We are in the middle of primary season here. In our state, there are four Republicans vying to run against an incumbent Democratic governor and four Democrats running against a Republican member of the US Senate. As is often the case, I have imaginary conversations with canvassers while I have my hands deep in sudsy water, doing the dishes. I am not sure if it’s the soapy water or the simple act of mindless chores that gets my head going. Whatever, a few brief thoughts kept circling my consciousness.

In the governor’s race, we have one “I’m not an insider, I’m a businessman,” one “I stood against the Liberal mob ,” suspected former mean girl in middle school, one “I’m a Conservative Warrior,” and one 2020 election denier, currently a second year member of the state assembly who wants to decertify the 2020 election results. This is quite an assortment of backgrounds. Frankly, the “I stood against the Liberal mob” candidate is she who, in an ad when she ran for lieutenant governor, clutched her hands together and hunched her shoulder to announce that she wasn’t a “squishy moderate.” Hence, her suspected mean girl status in my head. It was a moment that certainly took root. The Conservative Warrior is more than a little scary. He founded a group called No Better Friend to fight the teaching of CRT and other assorted social issues. This candidate, together with Mr. Election Decertifier, shows up in my mind’s eye storming the capitol on January 6. While there is absolutely NO evidence that confirms this, rhetoric is what rhetoric does and that’s where my head places these two. The last “I’m not an insider, I’m a businessman” sounds all too familiar. We’ve been there, done that on a federal level. Caveat voter.

The leading candidates (of 11) for the Senate primary consists of a millionaire, the current lieutenant governor, and a pragmatic current state treasurer. The problem is not that I plan to vote for a Democrat, but the question of which Democrat has the best chance of beating the incumbent Trumpian. On all of that, I am waiting to see how things develop before the August primary.

But the soapy musings this morning ran more like this: in a conversation between the suspected mean girl canvassers and myself, I pointed out the following: Mean girl claims to be a good Christian, a follower of the man who said Love thy neighbor. Her speech and her actions belie her words. The man she claims to follow didn’t say Love thy neighbor who looks like you or loves like you. He said Love thy neighbor. Period. End of conversation. That means that while we may not always like our neighbor, we are to love our neighbor. See ourselves in our neighbor. Work to understand our neighbor. In this imaginary conversation, I adopt Irshad Maji’s “I am talking with you, not to convince you to come to my side, but to learn why you feel the way you do.” Listening is vital. Teach history at an age appropriate level with the understanding that it’s about time that we accept the fact that the deck is stacked. I think that it is not necessary to teach third graders all the ins and outs of Gay love, but it is vitally important to stop the bullies who are teasing Johnny because he has two mommies. There are lessons in that. Simply human lessons. Love thy neighbor. Love thy neighbor as thyself. The thoughts go round much as the dishcloth circles the plates. Obviously I am still thinking about this.

I look forward to the August primary election with mixed emotions. I am relatively sure that there are those who have already decided, but equally sure that the shrill and negative campaigning does not draw in those who have been on the fence. I came to the conclusion that it is a one note campaign, full of sound and fury, aimed at one group of listeners.

And then I sigh and finished the dishes.

In my mind I am standing on the hill of my front yard. It’s the closest thing I have to a mountaintop and I don’t have a big-ass ladder to reach the rooftop. I am waving the biggest white flag I can find–maybe a tablecloth or a king sized sheet. I wave it back and forth with as much energy as I can muster. The flag flies against a pewter-colored sky, thick with thunderheads.

I surrender.

I have been so flummoxed; I haven’t blogged in a week. It’s not that I suffer from writer’s block of any sort. I suffer from having too much to say and not enough organizational skills to make sense of it all. But then again, there is no sense to be made. In my heart of hearts, the only word I would use to describe life today is flustercuck. Really. Consider just the following:

A two-year COVID shutdown followed by the inevitable variants and more surges.

Selfish people on airplanes who confuse personal freedom with the social contract and refuse to mask up. Being a flight attendant these days is a high-risk job.

An horrific armed attack on the US Capitol building, ignited by a rally supporting The Big Lie.

A devastating attack on a sovereign country by an autocrat whose name now will go down in history with the likes of Hitler and Stalin.

What seems like the never-ending onslaught on a woman’s right to personal autonomy.

Attacks on elementary schools in Connecticut and Texas; an attack on a high school in Florida. The students took hold and organized a march four years ago, yet the hits keep on coming. Our congress is paralyzed by partisanship. Ineffective is not an adequate word.

Now we spend time analyzing, ad nauseum, the failures that seem to be evident in a lack of adequate response from law enforcement in a small town with only a handful of police officers.

The members of the GOP who have organized against women, banning abortion from the moment of conception, evidently cannot act on behalf of little children who are already here. An aside here in the middle of this thought: I don’t know of any women outside of literature who know the moment of conception. I have met one woman who claimed to know the moment of ovulation, but confessed not to know the moment of conception. I certainly didn’t, nor did any other women with whom I have had this conversation. Frankly, I want the women of the country to organize and go full Lysistrata on the jerks who come up with this baloney.

And while we are at it, it seems that the pro-gun members of congress can hold the 90% of the citizenry who want stronger gun safety measures hostage in their enslavement to the money offered by the National Rifle Association and the firearms manufacturers. Several images dance through my mind as I type this. None of them appropriate to the sort of blog I want to write. I am feeling absolutely crass in this moment.

It isn’t rocket science. One does not need a military-grade automatic weapon to hunt deer. Or pheasants. Or ducks. I often think that one wants a military-grade automatic weapon to compensate for a lack of genitalia. The bigger the gun, the bigger the cojones. Sorry. Sorry for you, tiny Dick. We don’t need it. There is enough weaponry to go around. Want to be king of the hill? Find a hill and claim it. Then, as we did when we were children, defend it bare-handed. No weapons necessary.

