Sunday Messages

This post's first thread of experience, soon to be woven in with another: Today I visited the Young Single Adult (YSA) ward that a colleague attends. While there is lots of sharing of personal messages, or testimonies, at LDS meetings, there is not a sermon or specific take-home message, so this afternoon I still felt as though I was in need of a Sunday Sermon.

Second thread: Last night I watched Guess Who's Coming to Dinner for the first time; or rather I watched most of it. By 10:20 I felt like I knew how it was going to end, and was no longer interested. I was also distressed by the way the movie was treating race. The main character Joey falls in love with a black man 14 years her senior while on holiday in Hawaii. Both are smitten, and decide to get married.
They return to San Francisco, to Joey's parents' house, and break the news of their shocking engagement. The parents struggle theatrically with the race of Doctor Prentice. The black man is exceptionally accomplished, but he's black. Sidney Poitier plays the good Doctor, who keeps apologizing for being "the problem" in what I found to be the most unrealistic and unconvincing portrayal of a black fiance.

After viewing, and especially upon waking up, I wanted to know what James Baldwin would say about the film. I remembered that Poitier had been mentioned in I am Not Your Negro, and wanted to read more about Baldwin's impressions of white cinema's use of this black man.

He wrote a book-length essay, it turns out, called "The Devil Finds Work" about race and cinema, including comments on Poitier's career. I couldn't find it in PDF form, so I've requested it from the library.

In lieu of reading that document, I found a youtube audiobook of The Fire Next Time, my favorite Baldwin text, and have been listening to it while I've made this tomato fennel soup, which is now my favorite tomato soup recipe, probably because of the quantity of butter into which the onion and fennel are melted in the first stage.

Fire has much to say on themes that Guess Who's Coming brings up. For example, John, the Doctor, is portrayed as someone who seeks acceptance into white society, and seeks to be called "successful" along the lines white people have established. This is what Baldwin has to say:

"There appears to be a vast amount of confusion on this point, but I do not know many Negroes who are eager to be 'accepted' by white people, still less to be loved by them; they, the blacks, simply don't wish to be beaten over the head by the whites every instant of our brief passage on this planet."

In the letter to his nephew which opens the novel, Baldwin is more pointed:

"There is no reason for you to try to become like white people and there is no basis whatever for their assumption that they must accept you. The really terrible thing, old buddy, is that you must accept them. And I mean that very seriously. You must accept them and accept them with love."

This is not what Guess Who's Coming implies needs to happen. The whole plot is predicated on the idea that the white world needs to accept John, even though it would be perfectly reasonable to say "that's just too much to ask!" as Joey's father does for most of the film. John, sadly, is as convinced of this as the rest of the cast.

Which alludes to another of Baldwin's points: the crime of this country is that it teaches the black man that he is depraved. In that same letter to his nephew, he writes "You can only be destroyed by believing that you really are what the white world calls a nigger."
A few pages later:

"This innocent country set you down in a ghetto in which, in fact, it intended that you should perish...
You were born where you were born and faced the future that you faced because you were born black and for no other reason...
You were born into a society which spelled out with brutal clarity, and in as many ways as possible, that you were a worthless human being."

In Guess, the cook/maid, a woman of color, is furious at John for attempting to rise above his station. She has fully internalized the low expectations that the country laid before her. Even though he has exceeded those expectations, John seems to have internalized the same inferiority complex. 

Joanna says that she doesn't see what difference race will make. John says she loves him because she doesn't see a difference between him and herself. This is just naivete, to think that black people and white people inhabit the same world in America (especially in 1967, but also today). Again, Baldwin speaks to this: 

Now, my dear namesake, these innocent and well-meaning people, your countrymen, have caused you to be born under conditions not very far removed from those described for us by Charles Dickens in the London of more than a hundred years ago. (I hear the chorus of the innocents screaming, "No! This is not true! How bitter you are!" -- but I am writing this letter to you, to try to tell you something about how to handle them, for most of them do not yet really know that you exist."

The last line, "most of them do not yet really know that you exist," describes exactly what I see happening in the movie. Joey doesn't really see John. Neither do her parents. They also don't see their maid. I'm not sure what they're seeing. But it is not the full human.

