Take Me Home

About two blocks from my home is a lovely pale yellow bungalow.  It features perfectly matched shrubs and a well-tended landscape.  The house has character.  But it is not the house that draws me there, but rather another little house right on the property.
Next to the little walkway that leads to the front door is a tiny home standing on a post.  It's not really a home but it does house something.  Books.  It is one of many "Free Libraries" around my town.  I'm sure you can find a few in your neighborhood as well.
Here, people walking by can stop and open the glass door/window and browse the contents.  If you see something you like or want...take it.  A Free Library is just that.  I'm sure some folks take the books for their own shelves, while others no doubt return what they've borrowed.

This morning I placed three books on the little shelf of the Free Library.  In a week or so I'll go back to see if any are there and if it looks like some sort of turnover has occurred.  If so, I plan to make weekly donations because I'm downsizing a bit and would love to pass on books I need not keep any more.  Of course the danger here is if people, myself included, make this a dumping ground for their trash.  I hope not and I will be careful to make sure what I put in there is of value and worthy of anyone's time.
This whole business of putting books or other objects in public places there for the taking is fascinating.  It is also not new.  There are over 100,000 members of an organization called Book Crossing that encourages members to place books in public places.  They too have been criticized for devaluing books.  But is that really happening? In some ways it's harmless, but some might consider it in the same vein as getting rid of trash or using their favorite places as the local Goodwill.

  Perhaps there is some way to ascertain whether or not the folks who take the books are pleased, if not ecstatic to get a new book.  New to them, at least.
Taking home a book, any way can't be a bad thing.  Neither can the mild surprise and delight that comes with discovering a book or object of art, or anything of value and finding it available for whoever would like it.
In our consumer dominated culture, there are those who are beginning to look the other way.  Yet, getting older is what really brings out the purging mentality.  I'm getting there little by little.  I've begun to think about what I'd like to do with some of the things and art objects I've accumulated over the years.  With such a small family, this becomes a problem unless I, and people in the same predicament, choose to do something about it.  Plus it gives us a say about where and who we might like to see become the new keepers of our former treasures.  For now the downsizing mantra is "space."  I want to see space, places with nothing or at least drastically fewer objects.  I recall once seeing a picture of Gandhi's room.  Aside from a bed, he had his clothing, a pair of glasses, and a small sculpture of the three see no, speak no, hear no evil monkeys.  I think that last object must be some sort of Zen koan.  I'm still working on it's meaning.

A Good Place to Get Depressed

I walk the same streets,
                 looking for character and finding
                 irregular families and those alone who
mark their trails with institutional voices.

This would be a good place to get depressed,
that is if it weren't already in the air,

New attendees think that a quaint spirit is
somehow in the coffee, in the movie theater, or in
what passes for a bookstore.

The motorcycle gang eats sushi before
polishing their leather,
they attend sessions in the county medical clinic.

 Just like I said, they smile at you and try to pretend
their machines aren't too loud, or too blinding.

Come walk with me,
we are sure to see a child who is delighted to be
hiding under a tree.

A Glass of Water

I have three distinct memories of Richard.  The first one is a first-grade class picture.  He is easy to find because he's a head taller than everyone else and he's smiling.  We are all smiling as best we can but Richard is the only one whose puffed cheeks resemble a squirrel.
Richard did not live with his parents.  The only one of us who didn't come from a postwar suburban household, he shared a small garage apartment with his grandfather and younger brother.  I don't think I ever heard his grandfather speak, but I did see him on occasion because they lived across the street from Bob's, the neighborhood barbershop.  He had the look of an old German man. Richard's last name confirmed that.  His actions screamed frugality. There was very little money for anything according to Richard.
Richard and his brother were always well groomed, but not up on the current trends in clothing.  They must have struggled along and their grandfather looked to be well past 50.  That may have had something to do with why Richard never participated in Little League or Boy Scouts or other community activities.  Still, he smiled most of the time.

