My New Book Club - Caste

Nothing like starting out a new book club with a controversy. We, of course, didn’t know it was going to turn out that way when fourteen of us here at the continuum care campus got our first book to read over the holidays. Caste, The Origins of Our Discontents by Isabel Wilkerson was one of the few books through the library's Book Club in a Bag program that was available on short notice. Most of the clubs have their books reserved months ahead so new clubs take what they can get.

I can’t find a short synopsis of the book other than the author “…examines the unspoken caste system that has shaped America and shows how our lives today are still defined by a hierarchy of human divisions.” In other words it’s about origins of racism. In shocking detail. A heavy topic to be reading, especially through the holidays and our discussion was preempted by an ominous email a few days ahead from our activities director telling us that our discussion group might be “lighter in numbers because of that.” She went on to say:

“I also know that this selection will bring about big feelings and possibly some internal conflicts that some may not feel comfortable sharing at this point. Understanding that we are a new community of new friends, I ask that those who do attend the discussion do so with respect for all attendees, recognizing that we all have different backgrounds and upbringings. I’m sure it goes without saying, but please utilize the time together to encourage a civil and considerate conversation. Be willing to explain your feelings, but also open to hearing others’ perspectives. In general, please strive to make others feel respected even if you disagree.”

Don’t think that email didn’t prompt everyone to be at our first discussion meeting. Only one person was missing, but the first person to speak was visibly angry and was quick to explain why she didn’t read the book. She had read some comments about the book that said the author was blaming poor Mr. Trump for all the racial tensions in the country. Say what? It wasn’t a political book and he was bared mentioned. 

I like the woman---a lot---but I couldn’t see letting someone who hadn’t read the book hijack the discussion with junk she’d obviously picked up on a right-wing political site. So I finally spoke up. “It sounds like that comment/review you read was written by someone who only read an out-of-context excerpt from the book and not the entire book because the author barely mentioned Trump.” 

She seemed hostile through out the whole hour and a half we were there, inserting questions like, "Did she bring up the fact that blacks sold blacks into slavery?" Did she bring up that other countries had slavery?" Typical deflection stuff to divert the conversation. She couldn't have been too upset by my discussion points because the next day she used her Auntie Mame voice from across the lobby to invite me to a party at her place. That was a relief because I don't want to alienate anyone here, especially funny and fun-loving her, and I was dreading the next time I ran into her.

At one point during book club I shared a quote I’d heard on CNN recently that went: “We need to change our vocabulary because words like ‘race’ have become weaponized for unspoken propaganda.” When I started reading the book I thought the author used the word ‘caste’ as a gimmick to set her book apart from others on the topic but by the end of the book, she’d made her case that we have a caste system here…especially when she quoted many scholars from the past century who were using the label ‘caste’ when they wrote about our slavery and Jim Crow eras. 

The book was shocking in parts, full of well-documented cruelty in the three major caste systems in the world---here in America, in India and during the Nazi regime. Probably the most shocking part for me was how in-depth Hitler and his men studied the segregation and Jim Crow laws of our country to help him come up with a plan to turn the German people against the Jews and others he deemed should be outcasts. The research that went into this book was mind-blowing and extensive and over a hundred pages were devoted just to footnoting sourced material. (496 pages in all.)

The bottom line is my book club is full of interesting people and I’m excited about it. We have two retired social workers in the group, two retired teachers, my neighbor the retired psychologist, one well-read and super smart guy and the others I don't know well enough yet to know their background. The art professor I’ve been fangirling picked a seat next to me and afterward said she enjoyed sitting at my table. (She's the one who asked The Church question in my last post.) You can probably see the stars in my eyes all the way to where you live. She's living up to the myth I've had built up in my head just from viewing her art at the resident's art show. She and her husband never had children so instead they took in refugees from war-torn countries who were getting settled in America---some remained life-long friends, some didn’t. So she had some thought-provoking things to share about the challenges they faced moving here. It’s pretty clear I picked an interesting person to fangirl. And book club is going to help keep my brain from turning to mush. ©

Mr. Rogers, Sex, Racism and Aliens from Outer Space

Here I am again staring at a blank computer screen and wondering what I’m going to write about. At times like this do I call on Stephen King or Fred Rogers for inspiration? Mr. King, when people ask him how to write, he answers, “One word at a time” which seems like he blowing them off but, really, he’s not. You can’t write if all you do is think about writing. He goes on to explain that the Great Wall of China was built one brick at a time and you can see it from space. So what’s a little blog post between friends? I can do this! The trick is to figure out the right words to use in the right order and Mr. King keeps that secret close to his vest. 

