The Help

I watched the movie The Help tonight. I'd heard such good things about it, had been looking forward to it for several weeks, and it certainly did not disappoint. I laughed and I cried. Most of all, I began thinking again about racism, something I haven't considered in a while.

Racism is something I never have understood. I can still remember the first time I heard about an incident, although I didn't understand it at the time and certainly didn't know the term "racism". My uncle, newly enlisted in the Navy, had returned home for a visit after being stationed for a brief time down south. I was very young and it was in the early sixties. He'd offered his seat to a pregnant woman on a bus. Both of them had been thrown off the bus for this transgression and the woman had been mad as hell at him because, far from helping her, he'd caused her to have to walk home. I didn't understand it at the time, of course. Not any of it. I only even remembered it because he was one of my heroes and I couldn't imagine what the big deal was or how he could have gotten in trouble for anything. It was many years later that it finally made sense to me, when we learned in school about the civil rights protests and about blacks having to sit in the back.

I guess I should state that I'm white. I grew up (and have returned to) a predominantly white town. But I had black friends growing up and, when I lived in London, I had a lot of them. Black teenagers came to my house, at least two of them did. I never went to theirs. I was never invited. I don't think I even noticed that then or if I did, I didn't relate it to race, which it may not have been. My house, or at least my front porch, was the place many of my friends congregated. A lot of people came to my front porch whose homes I never visited.

But there was this one boy. Not one of the people who hung out at my house. He was a football player. I think he was a quarterback but I can't honestly remember for certain. I was never into "jocks" in the way some girls were. But I do remember that he played very well and people talked about the possibility of him turning pro. He was a year older than me and we sometimes flirted in the hall at school. I thought he had a great sense of humor and, to be honest, I flirted with a lot of boys but didn't date much. I'm not sure why; perhaps the subject of a future blog. Anyway, one day he asked me out. As usual, I politely said no. He looked hurt. Disappointed. And he said, "I didn't think you were one of them."

Which rocked me for quite some time afterwards. He was black, you see, and I was white. It wasn't the reason I hadn't gone out with him but his comment made me question myself. I wasn't "one of them", never had been. But, because he said it, I worried about it. I finally decided that, just as his being black was no reason not to go out with him, the fact that he was black was equally no reason to go out with him. I hadn't ever questioned my reason for not accepting a date with anyone else. I never wondered if I'd declined because he was tall or short or Jewish or Mexican. But then, no one else had ever said to me, "I didn't think you were one of them."

I've lived in several cities in America, three in Ireland, and one in England. In my opinion, people are pretty much the same wherever you go. There are racists and there are normal people who, if they notice color at all, at least don't judge by it.

Although my husband and I tried hard to care for our children ourselves as they were growing up, there was a period of three years when we had to place our oldest son in the care of a childminder. We just couldn't afford during those three years for me to stay at home. We were careful about selecting a childminder. We finally chose a woman who seemed very nice and who had six children of her own (very experienced), all in school (so our pre-school son would not be neglected in favor of her own children while we were at work), and was registered with Social Services. Another factor in her favor as far as we were concerned was the fact that she was white, her husband was black, and their children were mixed-race. My son wasn't growing up with racism in our home and he wasn't going to be influenced in her care.  Or so I thought.

One evening my four year old was telling me about his day. "Christopher is evil," he said. (Christopher was one of the childminder's children.) "Why?" I asked him. "Did he do something to hurt you?" "No," he replied. "He just is." "I don't understand why you think he's evil," I said, "if he didn't do something to hurt you." "Just look how dark he is," my child said to me, "the darker, the more evil." "Why would you think that?" I asked, trying not to show my alarm. "Tracey said so. The darker, the more evil."

I asked for a conversation with the childminder the next evening, as Tracey was Christopher's older sister. She sent the children off to play and she and her husband sat down with my husband and I. I told her about the conversation, a little embarrassed to be raising the subject, but expecting them to be upset and to do something about it. Neither of them batted an eye and in fact didn't seem to understand why it had upset me.

"Oh, you get that all the time," her husband said. "Tracey's lighter so she annoys Chris about it."

I was speechless, so he continued.

"You'll hear the West Indians talk about the Africans and the lighter mixed ones talk about the darker. It's always been that way and you're not likely to change it."

I have always learned lessons from people in my life. Three very wonderful women taught me a lot about racism. All black. One is Ugandan but was living in London when I knew her. Another is British, of West Indian parents. The third was born in the West Indies, grew up in London, and recently returned to a different part of the West Indies. All three are intelligent, strong, articulate women. All three have experienced racism from both whites and blacks. And all three speak out about it, wherever they see it and from whomever it comes. I don't admire these women because of the color of their skin just as I know they didn't befriend and teach me because of the color of mine. I admire them because of their courage. I aspire to being more like them.