And now I have descended into a deep well of anger.

Once again we get to hear the idiotic recommendation that we arm teachers. Arm. Teachers. As if teachers don’t have enough hats to wear. Randi Weingarten, president of the American Teacher’s Federation said in an interview last night: “Arm us with guns but ban books? . . . Ban masks and vaccinations but don’t mention slavery?” Don’t give the students the tools and the background knowledge to think critically? Will future professional development days now be spent on the shooting range rather than working on best practices, analyzing data, creating vertical alignment? When do we get to read and discuss the essays written by our students in a common effort to align evaluation? Nope.

Some rocket scientist of a congressman said that it takes 40 hours of training to learn the techniques. It could be accomplished by teachers. He demonstrates a considerable misunderstanding of the issue. Forty hours of training and constant upgrading and practice, friend. Consider as well, teacher turnover. Tactical teams depend on knowledge of each other. That’s why they are a team. It takes more than 40 hours to build that teamwork and communication. Someone has watched too many television police dramas.

We have lockdown drills. We have emergency plans thick with the attempt to cover everything from fire to tornadoes to blackouts to active shooters. Arm teachers? Shall I store my weapon in a locked file drawer? In my coat closet? Strap it to my hip so that it’s at eye level for a fourth grader? That certainly makes the student feel safe. It is more likely to be a constant reminder of what is possible and a source of fear and anguish rather than comfort. Is the snapped cover on the holster on my hip strong enough to resist the hands of an angry high schooler? Is my own mental health strong enough to resist temptation when the last student gets on my absolute last nerve that instead of leaving the room to take some deep breaths in an empty hallway and regain personal control, I simply reach down and eliminate the issue. Not every teacher manages the stresses of the classroom well.

Enough.

Part of me wants to seek out a cave and become a troglodyte for a few weeks. No cable news. No internet. Another part of me wants to hit the streets and march until my feet fall off. Another part of me wants to campaign for someone–anyone–who has the tenacity to get something done. If 90% of us want stricter gun safety laws and 50 people in the US Senate hold us hostage, then it is up to us to vote them out. It’s the time to roar one’s disapproval. Support people with the heart and the common sense to change the direction. The second amendment of the Constitution does not mean that we have a right to military weapons whose only purpose is to murder as many living beings as possible in the shortest amount of time. If cars are registered, if we need a license to drive them, if we need to pass a test to get that license, then the same can be true for weaponry.

There is not a single word for what I feel these days. I am confused. Heartsick. Angry. Discouraged. Anxious. And fearful. I don’t know where we are riding this democracy. Part of me is reminded of the variation on an old saw: Where are we going and why are we in this handbasket? On one hand I weep. On the other, I remain hopeful. We have been in bad places before and our ship of state survived. Common sense, the study of history and simple, plain, never-say-die optimism is at the root of the hope. I want to wave that white flag, then put it away and go to work.

The other day I found the latest Essential New York Times Cookbook on the new nonfiction shelf at the library. I am an inveterate reader of cookbooks. The Hubs doesn’t understand the whole business of reading cookbooks. I suspect that, for him, a cookbook is a tool. A set of recipes and nothing more. When he asks why I read cookbooks, I can’t resist all the obvious puns—because the chapters are so stirring, because one can’t beat it for tasty reading—and on and on. Really. I know that I am not the only one who reads cookbooks.

Nevertheless, the Essential New York Times Cookbook weighs in at 985 pages, which begs the question WHY? It would be infinitely more practical to publish and sell this in a two-volume set. It is an interesting read. Amanda Hesser, the editor, has done a wonderful job of writing background on each recipe and offers cooking notes that suggest that there are alternatives to some of the smaller details in the process. So many of the recipes I have read so far sound wonderful and do-able. Still, if I put the book on my counter, I have no room in which to work. The book takes up all the space. Not one to be daunted, I mark the pages I like, then scan them at the library and save them on my thumb drive. When I want to concoct a recipe, I print it out and add it to my collection, in a ring binder and complete with its own page protector.

The new edition of the Milk Street Cookbook weighs in at 3.8 pounds and 685 pages. Yet another tome. And yes, The Complete America’s Test Kitchen Cookbook trumps Milk Street at 7.1 pounds and offers 1216 pages of not only recipes, but the results of testing cooking equipment as well. What can I say? It is all overwhelming.

My mother-in-law was a great cook and collected cookbooks as well. Her shelf included volumes of Southern Cooking books as well as the collection of Bon Appetit magazine. I was lucky enough to inherit some of her church-published books when she passed. Frankly, I have to admit that I don’t have enough shelf space to keep all of my personal cookbook library in one place. At the same time, I have to confess that while my collection is not nearly the size of those belonging to some of my friends, rely consistently on only a handful of books.

Actually, not all cookbooks are books. I am not convinced that the case is true today, but is was pretty common to give a bride a recipe box full of recipes on 3X5 cards from her friends at a bridal shower. I have a box full of great recipes that’s as much fun to go through as any cookbook. Usually hand-written, the collection is from the hearts of working women who had to prepare good, healthy food after a long day in the classroom. What could be more practical? It’s a real treasure.

It’s easy to discover which recipes are the ones that were the most popular in the household. One of my most beloved books is my mother’s old Settlement Cookbook. Legend has it that she received it as a wedding gift and I can believe that. It is missing a back cover, the binding is rocky, and the best of all, the pages are stained and splotched on the recipes she used most often. It is a relic and a real treasure. Like my old Girl Scout Handbook, the Settlement Cookbook became a reference, particularly when dealing with a newborn. It has information for just about any situation. The Settlement and Dr. Spock, two testaments that got me through new momhood. Reading it is like getting a hug from my mom all over again.