I mentioned Fred Rogers  as inspiration for blog fodder because too often since the pandemic started I’ve been thinking about of one of his songs, hoping it would conjure up a magical spell or fantasy that will set my world right again.

“What do you do with the mad that you feel

When you feel so mad you could bite?

When the whole wide world seems oh, so wrong...

And nothing you do seems very right?

“What do you do? Do you punch a bag?

Do you pound some clay or some dough?

Do you round up friends for a game of tag?

Or see how fast you go?”

I’m obviously too old to bite or punch although some old people have been known to revert back to those childhood habits but I’m not going there if I can help it. “Pound some dough” though is thought-provoking considering that so many people have taken up baking during the pandemic that it’s caused a shortage of flour nation-wide. Did we learn that trick for coping with stress in Mr. Rogers’ neighborhood so long ago that we’d forgotten why kneeing dough helps calm our minds? Or is it something more primal inside us? I always found baking bread to be meditative and it didn’t hurt that making artisan breads was one of the few things I was actually good at doing in a kitchen.

Speaking of kitchens I’ll tell you a secret; I kind of wish now that my husband and I tried sex in the kitchen. (It’s all those stupid romance books I’ve been reading that’s making me type this confession.) I’m not sure if it’s a generational thing that we never did it the kitchen or we just didn’t think of it but whatever the reason that ship has sailed without me. Even if I was still interested, there aren’t men in my peer age group who could lift me up to sit on the edge of countertop so we could---shall we say---line up our ‘baking equipment’ and that might be the least of an old dude’s problems. Egads, I need a Clorox Disinfecting Wipe to get that image out of my head! Funny thing about fantasies, though, I’m always young, fun and sassy in mine. And just in case you're wondering---and who doesn't---"wham-bam thank you ma’am" is literally defined as a sexual encounter conducted quickly. It's been around since the 1950s and it was made popular by Dean Martin.

Tip for the day: We can’t play tag with our friends during social distancing because being tagged “it” could cause us to get us sick and die, and if you’re black you also can’t run as fast as you can without chancing getting killed for #runningwhileblack. There’s a list of 100 Things Not to do While Black online with links back to stories of everyday things people of color have done that caused a white person to call the police---too many of which resulted in unjustified killings. Black kids as young as seven have been shot by the police for doing normal kid stuff. And it doesn’t matter what kind of neighborhood you’re in. A former White House aid under Obama was moving into an Upper West Side Manhattan apartment and someone called 911 to report he was burglarizing the place. Some people say that racism has gotten worse since Obama became president, that he somehow caused a wider divide and I used say, "No" his getting elected just brought the racism out in the open. Then I heard Will Smith squash both those ideas on the Stephen Colbert show when he said, “Racism Is Not Getting Worse. It's Getting Filmed." Yup, the popularly of cell phones is just documenting what’s been there all along.

I've gotta end this blog post someplace and if I was writing fiction I’d have a mass invasion of purple aliens coming to earth in peace with a Covid-19 vaccinate and a way to mindwipe bigotry out of existence. And while we wait for that to happen, let's all pledge to stay safe from the virus and to not rush to judgement regarding those who are protesting in the streets (before the White Supremacists and anarchists entered the fray and turn the protests into riots). Sure, it's bad, it's shocking, it's tragic, it's terrifying and the lawlessness needs to end, but try to remember that when activists like Colin Kaepernick took a silence knee at sporting events to draw attention to the types of things that sparked this recent violence, few people listened. Let's hope something or someone can find a middle ground in between these two extreme ways of reacting to the same social injustices so that more people will demand systemic changes. God help us if we can't.  #blacklivesmatter! ©