HAPPY HOLIDAYS

I'm really at a bit of a loss at the moment to understand how some people can justify preparing to celebrate a season of peace, love and goodwill towards all men by demonstrating an attitude of religious intolerance and hostility.

 

I have seen recent posts on social networks from outraged people over terms such as "holiday trees" and being wished a "happy holiday".  These rants usually concern wanting everyone to call it a "Christmas tree" and to speak the words "Merry Christmas" to one another.  I have also seen people demonstrating, both for and against, a nativity scene being placed in front of a government building.

 

Personally, I'd like to see a little more common sense applied at this time of year. 

 

My first point is that this is not just the Christmas season.  Hanukkah will be celebrated from December 20^th through December 28^th.  Yule will be celebrated December 22^nd.  Christmas will be celebrated December 25^th.  Perhaps, rather than attempting to "rob" Christians of Christmas, people speaking the words "Happy Holidays" are merely wishing to convey glad tidings, not knowing whether you will be celebrating Hanukkah, Yule, Christmas or, as an atheist, your interest lies more in New Year's Day. 

 

I will be celebrating Yule but am very happy to be wished a "Merry Christmas" by my Christian friends or a "Happy Hanukkah" by my Jewish friends.  I'm not sure if I have any atheist friends but, if I do, please feel free to wish me "Happy Holidays".  The important thing, to me, is the hope for my happiness and I'm grateful for the sentiment, regardless of how it's expressed.  (And, just in case you're wondering, it's "Blessed Yule" but "Bright Blessings" is appropriate for all occasions.)

 

My second point is that people of several religions have adopted the use of a decorated tree at this time of year.  Ladies and gentlemen of the Christian persuasion, it's about time you were disabused of the notion that this tradition began with you.  Bringing an evergreen into the home at this time of year began in Pagan homes long before the birth of Jesus.  I have Jewish friends who have a "Christmas tree" in their homes every year because they enjoy it every bit as much as Christians and Pagans do.  In fact, these particular friends call it a "Christmas tree" in an effort to avoid offending their Christian neighbors, which I find very considerate.  I call mine a "Christmas tree" because I grew up Christian and the term is habitual.  I suppose it would be more correct to call it a "holiday tree" but I'm not one of those who are easily upset by such things.  Call it what you like but please stop dictating to others that it must be a "Christmas tree" and for goodness sake stop complaining that others are trying to steal it from you, especially when it originated elsewhere.

 

As a third point, I'd like to address the nativity scene in front of the government building.  Like Thomas Jefferson, I'm a huge proponent of the wall of separation between church and state.  Having said that, I'm not at all offended as an American if my fellow citizens of the Christian religion wish to erect, in front of a government building, a Christian religious scene during the holiday season.  Why would I be?  I'm too busy celebrating peace, love and goodwill towards all men to nit-pick over something that's doing me no harm and is, in all honesty, aesthetically pleasing.  I personally consider those demonstrating against it to have too much time on their hands and not enough tolerance in their hearts.  Likewise, I mind the erectors labeling those who object "un-American".  I mind that a lot, actually, and I imagine President Jefferson turning over in his grave each time I hear it.

 

I will sign off by wishing you all "Happy Holidays" … and by that I mean "Blessed Yule", "Happy Hanukkah", "Merry Christmas", and "Happy New Year".  I hope each of you receives a full and healthy dose of happiness and that you are able to spread the good cheer to everyone you encounter, both in real life and online.

IN CELEBRATION OF LEAPING TO AMAZON PRIME STATUS, I'M OFFERING A SPECIAL PROMOTION THIS WEEKEND ONLY

 

From midnight on Friday, December 9 until midnight on Sunday, December 11 you can download "Maiden", the first book of the trilogy "Sarah's Story" for FREE.

 

Just go to Amazon.com or Amazon.co.uk, enter "Maiden (Sarah's Story)" into the search box and click on GO to download your free book.

 

If you visit Amazon THIS WEEKEND ONLY, you can buy all three books for the price of two, an excellent savings on a present for the e-readers on your gift list.

 

People are icebergs

I've often heard it said that you can never really know another person. You see only what they choose to show you. You must decide to believe or doubt what they tell you concerning their thoughts and emotions. When their actions tell another story, you can only wonder what is real; which is more revealing, word or deed? Are they telling you the truth but behaving as they must for whatever reason? Or are they telling you what they think you want to hear while their actions are revealing their true colors?