When I turned to James Baldwin looking for a more exacting and demanding lesson than I got at church this morning, I turned to the right place. Listen to this last though, given in the part of the book where Baldwin describes his own introduction to Christianity: 

As he grew up and learned more about the way things worked, it became clear that "Neither civilized reason nor Christian love would cause any of those people to treat you as they presumably wanted to be treated; only the fear of your power to retaliate would cause them to do that." Here is the crux of the violence issue: Did white America respect the black man as he was? No, and the lesson for this young Baldwin was that unless he had a lever, a trigger, he would not be treated as these Christians themselves wanted to be treated. 

Violence seemed the only answer. In the Judges text we looked at in Sunday School today, violence also seemed to be the only answer. War, my friend pointed out, was an act of preservation. Even as a Quaker I see the appeal and necessity of violence in some areas. Pacifism seems untenable when one side is so intransigently obtuse or abusive, or both. But look at how Baldwin responded to injustice: Writing unbelievably eloquent and love-based books for the American public, whom he must have believed deserved another, and another, chance. That is an act of love.

The immigrant experience, Pt 2

Again, the topic of "Young immigrants adjusting to life in the US" leaps out of the classroom and onto the pages I'm reading (or, in this case, listening to.) Several groups of 11/12 graders made videos that focused on this theme. The theme is also the central vein of American Street, by Ibi Zoboi, which I just finished tonight and feel rather bowled over by, emotionally. 

The novel tells the story of Fabiola, a Haitian teenager who moves in with her cousins and aunt Jo in Detroit. Her mother is not so lucky at immigration, and is kept in a detention center in New Jersey. 

The book has given me a whole new appreciation for the benchmarks of success for a teenage immigrant. As she comes to master slang turns of phrase, or use curse words appropriately, or insult other girls who give her beef, or, of course, have a serious boyfriend who kisses her in public, she feels better and better about her status. She feels, after having her identity rather yanked from underneath her, as though these accomplishments represent her new, emergent American identity. 

I wonder about the new arrivals who feels this same way. When they can say "Oh heeelllllll no!" with the right amount of attitude, or can turn to each other in amazement and say, "Tell me about it bro!" When they can sing along to American hip hop, or can return someone's insult with one that doesn't get mixed up. At one point, Fabiola goes head to head with another girl in the school yard, and before they come to blows, Fabiola says "Get my cousin's mouth out of your name!" This sends her adversaries into fits of laughter. Resolute, she tries again: "Get my cousin's name out of your mouth!" and this time, she gets it. 

The book also made me appreciate how much my students understand, even if they are not speaking much. Fabiola's first person narrative conveys all of her contemplations, calculations, reactions and hesitations, very few of which, at least during the first half of the book, does she articulate in speech. 

At the end of the story an important character dies. I was disappointed when that happened, mostly because I didn't want this character to die, but also because I thought it was unrealistic and a little over the top. Then, as I walked back from the library where I had picked up the magazines they had taken out of circulation so I can put them in the class library, I thought more about it. I realized no, that's not unrealistic. It seems like a stretch because I'm white and it seems unlikely that an innocent person would get shot by the police. I don't think any person of color would find this ending unrealistic. 

The interesting thing about this book is that it deals with many of the same themes as The Hate U Give, but the story ends with the key murder, rather than beginning with it. We learn almost nothing about the fall out from the murder in American Street - we get the characters' stories and the story's bulk before things go bad. Two very different ways to tell the story. Either you start with the bad event, and fill in the negative space, or you build up all these monumental characters and scenarios, then tear them down in a climactic, devastating scene. I have never been one for surprises, and I think I prefer the former.

The immigrant experience

One of the scenarios that students chose to make their video projects about last week was: "Young immigrants adjusting to life in the U.S." This theme came from the short story we read in the fall, "Fish Cheeks" by Amy Tan.

The groups that chose this theme talked about many things. One group talked about a woman looking for a mosque, who got on a bus and couldn't figure out how to get the bus to stop at the right stop (she didn't know to pull the cord attached to the wall) so she watched the mosque sail past, helpless.

Another group wrote about a man who was beeped out of the way when he tried to cross the street at the wrong juncture where there wasn't a little light saying when to go, and how long you have. Another group had their character receive a letter after three months stating that government aid was ending, and so food stamps, health insurance, rental assistance were all expiring.