My most used cookbook is a Pillsbury Kitchens Family Cookbook I bought via mail order in 1982. Like my mother’s Settlement Cookbook, the Pillsbury Kitchens Family Cookbook shows signs of considerable use. The yellow cover is worn at the corners, the binding needs resuscitation, the front third of the book is separate from the back, and I am tempted to use a large rubber band to keep the whole thing together. Like a well-loved teddy bear, this is my personal comfort cookbook. I may have a dalliance with either or both volumes of Julia, I enjoy searching through Dayton’s Pot Luck For 23,000, but in the end, I confess it’s Pillsbury that proves to be old reliable. It’s nothing fancy, it demands no special equipment, it’s unassuming in its simplicity. Like an old friend, it stands ready when I need it most. I may read other cookbooks, but in truth, when I’m standing in the kitchen and at a loss, its yellow cover beckons and I find my way.

In the end, I intend to keep on reading my cookbooks. After all, the plot may be a little thin, but the chapters are stirring.

It has been a long, yet on-going journey. Whenever I don’t know much about something, I head to the library. However, I have written before that it was Jamelle Bouie’s article on white privilege that finally broke through my misunderstanding of the term. That was at least seven years ago. I wish more people read his essay. I wish more people, and in particular, white people, had read this essay. Prior to Bouie, I didn’t think of myself as privileged. To me privileged meant things along the line of material things. I didn’t live in a big house with a pool or even, for that matter, a hot tub. I don’t have a carpet-like lawn. Today I have a yard filled with golden dandelions. The pollinators love it. I’m not sure about the neighbors. What I came to understand in a road to Damascus moment was that, yes indeed, I was privileged. Bam! Ok. So what next? This inquiring mind needed to know.

I was not immune to the issues of the Civil Rights movement growing up. I was, however, ignorant to the facts of my own neighborhood. Of redlining. Silly me. I thought that if one had enough money to buy a house in my unpretentious middle class neighborhood, one could do that. I was no child when I discovered otherwise. My own ignorance and cluelessness, now in retrospect, is appalling. One may be clueless. One doesn’t have to stay clueless. I was lucky enough to have had a mom who taught me early on to choose my friends by their values. Nevertheless, there was little opportunity in our neighborhood or at my high school to meet people who looked like me. There was small opportunity in undergraduate land, though I took it when it was there.

The real learning prior to my Damascus moment was teaching in an urban school system. I learned a great deal over the next 28 years. I learned from colleagues and from students. As always, I learned from my own reading. In fact, I think, one could call me woke. Go ahead. I am beginning to understand and to carry that label with confidence. Yes. Woke. It’s not an epithet. In the area of coming to understand, I feel more like a pilgrim. Woke, but seeking more. When a seed sprouts, does it experience pain or does it experience a sense of destiny?

The latest in a long line of reading was Clint Smith’s How the Word is Passed. I wasn’t sure what to expect. At first, I did as I usually do–checked out the blurb in the front cover of the book, then the table of contents, then a quick overview of the index. Then I set it down in a moment of approach-avoidance. After I finished a bit of a fluffy recreational novel, I decided to read a chapter of Smith. Then I read another. I discovered along the way, that I didn’t need to read the chapters in order. I could move freely among the stories of the author’s journey or I could follow chronologically. It didn’t seem to matter. It became clear that we were talking about how we talk about the history we choose to ignore: the country was built on a slave economy that was not relegated to the southern states.

Clint Smith traveled to Jefferson’s Monticello more than once to tour the grounds first through a slave-centered lens, then through the lens of the Hemmings family, where Sally Hemmings bore several of Jefferson’s children. The first tour guide was specific about the lives of enslaved people. The second was well educated about the story of the Hemmings and met every question and argument with patience and poise. Smith chatted with some of the white people who had completed these tours as well. Some felt angry that they had heard far more about the practice of chattel slavery than they wanted to learn, others were shocked and upset, discovering things about which they had never known. Smith writes on page 41 about a discussion with a Monticello tour guide:

He told me that when you challenge people, specifically white people’s concept of Jefferson, you’re in fact challenging their conception of themselves. “I’ve come to realize that there’s a difference between history and nostalgia, and somewhere between those two is memory,” he said. “I think that history is the story of the past, using all available facts, and that nostalgia is a fantasy using no facts and somewhere between is memory, which is kind of this blend of history and a little bit of emotions. . .I mean history is kind of about what you need to know. . .but nostalgia is what you want to hear.”

Smith also travels to the Whitney plantation, a museum dedicated to educating its guests about the history and legacies in Wallace, Louisiana. It was purchased by John Cummings, a multimillionaire trial lawyer who spent more than $8 million of his own money to establish this district and hire scholars and docents to tell the story. Over the years, Cummings has continued to read the narrative records left by those enslaved people who lived and labored on the grounds. He relates that he has yet to find the narrative that says that s/he was not branded, flogged, raped, lost a finger, an ear, or a limb. In an interview with Clint Smith, Cummings says “And you feel as though someone is talking to you who never had a voice. . .and all of a sudden you f very strange. It’s not a feeling of guilt. It’s a feeling of ‘discovered ignorance’.” I don’t know how else to explain it. When you wonder How could this have happened and I didn’t know about it? How could that happen?”

Discovered ignorance.