Wham Bam...one of the things I didn't know when I was a teenager

Changing Rules at the DMV

I usually renew my driver’s license by mail which I did this year as well but you can’t renew a handicap parking permit by mail for some obscure reason known only to those who work for the Department of Motor Vehicles who have screws loose in their heads. People who need handicap parking hangtags aren’t known for their physical endurance and ability to be packed inside a sardine can with a hundred plus people or for waiting in line for a ticket to enter their precious room full of hard plastic chairs, then sit for another hour or two for them to get called up to the counter. I don’t use my handicap parking tag often but when I need it, I need it so I have to play by their rules.

Last week I made my first attempt to go to the DMV. I got a couple of blocks from home when I realized I’d left my cell phone at home on the charger. What should I do? The side of my brain that wants to live dangerous had a debate with the sensible side. She said: I’ve lived better than half my life without a cell phone attached to my body. What’s one more day? I didn’t listen to what the sensible side mumbled back about random flat tires and traffic accidents. I grabbed “danger” by the throat and kept my car headed toward the DMV. 

When I got there, I looked for the red sign on the wall that tells what number they called last but I couldn’t find it. I found out why when I was herded by a bank of computers where we were supposed to register. Great. I’m computer literate. I can do this, I thought. Wrong. It wanted to know your cell phone number so they can send you a text when it’s time for you to get called up to the desk to do your business. That explained the missing red sign on the wall. No cell phone, no way to advance forward. There are so many things wrong with that but it’s enough to say that I had to tuck my tail between my legs and pick my way out of the building. I felt like an antique person with a flip phone...not that there's anything wrong with that.

My second attempt to go to the DMV was on Monday morning. I figured I’d start early in the week, giving me plenty of days to get it right. I had my cell phone handy, I’d even written its number on a slip of paper because, truly, how many people have their own number memorized? I can repeat every landline number I’ve had in my entire life---which isn’t that hard to do considering there’s only been two---but all I remember about my cell number is it contains the numbers of a popular interstate highway. But this time I headed out of town to drive to a DMV twelve minutes northwest, in the middle of apple orchard country where those who work at the DMV likely all speak Spanish as well as English. I checked the computer to make sure the branch hadn’t been closed and I lucked out. 

Speaking of closing up branches, my bank is switching over to one of those “digitally enhanced branches.” Which means they will no longer cash checks or allow you to withdraw or deposit cash. So what the hell are they going to do because they aren’t closing the place? There is still a full service bank in the town where I drove to get my handicap parking permit renewed. But I’m not going to drive unplowed country roads in the winter to get there nor in the fall when migrant workers explode the population of this speck of a town in the middle of nowhere. Growing up, no one would let their wives or daughters go there in the fall for fear they’d be raped at knife point. It’s utterly ridiculous to harbor a race-based fear for so many years but isn’t that what drives all stereotypes that are the root cause of systemic racism? One woman back in the early ‘50s had that experience and a whole group of innocent people were besmirched as a result. Afterward, white high school boys would go up there on a Saturday night looking for trouble and if they found it, guess which group got a slap on the hand while the others went to the county lock up. Jeez, did I get off topic.

Anyway, when I walked into the Rural Town DMV I took a paper ticket from a machine like you do at the meat counter at the grocery store and waited for my number to show up on the red sign. There were only 35 people ahead of me. I was in and out in a flash and while I was there I learned all about how the guy across from me left his short fuse at the restaurant he’d just left, and I learned if you ask an 18 month old girl to tell you what her grandpa’s tractor sounds like she’ll blow bubbles and make adorable sound-effects while putting the "tractor" through gears I’m pretty sure it doesn’t even have. She had our whole row laughing. Conversations like that wouldn’t happened at my local DMV where everyone is staring at their cell phones. At the counter I also learned that the state is talking about changing the rules and letting us renew handicapped parking permits online. Hooray! ©