I found these stories absolutely wonderful because they were like true short stories - about the small things that happen, which, when communicated thoughtfully, help others understand our experience better. By "our" I mean human, not immigrant, because I'm not an immigrant. But my students' stories help me better understand what the immigrant experience is like.

A masterfully told story of immigrants adjusting to life in the US is How the Garcia Girls Lost Their Accents, a novel by Julia Alvarez which consists of 15 stories about a family of four girls and their parents. They began life as illustrious residents of the Dominican Republic, but her father was not in favor with the Trujillo regime, and so they came to the US.

The stories focus, early on, on the lives of the girls once they reach the US. As the book goes on, the stories backtrack to their childhoods in the Dominican Republic. The scenes and details from the island remind me of other caribbean lit - Breath, Eyes, Memory by Edwidge Danticat, and Wide Sargasso Sea by Jean Rhys. It occurred to me today that the book recreates the process of getting to know someone as an adult. You learn about their present first, and come to know their adult selves. Then, gradually, you become privvy to their upbringing, how it shaped them, and how it lives in their memory.

Indeed, no immigrants get to be known in their adopted countries any other way. With some of my American friends, I've known them since they were tiny. I don't have, can't have, that privilege with anyone who immigrated as an adult or semi-adult. I am obliged to get to know their adult self first, and, if I make it far enough into the book of their lives, their pasts and childhoods will be revealed. 

Two Female Judges

I have seen two movies in the past week that make me want to go to law school and switch careers. The first is The Judge, about Kholoud Al-Faqih, the first female judge in a court of Shari'a law in Palestine. The second is RBG, about the life and work of Ruth Bader Ginsburg. 

Both are my favorite kind of film. Documentaries, focused on one person's story, that paint a broader picture of an issue. 

Both women are pioneers. Both are steadfast in their work. Both are humble about their accomplishments. Both have experienced and are experiencing severe setbacks and opposition. The traditional Shari'a interpreters say Kholoud has not place in the court. Many Palestinian laypeople share that opinion, as is clear from interviews in Al-Manara square in Ramallah (images of which brought tears of nostalgia to my eyes!) 

Her work has been reduced by certain overseers to mere clerical work, rather than real litigation. She bears it all, clearly seeing herself as part of a long arch of history which moves towards greater justice for women in the formal courts of law. 

RBG also is part of that long arch. The patience exhibited by these women is awe-inspiring. 

One thing made me curious about RBG while watching it in a theater which, I realized upon exiting, was full of middle-aged women. There was a lot of sort of giddy laughter during the film. And not just at the moments when Gingsburg was being deliberately funny. When she walked, with her diminutive stature, and her large glasses, or her elderly woman mannerisms, there was a lot of laughter, if felt, at her. Or at least at her situation. 

I'm not sure how to describe it. People seemed to simultaneously admire her longevity, and be uncomfortable with the idea that someone this old could still be operating at a level that commands dignity and respect, not titters of laughter as if she were acting a role written for a younger person. Yes, it felt like they were laughing at her as if she were assuming someone else's persona. 

One of the best moments of the film was when she actually did do just that: put on an act. She played the speaking role in an opera, and her stage presence, her enunciation, her facial expressions, were those of a true thespian. It was brilliant to see this creative side of her. 

But otherwise, when she was being herself, I didn't like that people were giggling or openly laughing at the way she moved across the screen. I don't think any of it was deliberately rude, I just think we are uncomfortable with the combination of capability and old age that she represents, and the way we react to discomfort is often to laugh. That's certainly true for me.

There are so many ways to change our society. Attempting to change it the laws seems like a long, hard slog, but my goodness, a worthwhile one. Tess changes society in the hospital, by helping individuals change their current and future state of health. I hope that I help change society by helping some of the newest members of our society read and write English better, and better understand the issues of our world. Mom changes society by teaching care, deliberate action, teamwork and responsibility to inmates who will soon rejoin the citizenry. 

I don't think I'll end up going to law school. But the idea of spending a few years studying in a library sounds really good in the middle of a week of teaching!

Divergent - a simulation doesn't cut it

In the YA fantasy book Divergent, a great deal of the dangerous and suspenseful action takes place within simulations. "Initiates" like the main character Tris face fearsome foes while connected to a machine that creates the simulation. 
It's not very exciting. 