That’s the term, I think, that applies to me. I am still discovering and still chipping away at my own ignorance. I try to explain to the Hubs about the fact of our own privilege, about how the deck has been stacked against Black people for centuries and how things have to change. HE has yet to reach that level of understanding. He needs, I suspect, his own road to Damascus moment. I think the problem is how to make change happen. I am reminded about Dr. King’s Letter from a Birmingham Jail and the paragraphs about the white moderates who do nothing and of the question “How long can we wait?” I came to think that my career in the urban school was an act of atonement. I never accepted the soft racism of low expectations. I was blessed with colleagues in my department who felt similarly. It was an on-going search for appropriate, challenging things for students to think and write about. We pushed and we listened.

Today, when our democracy is threatened by those who would write out not only Blacks, but women as well, when my personal fears of a theocratic United States are deep-seated, I want to encourage others like me to Get. Educated. One of the biggest steps one can take is the step to someone who doesn’t look like you. Then step again. I am anxious now, to travel the literal paths that Clint Smith traveled. I have a strong impulse to hit the road and bring a friend along. It’s time to fill in more of the blanks.

I watched the movie.

“I watched the movie.” Four words that drive me up the wall. Reading is far more than knowing the plot. There was a teacher of world literature on my undergraduate campus who maintained that one didn’t get to know a book until s/he had read it at least three times. I have come to agree with the principle. Still, much depends on the book and the quality of writing in order to come to appreciate the book better in three readings. For example, re-reading the Harry Potter series is fun; when we know already what has happened, we can pick up on what we missed the first time and consider what else we would like to have made more clear to us. On the other hand, re-reading Toni Morrison’s Beloved several times not only untangles the time line, but enriches our understanding on a deeper lever. No, perhaps it isn’t fair to compare Beloved to Harry Potter, but on the other hand, I am confident, dear reader, that you understand my drift. The depth of the understanding lies also in the depth of the writer’s work.

Nevertheless, it is a risk to take on literature circles for the first time. I had read Literature Circles in Middle School: One Teacher’s Journey by Bonnie Hill and spent a considerable amount of time debating the whole do-able-ness of the adventure. It wasn’t until I spent a few years teaching in high school that I took the risk. I learned several things in the process. First: It is doable and in the end, has its rewards. Second: I made mistakes along the way but we all survived.

Consider, then, the things I would do differently or do better. In an effort to make student groups accountable, I created far too much paperwork for the groups. I tried to find a variety of books, including both fiction and nonfiction, appropriate and appropriate to the class I was teaching. I wanted things that the students would enjoy, would become engaged with, and would relish in the journey. That was a mixed effort. If I were to do this again, I would do better at dealing with the one popular title that every group wanted. Three ranked choices worked, but not all that well. Maybe I was a wimp. The good news is that, because of a great school librarian, I had groups of great titles.

There were the silly moments. When I introduced the titles in Literature of Protest class, I took time to explain that Anna Sewell’s Black Beauty was to the founding of the ASPCA in England as was Harriet Beecher Stowe’s Uncle Tom’s Cabin to the American Civil War. Common legend has it that Stowe’s work was a catalyst. Evidently a particular trio of girls either didn’t listen or didn’t read the blurb on the inside cover of the book when we passed titles around. They were so excited! They. Wanted. This. Book. It took them far too long to grasp the idea that Black Beauty was not a biography of Madame C.J. Walker, the first Black female millionaire who made her fortune developing personal products specifically for Black women, but about (and in the voice of) a horse. For a while I encouraged them to stick with their choice. Not only was Black Beauty a personal favorite, but I felt it was an important contribution to the literature, on par, perhaps with Upton Sinclair’s The Jungle, but not quite as depressing. When they continued to resist, in the interest of time, I gave them Ta-Nehisi Coates’ Between the World and Me, thinking that even though it is a drier read, it was a volume slim enough to work with and finish before the deadline. In the end, the two girls who pressured the third into Black Beauty based on a false premise didn’t read Coates either. The third girl worked her way through it with the thought that someday she may have a son of her own and having read Coates’ commentary addressed to his son might prove to be valuable. She came to appreciate the journey.

One title elicited the “I saw the series on Netflix.” comment. I find this difficult to deal with, being a firm believer that not only is the book usually better than the movie, but that the process of engaging with the author builds not only the reading stamina necessary beyond high school, but it is an entirely different, more active experience than watching a series. I was saddened, but not surprised. We tried hard to find books that didn’t have accompanying movies, but obviously did not succeed. Thirteen Reasons Why is an emotional journey that is entirely different coming off the page than it was on the screen.

Still, there were the great moments. One group took on Karen Thompson Walker’s The Age Of Miracles. While it didn’t quite fit the outline for Literature of Protest, at the time it was the closest I could get to thinking about a future that includes an insurmountable problem that society would have to be with. That particular group dove in. They had a strong group leader who held his classmates accountable. Then there was that moment any teacher would treasure. In the quiet of a classroom where students were well engaged with their work, suddenly this group groaned loudly “OH NO!” Then went on to decry whatever it was that happened that outraged them. Of course, I found out, but the group chose not to share their discovery with the rest of the class. They simply pointed out that their classmates would have to read for themselves.

This is not at all unlike the reaction of the group who read E. Lockhart’s We Were Liars. Before they started the adventure, I made them swear not to skip to the end of the book to discover what happened. As with the group who read The Age of Miracles, the students stuck to their promise, and yes, were aghast at the resolution of the problem. No, We Were Liars did not fit the profile of the class, but on the other hand, I had also had that same reaction when I read We Were Liars and wanted to see if students would feel similarly. It was selfish, but perhaps we could discuss the aspect of lies and truths and what might be more harmful under the circumstances.

Of such successes are fond memories made.