I've been thinking about this subject a lot lately. Showing and telling used to be something that came easily to me. Although I was always caring and compassionate with others, I spoke my true thoughts, I did what I believed to be right and I gave to myself as much as to others. Over the years, although I wasn't trying to be mysterious, I found myself keeping my thoughts and feelings more and more to myself. While I didn't lie, I stopped volunteering the truth. When in conflict, I held my tongue and stopped fighting my corner. That little look of disapproval on my husband's face, the personal passion I longed to indulge that conflicted with one of my children's schedules, the place of interest I wanted to visit that everyone else considered unimportant ... I gave up not only "me time" but me. I no longer knew who I was or what made me happy. I saw it happening, felt my true self slipping away, but for years I did nothing to correct the imbalance.

About two years ago, I suffered a trauma that changed all of that. It fractured me into a million pieces and, in trying to put the pieces back together, I had to acknowledge that for a very long time my actions had been at war with my emotions. I was behaving as I thought I should; pretending to be someone I wasn't. Someone I had, in fact, never been. I was trying to be my mother ~ a fabulous wife, a truly noble human being who always put her husband and children before herself. She still does, though we're all grown with children of our own. While I admire her tremendously as a human being, I'm not her. Our interests, talents, and beliefs are totally different.

I know that as my children grew and needed me less, I should have been able to effect a gradual return to myself, to do more of what I wanted to do and when I wanted to do it. But I hadn't. I was a fifth of this wonderful family but, because I had stopped expressing an opinion, had stopped revealing my thoughts and feelings, it was assumed that I was happy with the way things were. I realized that, in trying to be the kind of wife and mother that my mother was, I was repressing much of what makes me the unique person that I am. She'd given me a precious gift ~ myself ~ but I was squandering it. I had buried myself and my dreams and I was suffering, both psychologically and emotionally, for it.

To correct what had gone so badly wrong, I made some hard decisions. Following through on them caused me a lot of pain. Inflicting them on those I loved most caused me even more. But the pain I endured to correct my course was far more bearable to me than the pain I caused them. I blew up the world my "children" knew and left them with nothing but my thoughts and feelings to try to balance against my current actions.  I left them to piece together what was real and what was not; who this woman was they thought they knew so well. Crossing an ocean to live again in the country of my birth conflicted in their minds with my professions of love for them. Having a home in each of two countries wasn't how they'd envisioned their future. Now that they'd grown up, it wasn't supposed to be Mom moving out and setting up on her own. It wasn't fair to them or to their father. They'd done nothing wrong; I had. The crime was mine, though we all paid the price.

I'm told it took great courage to do what I did. I'm told many women find themselves in a similar situation when their children begin leaving the nest, when they find themselves facing a stranger in the morning mirror. I'm told most women accept the life they've made and continue along the path they've strayed onto. I don't know if that's true but I have truly recounted what others have told me. I'm certain only that it took a great deal of strength and resolve to deal with the resultant guilt of leaving the path I knew wasn't mine. And I know that I will always wonder if I did the wrong thing for all the right reasons.

There is one thing about which I'm certain: people are icebergs. You only see what's visible. You can never know for sure what lies beneath the surface.

Are humans natural or aberrations?

The train of my previous blog switched tracks but continued on its journey so I thought I'd invite you along.

 

Even as a child, I was fascinated by the forested mountains surrounding my hometown.  I was never afraid in the woods.  Occasionally spooked by an unidentified sound? Certainly. Cautious? Absolutely.  Respectful? Definitely.  Lost? Several times. But afraid? Not once. 

 

Life in the forest makes sense.  All natural things do. Admittedly, humans sometimes need to study a natural phenomenon for a very long time before we finally "get it".  Once we do, though, it makes sense.  Always.  So much so, in fact, that sometimes we're left wondering why it took us so long to figure it out.  I'm beginning to think the reason might be that humans are more aberration than natural.

 

Think about it for a little while.  For inspiration, go back to my beloved forest and my statement about never having been afraid there.

 

Let's say you're hiking and you come across a bear with young cubs.  Admittedly, you're potentially in a world of trouble. But the threat to you for being in the wrong place at the wrong time is rational.  Every time I'd choose the danger of facing a protective mother who's bigger, stronger, and equipped with huge claws and sharp teeth over the danger of walking in on an armed junkie robbing a convenience store.  I may well die in either situation but, if I do, at least I know what I've done "wrong" with the bear.  If it's all the same to you, I'd prefer to die because a mother incorrectly assessed me as a threat to the well-being of her offspring than to die because an insane person decided to take by force what he hadn't earned and didn't care for the possibility of leaving behind a potential witness.

 

Yes, I suppose you could argue that the armed junkie was behaving naturally.  A skilled devil's advocate might present him as a predator in taking what he hadn't earned and say that he was protecting himself in shooting me to avoid identification later.  Said advocate could, therefore, score points by twisting the hypothetical situation into some semblance of the natural world.  I'd counter, though, that his reason for taking what he hadn't earned was not at all natural.  Unless inflicted on it by man (and excepting man), you'd find it difficult to locate an animal addict. And a natural predator wouldn't take something to be bartered for something else. It would take food or shelter or a weapon; something it needed immediately for survival.