During the simulations, Tris has to drill herself: "This is not real. This is a simulation. It can't hurt me." This does a lot to deplete the suspenseful energy of the scene. As a reader I have to drill myself: "This is real enough to care about. She's really under duress. This is intense. It it!" But it's not. Especially in comparison to the trials that truly try the aspirants in An Ember in the Ashes, book 1 of the quartet of books that I'm obsessed with by Sabaa Tahir, the third instalment of which comes out June 12. 

In Ember, the aspirants face their fears, but not some phoney version generated by a metal chair and some wires attached to the head. They face demons made of sand in the wide, barren desert; they face wraiths that shriek; a headmistress who is one of the most fearsome characters I've ever read about, right up there with Voldemort; they face impossible mental challenges, like the wrenching need to kill some friends in order to save others. 

Another thing about Divergent: Tris seems born to face down terrifying fears, with no real learning curve (in this way she is similar to Hunger Games' Katniss. She is not greatly phased by enormous strains on her endurance. Her mental capabilities are always up to the task. She doesn't fail enough, basically. 

In an interview, Tahir, author of Ember, said that she didn't think the young heroines of YA fantasy should necessarily spring onto the page totally ready to take on the world. Laia, her main character, has to build up her ability to face the challenges she faces, and she fails a lot on the way there. Her failures have real consequences for herself and for others. It makes the story relatable and compelling, because the character shows real growth. 

This week in class students are making their own stories, but our goal is to make realistic fiction. They chose a theme or topic that came up in some of our literature this year, did their own research on the topic, and now are creating scripts and images for a Common Craft-style video of their stories. 
Even the students who do not speak English well have complex and fascinating stories. One is about a politician named Farah who makes lots of promises while he's on the campaign trail. Ali, a citizen, gets really excited about his message and starts campaigning for him. Once elected, Farah's promises are forgotten, and Ali suffers disillusionment. 

I'm excited to see these stories take shape on paper and then on film this week.

Women and traditional roles

This month one of my students, L, who is a major chatterbox in her home language but who hardly whispers a word in English, made two insightful comments. 

The first was "Americans go somewhere, they go for business. They not go to live." This came out during a writing exercise in which students were talking about whether the US should intervene in other countries' affairs. No one else even approached the idea that L. brought up as if it were the most evident truth in the world. I encouraged her to write it. 

The second one, last week, was that women are usually "nature" (natural) to begin with, but then they see "vision" (I think she must have meant television) and wear lots of makeup and they change their hair. This was her comment during a discussion on women who are trying to break out of traditional roles. She and her partner, C, have made a story about a woman who immigrates to the US then changes her entire appearance. 

I encouraged these two students to consider, in their story, whether the character's mind changes too, or just her appearance. "Her mind too!" insisted L, again as if it was obvious. She has clearly watched this happen in several others. She herself arrives at school sometimes in sweatpants and looking as though she slept in her locker, sometimes totally decked out, hair, nails, fancy dress.

My attention was grabbed by this article this week, about a book by a woman who is trying to decide whether to have children or not. The questions which Heti asks are ones which are the same ones on my mind when I contemplate the motherhood question. 

Hamilton, and an America Sings concert

On Friday, 88 students from Utah International went to the Eccles Theater to see Hamilton! the Broadway, hip hop musical. 

Of course I had read all about how groundbreaking Hamilton is as a piece of artwork, not just creatively (the blending of genres) but socially (a cast in which the only white actor plays King George III - all others, including Jefferson, Hamilton, Washington, Eliza and Angelica Schuyler, Aaron Burr, James Madison, John Laurens, Hercules Mulligan, Marquis de Lafayette, are all played by actors of color). But I was impressed how much the show brought this innovation home. I sat separate from most of my students because I was with the three students who had been chosen to perform their "performance piece" (the school work they were required to create in order to qualify for cheap tickets - an incredible program orchestrated with magnificent panache by a consortium of organizations, headed by Gilder Lehrman.) I could see where my students were sitting from my seat, and knowing that they, as immigrants and students of color themselves, were watching actors of color portray immigrants who helped shape our nation when they were the same age as my students... was a satisfying feeling, especially given the majority of white, affluent kids in the auditorium. 