Finally there was the group consisting of boys who were highly engaged in an after school activity known as Empowerment. This was a group of students under the sponsorship of a talented and charismatic history teacher whose goal was to enable Black students to recognize and develop their leadership skills. It was a positive, active group. These three boys chose The Autobiography of Malcolm X by Alex Haley. This is a tome, weighing in at 466 pages. I didn’t want to warn them off so good a read simply because it was a lengthy challenge. I admired them for taking it on. They hopped the usual hoops, calculating the number of pages they had to read daily in order to finish in the time we had. Because they were responsible young men, I didn’t check on them as religiously as I checked on other groups.

Big mistake.

Eventually I discovered that they had already read the first half in Empowerment. Ok, thought I, the second half of the book is also substantial and, in my opinion, extremely important in understanding the development of Malcolm X and his understanding of humanity. The boys never really bought into finishing the read. They enjoyed the first half, learning of Malcolm the hustler, but dodged the other issues, preferring in the end to report more extensively on the first half, then fill in the blanks with their opinions they garnered from their experience in Empowerment.

Big disappointment. It was reminiscent of the sixth grader who did a bang-up in character report on The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, only to have to reveal that he read just the first chapter of the book and was not able to address the rest of the novel.

Sigh.

There are situations wherein time gives us the answer to what we wish we would have said in the moment. What do I wish I had thought to say? Today I would say that not reading the second half of the book or depending only on the movie is like my telling the class that on a given day I was bringing a home-made lunch for all of them as a treat. Then imagine, dear students that I come in with all the prep work done–all the chopping and basic prep—but never completing the actual cooking of the luncheon menu. Why should I? I watched Julia Child do the cooking on PBS.

That’s how I feel about that phrase “I watched the movie.” Here we are at a table laden with a bouquet garni, a boned chicken, some butter, a quart of broth, a large pan, and perhaps a variety of vegetables, washed and ready to go. Add to that display some almost-mousse ingredients, all measured out for dessert. Unless I do the work, there is no meal. Unless we are actively engaged, the experience is incomplete. For me, that’s a truth.

I know that there are those in the greater world who think that Aaron Sorkin’s characters can be preachy and didactic. As an avid watcher of Sorkin’s work and a great fan of his characters, particularly the strong, smart women. I have not had a problem with the speeches of his characters. In fact I often find them inspiring. In many ways, Sorkin has been prescient. It is not difficult for followers of The Newsroom to find parallels today. I shall save a more detailed and hopefully well thought out comment regarding SCOTUS and the leaked draft for another day. I am still working through a level of hysteria that does not produce good writing. When you want to stand on the rooftop and shout your barbaric Yawp, it’s time to put down the pen and take a breath.

Nevertheless, when I watch the ad of a GOP candidate for the governor’s chair who defines himself as a “Conservative Warrior,” all I can feel is the same sense of dread I felt on January 6. What does the GOP have to offer the voters of our state? An election denier. Someone who had to have been a mean girl in middle school who refers to anyone who might be a moderate as “squishy” (complete with subservient, hand wringing pose), and yes, the Conservative Warrior. Little did I know that his reference to himself as a CW is actually the title of what is essentially a glorified composition notebook complete with tabs to enable to writer to enter his daily thoughts about whatever is on his mind. The difference is that this particular notebook costs $9.99 and the one at the dollar store that may even contain more pages (mine has 200–his has 186) is $1.25. So much for entrepreneurship.

But I digress.

Aaron Sorkin finished the first season of The Newsroom with commentary by Will McAvoy, Jeff Davis’ anchorman character. It rang true at the time; I think it rings even truer now. While Will McAvoy references only the Tea Party, I suggest that he would have referenced the Trump-enthralled GOP in general. I shall end with the complete text of the speech as I’ve found it online. After May 2 and the announcement of the leak of SCOTUS tentative ruling, I find self-confessed Republican Will McAvoy’s opinion to be on the mark.

August 24, 2012:  The Newsroom — The Greater Fool

Good Evening, I’m Will McAvoy.  Today is Monday, August 8 [2011].

And this past Friday, for the first time ever, Standard and Poor’s downgraded the credit rating of the US Treasury.  You would think that would be tonight’s top story.  Or you might think it would be the Dow closing down 634 points on its worst day of trading in 3 years.   Or the austerity riots in Europe.  Or any statements of the Republican candidates running for president. Or the President himself.  But it’s not.

Tonight’s top story is a woman named Dorothy Cooper.  

Dorothy Cooper is a 96 year old resident of Chattanooga Tennessee and has been voting for the last 75 years.  This year, she has been told she can’t.  A new law in Tennessee requires residents to show a government issued photo ID in order to vote.  Dorothy Cooper doesn’t have a driver’s license, because Dorothy Cooper doesn’t have a car. Dorothy Cooper doesn’t have a passport; a vacation abroad was never in her future.

Tennessee isn’t alone.  At this moment,  33 states have proposed or already adopted the same voter id laws that have disqualified Dorothy Cooper from the one fundamental thing that we all do as Americans.  It’s estimated that 11% or roughly 20 million people don’t have government issued voter ids and will be disenfranchised this November.   Why?  To crack down on the terrible problem of voter fraud.  Governor Rick Perry of Texas, who is about to enter the presidential primary race, is serious about cracking down on the problem:

>Video of Perry:  “Making sure that there is not fraud, making sure that someone is not manipulating that process makes all the sense in the world to me.”<

Me too.  Because voter fraud is such a huge problem that during a five year period in the Bush Administration, when 196 million votes were cast, the number of cases of voter fraud reached…86.   Not 86,000.  86.  Here’s what that number looks like as a percentage of votes cast.  .00004%.  Four one hundred thousandths of a percent.  This would be called a solution without a problem, but it’s not.  It’s just a solution to a different problem.  

