasted all day and none of which interfered with a full night's sleep. It's been like that. 

This past weekend I had a "first" - went to visit Mom for the first time since Dad died and we had his funeral. It was "the new normal." Instead of being with both of them, it was about her. Instead of staying at his apartment, I stayed at my sister's home (she is out of town right now). (I missed seeing my sister but her lovely home was beautifully peaceful.)

On the way there I had a little pity party when I considered that, not only would Daddy not be there, but his home would not, either; and in a way, I no longer have a home -  the home that my parents have always made for me for my whole life. No matter where they lived, their house was home in a way. I could walk in there and kick off my shoes, and be listened to with an attention that I will find no where else in life. 

(Of course, I have a beautiful and historic house as my home for 18 years now, and a husband I adore. It's not the same thing.) 

(Of course, I have my Mom and her room in the nursing home. My heart is there. But it's also not the same thing.)

How lucky am I to get to be 54 years old before this particular grief comes my way? 

I still feel in some ways that I'm swimming through quicksand. As a 9 on the Enneagram, I get stuck easily and stasis is a very easy spot for me to rest in. So I'm working on some decluttering in a purposeful way, and the more productive doing I accomplish, the better it gets. 

More news at 9. 

 

Pick Three?

A few weeks ago I attended a Chamber of Commerce event for Women in Commerce. One of the speakers reviewed a book by Randi Zuckerberg called Pick Three: You Can Have It All (Just Not Every Day). Zuckerberg is the sister of Mark (Facebook) and developed Facebook Live. 

Zuckerberg suggests that there are five major areas in life, and you can't do all of them every day, but you can pick three per day and over time, you cover everything. 

Here are the five areas: 

• Sleep
• Work
• Friends
• Family
• Fitness

Because I am constantly searching for the magic solution to the chaos of my life (so piquantly sauced by my Enneagram Nine-ness, which allows me to forget half of what's going on) I ran out and got the book from the library. I will admit that I scanned the book; I did not READ it.

I was just astonished at what this system leaves out.

• READING
• Spirituality, prayer
• Time alone
• Time to think inside your own head 
• Etc.

I can see how "playing with grandchildren" counts in Family. I suppose "Spirituality" might be wedged into Fitness. But not really. I'm a pretty solitary person, so the Friends category is smaller for me. 

I suppose the moral of this story is, not everyone's system will work for everyone else. And a super-successful someone from Silicon Valley may indeed have different needs than I do. But I'm curious as to whether I am missing something, and maybe there's a way to make my life fit this rubric? What do you think?