The show glorified war more than I thought it would. Hamilton is dying for the opportunity to lead a battalion. George Washington tells him, "Dying is easy young man, living is harder." But Hamilton is deaf to warnings. And really, he escapes unscathed, either mentally or physically, from the trenches. The only struggle with death comes from his son's premature death in a duel over honor. The war bears no blemish in this story, and perhaps that's Lin Manuel Miranda's point - it took a war to give us this nation, and nothing short of a war would have, so it was a just war and doesn't need to be dragged through the mud like so many other wars are. 

I thought the play did, however, give a sense of the difficulty women faced when their men were away from their families at war and in governance. Much the way Jane Adams misses her husband when he's off participating in the first congressional meetings, Eliza feels Hamilton's absence as a personal injury - "if I could be enough... isn't this enough?" she asks as she gestures around at his home and his son... and herself. 

At the end, of course, she's the one who "lives" and "tells your story". Her voiced is certainly tinged with desperation when she asks "And when my time is up, have I done enough? Will they tell our story?" Two things. 

First, she seems to do these things in Alexander's shadow, not just inspired but compelled and in fear of his legacy. It's as though she's doing these things so he will rest in peace, not for her own fulfillment. Thanks to my students' research I know that widows had the most freedom and autonomy in colonial and early American society, so her life may have become much more free after her husband died. Good thing the good Lord gave her 50 more years!

Second, ugh! this unquellable need to leave a legacy, to make a mark that all posterity will recall. 

Legacy. What is a legacy?
It’s planting seeds in a garden you never get to see
I wrote some notes at the beginning of a song someone will sing for me
America, you great unfinished symphony, you sent for me
You let me make a difference
A place where even orphan immigrants
Can leave their fingerprints and rise up
I’m running out of time. I’m running, and my time’s up

I can't decide what to say about the legacy question. If you have been doing good work, of course you want it to be remembered and continued. But not simply with a monument to you. Let's build monuments, rather, to ideas. That might make the likelihood that work on this idea continues. When I look at the Washington Monument, there is no part of me that things - hey, I could do what he did for freedom. But looking at a monument about literacy, or equal rights, might well inspire me to take action in my own small way. Let's not let legacies unwittingly distance us from the humans, for that is what they were, who did valuable work. Yes, Eliza! Your work is enough! It doesn't have to measure up to any Alexander-sized benchmarks. It only needs to stand the test of integrity: was the work done in good faith, for good causes, without overreaching? Since her mission work was in her own backyard, I feel the answer is more likely to be "yes" than it would have been had she gone outside the US to help other poor tired masses. 


Speaking of poor tired masses, the Salt Lake Choral Artists gave a concert called "America Sings" last night. It was a very different portrait of America - songs written about this "great unfinished symphony" in the years after Hamilton helped bring it into being. Most of the songs forgot about the "unfinished" part and just sang about the "greatness". It was a pretty bland concert. And there was no one person of color on stage, though that didn't stop us from trying on Elijah Rock. 

This Land is Your Land
Home on the Range
America The Beautiful
Let There be Peace on Earth
Give Me Your Tired, Your Poor (from the inscription on the Statue of Liberty - whose foundation on an idea rather than a person I appreciate! Thank you France!)

These were not making me smile last night, or any rehearsal night last month. 

The one song on the program that redeemed the concert in my eyes was Song of Democracy, which puts Walt Whitman poetry to words and pays tribute to some of the difficulty of being a democracy, but is essentially hopeful that the "ship of democracy" will carry on. He tells the ship, "Of value is thy freight." I find that a very moving line in this piece. Of value is thy freight, ship of democracy. Don't be reckless. Here's a video of the New England Conservatory giving a concert of this piece, with orchestra (we are only using piano for our version). The part I like best starts at 6:00. The poetry says: 

Sail, Sail thy best, ship of Democracy,
Of value is thy freight, 'tis not the present only,
The Past  is also stored in thee.
Thou holdest not the venture of thyself alone,
    not of thy Western continent alone.
Earth's resume entire floats on thy keel, O ship,
    is steadied by thy spars,
With thee Time voyages in trust, the antecedent
    nations sink or swim with thee.
With all their ancient struggles, martyrs, heroes,
    epics, wars, thou bear'st the other continents,
Theirs, theirs as much as thine, the destination  -
     port triumphant