Republican’s have a hard time getting certain people to vote for them.  So life would be a lot easier if certain people just weren’t allowed to vote at all.  I’m ashamed to say that 32 out of the 33 voter id laws were proposed by Republican legislators,  and passed by Republican controlled statehouses.  And signed into law by Republican governors.   I am not ashamed to say that I, however, am a Republican.  And that brings us to tonight’s second story.

I’m what the leaders of the Tea Party would call a RINO:  Republican in Name Only.  And that’s ironic because that’s exactly what I think about the leaders of the Tea Party.   Because the most conservative Republicans today…aren’t Republicans.  

Republicans believe in a prohibitive military.  We believe in a common sense government.   And that there are social programs enacted in the last half century that work but that there are way too many costing way too much, that don’t.  We believe in the rule of law and order and free market capitalism.  The Tea Party believes in loving America but hating Americans.  Tea Party Congressman  Allen West of Florida.  

>Video of West:  I must confess, when I see anyone with an Obama bumper sticker, I recognize them as a threat to the gene pool. <

 They believe in loving America, but hating its government.  Conservative activist, Grover Norquist.

>Video of Norquist:  I don’t want to abolish government,  I simply want to reduce it to the size where I can drag it into the bathroom and drown it in the bathtub. <

And they believe that anybody who disagrees with the Tea Party has sinister anti-American motives.  

>Video of Herman Cain:  The objective of the liberals is to destroy this country.  The objective of the liberals is to make America mediocre.  <

Most of all, you must never, under any circumstance, seek  to reach a compromise with your opponent.  Or do any of what Democrats and genuine Republicans both call ‘governing.’  Senate Minority Leader Mitch McConnell:

>Video of McConnell:  Our top political priority over the next two years should be to deny President Obama a second term.<

And one other plank in the Tea Party platform.  If you are poor, it means that you are either too lazy or too stupid to be rich.  Here’s Andre Bauer, Tea Party Leader and the Lt. Governor of South Carolina [McAvoy read’s Bauer’s words] :  My grandmother was not a highly educated woman but she told me as a small child to quit feeding stray animals.  You know why?  Because they breed.”

It’s almost hard to believe that Republicans can’t get Dorothy Cooper to vote for them.

During Tea Party rallies and in campaign speeches, we’ve been told that America has been founded as a Christian nation and if the founding fathers were here today, they’d tell us so.  Here’s John Adams in the treaty of Tripoli:  “As the government of the United States is not, in any sense, founded on the Christian religion.”  And here’s Thomas Jefferson:  “…that our civil rights have no dependence on our religious opinions.”  And here’s the first amendment to the US Constitution:  “Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion.”

What’s more frightening than the perversion of our great history is that sensible strong smart Republicans, the very men and women who should be standing up to radical fundamentalism, are so frightened in losing primary battles to religious zealots that they’ve thrown in the towel on sanity.  So we get this:

>Video of John McCain:  Yes, that the constitution established the United States as a Christian nation.<

It’s ironic because the biggest enemy of the phony Republican isn’t Nancy Pelosi or Harry Reid or Hillary Clinton or Barak Obama.  It’s this man.  [image of Jesus Christ].  He said ‘Heal the sick.  Feed the hungry.   Care for the weakest among us.  And always pray in private. ‘  

On screen behind McAvoy while he reads:
–    Ideological  purity
–    Compromise as weakness
–    A fundamentalist belief in scriptural literalism
–    Denying science
–    Unmoved by facts
–    Undeterred by new information
–    A hostile fear of progress
–    A demonization of education
–    A need to control women’s bodies
–    Severe xenophobia
–    Tribal mentality
–    Intolerance of dissent
–    A pathological hatred of the US government

They can call themselves the Tea Party.  They can call themselves Conservatives.   And they can even call themselves Republicans.  Though Republican’s certainly shouldn’t.  But we should call them what they are:  The American Taliban.  And the American Taliban cannot survive if Dorothy Cooper is allowed to vote.  

A few mornings ago, the cast of Good Morning America had an interesting, but brief, discussion about books with Charlie Gibson and his daughter Kate. Gibson and Kate were promoting the first evening of their podcast, The Book Case, premiering that night with Oprah Winfrey as their first guest. Of course I had to check it out.

On one hand, I was disappointed to discover that the interview was only a few minutes long. Perhaps other podcasts are longer or perhaps it is in the nature of the podcast to be brief. I don’t know. However, since I can access it at the library, all is well. What was interesting were the questions Charlie Gibson used to advance discussion. I thought they were intriguing and have chosen to do my best to answer them as well:

Book? E-reader? Audio?

I choose Book. My son gave me his old Kindle that had some books already loaded, so I took time to charge it up and pulled up Haruki Murakami’s 1Q84. Big mistake. I didn’t know that this book was 925 pages long—too long, I think, for a first shot at an e-reader. It took forever! Part of the problem was that with an e-reader, I had no sense of progress. Yes, there was a percentage line at the bottom, but 25% completed of what? Could they have posted 25%/925? I didn’t know what page I was on or how far I had to go. To top it off, I had to keep reminding myself that this was a book in translation from a different culture and what was valuable to this author or perhaps what this author was valuable to the reader was not what was important to me. After all, how many times can we read that the protagonist was concerned about the size of his penis or the size of the breasts opposite him? I have yet to learn how to load the Kindle, though if I ever go on a transoceanic flight, I will. But for home, for sitting in a waiting room, give me a book—pages and ink—any time.

Do you take notes, dog-ear, or highlight?

None of the the above. I use sticky notes. If I run out of flags or the flags run out of sticky, I cut slices of larger notes. If the passage is that catchy, poetic, or important, I write it into the book log or into my Composition notebook if the section is too large to commit to the book log.

What was the most influential book [so far]?