 

Another example:  If I step on a copperhead during a hike, it's not going to be pleasant for me.  Again, I'd far prefer to suffer the physical harm caused by a poisonous bite to that of being grabbed from behind and dragged into a darkened alley.  Again, the snake is behaving in a completely rational manner whereas the rapist is another insane person intent on forcing sex on me for the purpose of torture, control or humiliation. That never happens in the natural world, either.  And don't get me started on pedophilia!

 

I can think of many more examples of "natural" danger as opposed to the danger posed by man but I'm going to stop here because in every single example, I'd prefer to face the "natural".  Others may disagree but I'm always going to feel safer as the sole human in the middle of even a completely unfamiliar forest than I am in the middle of a well-known city.  The natural makes sense.  While I have hope for the potential of the aberration, I sometimes despair at its insanity.  I'm reminded of a line from the 1991 movie Last of the Mohicans in which Hawkeye recounts to Cora that his adoptive father once told him the white man was "a breed apart and makes no sense."  I would say that was equally true of all humans.

 

You can take the girl out of central Pennsylvania ...

I've been back in America for 16 months now and I'm still being knocked out by every sighting of the deeply forested mountains surrounding my hometown.  It is Autumn (my favorite season) and the foliage is glorious but it's more than "just" that.

 

I loved living by the ocean in both Atlantic City and Galway.  There's such tranquility to the natural rhythm of the sea and I loved breathing the salt-cleansed air.  In Galway, the mountains of Clare were visible so I was even more content there than in New Jersey.  Still, the Irish mountains are different from those of Pennsylvania; beautiful but for me not quite "right".  Probably just because I was born and raised here but there's little logic in emotion and even in Galway, I missed my own mountains.

 

I've always been awed by them but I now feel an even deeper appreciation, having been away from them for so very long.  Looking at them, I feel as I do when looking at a particularly clear night sky.  Star gazing gives me peace and perspective.  Watching the ocean and being lulled by the Earth's heartbeat provides the same clarity.  Looking at the mountains yields the same humbling, don't-sweat-the-small-stuff, look-at-the-big-picture-instead advice.

 

It doesn't matter what season it is.  The trees can be wearing the alarmingly bright new leaves of Spring, the rich green of Summer, the flaming yellows, oranges and reds of Autumn or they can be totally sky-clad in Winter.  Regardless, rounding a corner and being surprise-kissed by the sight of one of those majestic geological formations brings a smile to my face and warmth to my heart.

Cultures Divided by a Common Language

I realized with surprise that I’ve now lived exactly the same amount of time in America as I have abroad.

I was born and raised in Pennsylvania but began moving progressively further away from home when I was 17.  I lived very briefly in New Jersey and then in Texas for nearly 3 years. From there, I moved to Ireland, where I lived in Belfast for 4 years, in Dublin for a grand total of 2 weeks, and then in Galway for a year.  I next moved to England, staying put in London for 21 years. Finally, I returned to my hometown just over a year ago.

Fortunately, while living in London, I visited Rome and Barcelona but that’s as much an incursion as I managed to make into Europe.

I can honestly say that I thoroughly enjoyed everywhere I’ve been, although admittedly I didn’t always understand everyone and everything I experienced.

I suffered culture shock when I first moved to Belfast in December 1983 and, although I thought I’d remained as staunchly American as I’d always been (the accent never so much as wavered), I suffered an equal dose when I returned to Altoona in June 2010.  I suppose all those years abroad did leave a mark, as well as an impression, after all.

Two statements made in my hearing, equally incorrect and 27 years apart, summarize for me what I know of cultures divided by a common language.  In 1983 a man in Belfast said, “Americans know the price of everything and the value of nothing.”  In 2011 a woman in Altoona said, “Foreigners understand nothing about us.”

Where do writers get ideas?

I'm often asked this question and the answer is EVERYWHERE.

Sometimes I have a dream that is so vivid and seems such a good idea for a new story line that I use it.  Sometimes something happens to me, to someone close to me, or even to a complete stranger, that makes an impact on me.  My mind kicks into gear with imaginary scenarios based on the event.  I sometimes wonder "what if this instead of that had happened" or "what events led to that happening" or "what if this happens next".  The next thing I know, I'm in full daydream mode, creating characters and actions loosely based on the event.

I know some writers plan out their books - beginning, middle and end.  I used to do that but stopped because my characters rarely behave and go where I originally planned for them to go.  It's a complete waste of time for me, although I'm sure it works for others.  When I have an idea, I just sit down at the keyboard, put on my headphones with my favorite music of the moment and allow my imagination to take me where it will.