We never asked him about his parents.  We figured if he was ready to tell us anything, he'd let us know. Richard started coming by my street around the time that 6th grade turned to 7th and middle school.  One day he knocked on my door wanting to hang out and told him I couldn't because I had to canvas the neighborhood with my Radio Flyer stacked with boxes of Martino's doughnuts. My Boy Scout troop was trying to raise money for summer camp. "Would you like to buy some doughnuts from the Boy Scouts?"  That was our spiel.  Richard jumped at the chance.
"Can I go with you?" he pleaded.
"Sure, you can pull the wagon if you want."
Before we sold out, Richard was the one going to the door cheerfully succeeding by raising money for the troop of which he was not a member.  He was a natural.
The second memory I have is less painful than it once was.  As 7th graders attending middle school, we were on the bottom of the grade 7-9 barrel.  Our school was particularly tough having a diverse mixture of suburbanites, working-class families, and Latinos.  Bullying was rife, as was the tradition of "scrubbing" the new 7th graders.  This hazing rite featured big 9th graders grabbing7th graders and writing all over their faces in bright red lipstick.  Humiliating and shame-ridden.
Richard and I were aware of the danger.  We tried to walk home with any 8th or 9th graders we knew so as not to stick out.  Even the days when I walked home only with Richard I felt safe because he was taller than most.  But one day a chubby group of 9th graders approached us salivating about the fact that we might be their next 7th grade victims.
"Hey, aren't you guys 7th graders," a kid with a jiggly belly yelled as he grabbed us by our shirt sleeves.
"No, we're 8th graders, " we said, hearts racing.
"No you're not," he growled.
Richard took off running.  I had no choice but to do the same.
His big stride let him put distance on the bully bunch in no time.  Weighed down by textbooks and a binder, I didn't fare so well.
The day ended tearfully but my mom's cold cream did the trick.
Richard attended a different high school and we never saw much of each other for years.  The San Fernando Valley's population spurt created new schools and boundary lines that ended friendships.  I'd see him every so often on trips to the grocery store or barber shop but always from a distance.  Our lives like our friends transitioned into different worlds and then very different goals.  But five years later, one late August afternoon Richard strolled up my street and found his way to my front porch.  I'd been sitting outside reading when his broad smile greeted me.
"I thought you might still live here," he said.
"Yeah, just me and my dad now.  Mom died a few years ago and my sister's married now and lives in Northridge."
We caught up a bit.  After discussing high school and the whereabouts of people we remembered from elementary school, silence predominated. 
Finally I said, "Did you know that Bill Garcia was killed in Vietnam?"
He didn't.  I could see a row of fine sweat beads across Richard's forehead and upper lip.  Where had he been walking on this 90-degree day?

When I asked Richard where he was headed, his answer puzzled me.
"San Francisco, I'm tryin' to get to San Francisco. What to do think a Greyhound bus ticket costs?"
The picture before me developed quickly.  Richard's unusually short haircut screamed military. But i wondered if he was going back or going AWOL.
"I gotta get going, but could I trouble you for a glass of water?"
"Sure, would you like something to eat?"
"No just a glass of water would be great."
On my way to the kitchen, I checked my wallet.  I removed one of the two $20s I had and upon returning to the porch passed it to Richard along with an ice filled glass of water.
I've always believed we had no need to discuss anything further.
Richard departed and I never heard from him again.
Fast forward 50 years and the miracle of the internet.
One warm afternoon, on a lark I plugged Richard's name into a search engine.  I figured his last name was unusual enough that if anything came up it would be worth a look.  I found one match.  The person referenced was a student at a small community college in a remote part of Nevada.  Could this be a son? A relative?  What about a 60 something making up for lost time?

See and Reclaim the Truth

They were talking very low, but even though I was a few steps ahead of them I heard the anger and self-righteous demeanor of their voices.  I heard their words too.  They said we were "fetishizing pain."  That was hardly our motive.  Who does that? Well, I know, but we were interested in things like history, remembering, and reclaiming.
This conversation occurred during an intense summer institute that brought teachers from three parts of the country to discover and "make" American Literature.  The two whispering about fetishizing pain were referring to a film we had just watch: Ethnic Notions by Marlon Riggs.
Ethnic Notions is a look at the history and development of racial stereotypes in America.  It is most informative, but it is also brutally honest and often difficult for many people to watch.  The shocking content features the origin and evolution of everything from the iconic racist images of Sambo, the Pickaninny, Mammy, Aunt Jemima, Uncle Tom, et.al.  The film must be used in context; it must be used carefully.  As it is available on YouTube, I won't include too much content here because what concerns me most now are how people process learning about the overt racism that was once so prevalent in this country.
The aforementioned conversation took place between some educators from Michigan and Georgia.  My group, from California, recommended and presented the film.  Since the institute was at UC Berkeley, it was good publicity for the filmmaker, who was teaching there at the time.
In trying to process the apparent indignation these out of state teachers felt, I decided that it was probably a form of denial.  It would be so much easier for them to ignore or rationalize our obsession with the pain these images caused that to deal with it.  Then there was the issue of making this content part of their curriculum.

Today when I see the current crop of politicos finding that their past will often catch up with them, I understand how important it is to reveal and reclaim America's racist past.  It's alarming and almost unbelievable that people today still don't know or understand the history and motivation of whites appearing in blackface.  The current governor of Virginia will step down this week as the latest to pay the price.  Sometimes the price can be rather high.  I reference Megan Kelly, the journalist (?) who was taken off the air abruptly for thinking that becoming a later day minstrel was probably OK.  How anyone making $29 million could be so ignorant is beyond me but it begins with thinking that those of us who expose and reclaim this history are somehow enjoying it.  We enjoy teaching and seeing the truth and helping others to do the same...safely.