Oprah replied so quickly that even several listenings didn’t give me a clue as to her response. However, for me, the most influential book was my Girl Scout Handbook of the 1950s. The book belonged to my big sister, but when I joined Scouts, I inherited it. I still have it. It is the answer to the question “If you could only bring one book to a deserted island, what would it be?” It’s more than a practical answer. My handbook guided me to be pragmatic and self-reliant. Through its pages I learned to build a fire and start it–with or without matches. I learned to lash anything from a camp stool to a shelter, sharpen a knife, or chop wood. I learned how to mark a trail, seek water, pull a splinter, and dress a wound. Clearly it was no novel, anthology of poems and short stories or biography. It was not meant to be inspirational, but for me is–and was also aspirational. It made me resourceful in so many ways.

What was you favorite children’s book?

This has to be a tie between Mike Mulligan and His Steam Shovel by Virginia Lee Burton and The Country Bunny and the Little Gold Shoes by Du Bose Heyward. I loved Mike Mulligan because my dad worked a shovel, though it was diesel and not steam-driven. Faced with being replaced by the more modern, diesel driven shovels, Mike and his steam shovel, Mary Ann, took on the challenge to dig the basement of the new Popperville town hall in a single day. They made such a mighty effort that the whole town came to watch them work. Yes, they succeeded only to discover that they had neglected to dig an exit ramp. Still, there was a future for the pair and they lived a useful life ever after. My shovel-wielding Dad was the hero I got to watch when we brought his lunch to the work site in the summer. When I taught structure of the short story, Mike Mulligan was the story I chose to use. One year, a few weeks after the short story unit, a sixth grader brought me an almost-new copy of Mike Mulligan. Her grandmother had died and when they were cleaning out the attic, she found this copy of the book and knew I loved it. It is a precious gift in more ways than one. I still have it on my shelf and think of that student when I look at it.

Published in 1939, The Country Bunny and the Little Gold Shoes works through a feminist lens. Country Bunny always wanted to be one of the special Easter Bunnies, even though she had 21 bunny children of her own. She thought that she would be nothing more than a simple cottontail mama bunny. Word travels through the community that the Fifth Special Easter Bunny is no longer swift enough to meet the challenge; Old Grandfather rabbit was going to choose a new Easter Bunny. He chooses mother cottontail because she is not only swift and smart, but she is the kindest of the bunnies. She is challenged with the delivery of a very special egg and, faced with an insurmountable task, perseveres with the help of the little gold shoes. It’s a story that involves meeting your dreams, the importance of teaching cooperation, of humility and persistence. I loved it. I still have my copy somewhere. I bought it to read to my son when we could share this wonderful story.

What was the revered book you wish you hadn’t read?

Oprah didn’t have an answer to this one, if I remember correctly. I am not at all sure about “revered,” but the popular book I wish I hadn’t read has to be 50 Shades of Grey by E.L. James. I picked it up because is was so popular and a considerable topic of conversation, but by the time I finished it, I felt that the experience represented several hours of my life I would never regain. It wasn’t the S and M sex that was the problem. The problem was the lack of character development. The writing wasn’t all that great, either. I never bothered with any of the sequels. I couldn’t understand why Ana didn’t think that Christian Grey was a creepy stalker. . .but then, anything can happen, I guess. It is fiction.

What book is on your bucket list?

I’m with Oprah on this answer. I have 100 books on my to-read list. I have been stocking up on tomes for the next lockdown. I can’t think of only one title with which to answer this question. The titles keep coming.

My guiltiest reading pleasure is. . . .

My guiltiest reading pleasure is not feeling guilty for letting the chores go in favor of the book with which I am currently enthralled. Yes, on occasion it happens.

So there it is. . . me and Oprah. . .and Charlie Gibson, who, yes, has been on my bucket list for the past 20 years. I’m glad to know that he is still around and still active and curious.

Thinking about Harlan Ellison’s title: I Have No Mouth And I Must Scream. Overturning Roe V. Wade will not. . .NOT. . .stop abortions. It will only put them back into the back alley with the wielders of bleach and coat hangars.

Those who screamed “My body, my choice” in opposition to masks and vaccines in the middle of a world-wide pandemic threatened the lives of their families and those around them, co-opting the slogan of those who are pro-choice in another arena. Now the slogan seems to have become “My body, and now it’s someone else’s choice.” Fie.

Who or what is next? I fear for our country, for our daughters, for our sons. For all of us.

The rest is silence.

I think it happens to the best of us. We start searching the web in one direction and then find ourselves down the proverbial rabbit hole in another direction. Early this morning I caught an interview with one of my favorite columnists, Leonard Pitts, whose home base is the Miami Herald. Pitts used to have a column in our local Sunday paper, but for whatever reason, it disappeared over a decade ago. I kept track of him via the web while I was in the classroom and printed out several of his publications for my classes. He is a cogent writer and a keen observer who comments on the state of the country at large. I discovered today that he has written several novels and a nonfiction book on racism. This comes as no real surprise given that I had found his novel, Grant Park, on the shelves. However, I was delighted to find that there are more.

This small search led me not only to Amazon, but to another website that had a story about German librarians who, literally, went after a vandal who had been stealing maps from old manuscripts. While I could imagine that ancient maps have real value on the auction market, it seems that the number of maps this man had stolen was incredible. At one count, he had maps valued around $48,000, having used a box cutter to steal maps from libraries across Germany.

Of course, the librarians were angry. I suspect “angry” is an understatement given that one pair of librarians strapped the manuscript into their VW Golf and chased the perpetrator down the Autobahn, giving up only after losing him in traffic. The librarians built a network of shared information, complete with photographs and warnings. All across Germany, librarians were dismayed to discover that the vandal had paid them a visit and left with what might be termed priceless hand-drawn maps. Librarians took to posting his visage next to the check-out terminals at the main desk.

The good news is that eventually, yes, the man slipped up and was caught. By this time, he was elderly and claimed health problems that included diabetes and heart disease. To date, he has yet to serve any time. No, I don’t know if he has struck again. The article ended with the information that he has not spent any time behind bars for his destruction. I suggest that the proper punishment might be to put him in a room with a group of irate librarians and keep him there until he cries for mercy. They don’t have to be physically violent. I suspect that he could be shushed to death. Nevertheless, I applaud the librarians of Germany for their persistence and their creation of the network.

Susan Orlean’s book, The Library Book, details the day of the great fire in the Los Angeles central library in April of 2000. The fire destroyed 400,000 books and damaged another 700,00. The library itself was shut down for seven years. This was a gripping read. Her chapter on the fire itself was so vivid, I could almost feel the heat that reached, according to the experts, 2,000 degrees. People gathered in a sort of reverse bucket brigade to pass books hand to hand to save as many of them as possible. So far as I know, they have yet to determine a cause or whether the fire was deliberately set. Most of the rest of the book dealt with the restoration of the books Who knew that freezing containers of books preserves them and then putting them in a hyperbaric chamber helps to restore them? The narrative included the process of designing the new central library. Yes, the librarians persevered and were highly involved in the whole process. Never underestimate the power of a librarian.

Thinking along the same lines, I discovered Don Borchert’s Free For All: Oddballs, Geeks, and Gangstas in the Public Library on a library sale cart. A dollar bought me an enjoyable read. Borchert recalls his days in the Bay City branch library in Los Angeles and reinforced my idea that librarians are also heroes in today’s world. Of course, I have gone down yet another rabbit hole to discover other librarian memoirs. Now, naturally, I have to check to learn whether these titles are available in our own amazing library system. Let’s find yet another tunnel in this rabbit hole to explore.

Librarians are on the front lines of the fight for the freedom to read. Certainly I stand with them. Today there was yet another CNN interview with a person who was proposing to ban the Holy Bible from the shelves, claiming that the book included tales of genocide, murder, lust, and fornication. While the interviewee admits he created this proposal to make a point, a point must be made. The wonderful thing about reading is that one can read anything. Once we have learned to decipher the fact that letters stand for sounds that stand for things and concepts, the world is our oyster. There are pearls everywhere. All we need to do is look. And when we are lost and don’t know where to look? There is the awesome librarian.

Sunday afternoons means that we watch golf on television in the spring. Last weekend was all about The Masters tournament in Augusta, Georgia. I am not a huge golf fan, but the Hubs is and since he is willing to watch baseball with me (at least for a while) I am willing to spend some time watching golf with him. It has been interesting to note how the behavior of both golf fans and players has changed over the years.

I remember watching golf as a teenager, aware of the silence of the crowds, even when a player tees off. Not so much any more. We can always depend on some male voice screaming “Get in the hole” as the ball is launched off the tee. Really? And how much alcohol is involved in this scream, even in the morning rounds. At the Waste Management Phoenix Open, the stadium stretch is, to put it mildly, crazy. The sixteenth hole has to have the rowdiest, loudest crowd in golf. This year golfer Sam Ryder aced the hole only to be showered with with beer and water as the crowd threw what looked like plastic bottles on the green in celebration. It too fifteen minutes to clean up the mess. Luckily, the grounds crew and volunteers were prepared with gloves and large garbage bags. After all, it is the Waste Management open.

There are politicians, among others, who acknowledge applause and cheers with a fist pump. Hit a home run, pump your fist. That is, indeed, an accomplishment. I don’t recall seeing much in the way of fist pumping on the part of golfers in the past, but now it happens often. Perhaps because it is a difficult game, the feeling of success is that much greater once the ball is in the cup. There is joy in that.

All that joy notwithstanding, it is hard to applaud with a clenched fist.

Be that as it may, I have to wonder where common sense has gone. I appreciate the fact that here, Midwest Nice is still, for the most part, in practice. I recognize the grace in fellow gym members who hold the door for those who follow, whether coming in or leaving. There is something reassuring about that gesture. The other day, someone left a cough drop for a library patron with a bad cough who had gotten up to get a drink of water. I have seen other patrons loan copy change to someone who was short some coins.

Other customs have faded, I fear. I used to expect that live theater was a place where one didn’t munch on snacks or indulge in soft drinks. Yet, I went to a show pre-COVID lockdown where that happened. I could see that happening in outdoor theater, perhaps, but indoors? Really? Is it possible that we cannot engage as part of an audience without stuffing our faces? It’s like chewing gum. Once upon a time there were places where one didn’t chew gum. The stuff has been ubiquitous for some time.

I fear this all sounds self-righteous. Maybe it does. However, I do accept change. I don’t have to like it and I certainly don’t have to engage in the behavior. But I can reflect that life moves forward, if not with poise and grace. I make my choices and do that quietly. I’m not superior, just older. I reflect on the fact that my mother was raised by her grandmother, whose birth dates back into the 19th century. I suspect my mom’s customs and habits have their roots in a much older time but that the tendrils of 19th century behavior have crept into the next generation. Couple that with the need to keep peace in the family at all costs and there I am. A first class people pleaser.

Nevertheless, that’s a topic for another time.

In the end, I fancy that in the greater world, it will be our succeeding generations that will have more positive impact moving forward. It will take more time than I am willing to accept, but I have faith that as our social world changes, in the long run, it will change for the better. It simply will take time. The wild west was wild until the arrival of women. I am not sure what will foment change in the current wild west-ish state of society, but I think something will develop along positive lines. Will the golf-clap return? Highly unlikely. Will we restore a level of civility? I can only hope.