Now and then, I devote my column to a book, and today is another such day. I write about a Stefan Zweig novel, Beware of Pity: here. My column is titled “Life in Your Face.” Its closing line is, “An amazing thing that novelists can do is take us away from life — give us relief from life, particularly our own — while putting life right in our face.” Anyway, see what you think.
A week ago, I published an essay — largely personal — called “Wrestling with Race.” A reader writes,
I grew up in Texas, where race issues were ever present. But my parents worked very hard to teach us to see people as people, not as skin colors. I have a very early memory of my parents explaining why some racist remarks we had heard were wrong. My sister and I were confused by those remarks. We had never heard anything like it before. I remember the feeling of confusion more than the specific remarks. . . .
I grew up with the idea that colorblindness was the goal. That judging people by “the content of their character” was the goal. Integration was the goal. It is so surreal today to see all this turned on its head.
Another reader writes,
My father raised me to accept people for who they are, not for what their skin says. Unfortunately, he married a woman who did not view the world the same way. I have done my best to let people’s actions speak for them rather than their appearance. I’ve met some people who look polished and sound intelligent but are bigots. I know others who seem scary but would give their coat to someone in need.
In that essay of mine, one passage goes like this:
You know what makes white people race-conscious? When they marry someone of another race. Or adopt a child of another race. They are more attuned to racism. They start to see things with different eyes and hear things with different ears.
A reader writes to recommend a piece published in The Athletic in August 2020: “It’s because of Emersyn: Jaccob and Kylie Slavin’s love for their child shifted their reality.” Jaccob Slavin is a player for the Carolina Hurricanes of the NHL.
(Where the extra “c” in “Jaccob” comes from, I don’t know. Would enjoy an investigation.)
Maybe one more letter, on this general subject:
Jay,
I lived in Mobile, Ala., for 16 years, and part of my duties was fund-raising. Therefore, I came to know many of the “powers that be.”
The Mobile Mardi Gras is segregated to a large degree. There are two Carnival associations, black and white, each with a king and queen. The queens are chosen from that year’s debutantes. The white queen is from an old-money family, and the black queen is from an upper-middle-class or rich black one. . . .
In 2007, the white queen was descended from an owner of the last slave ship to enter the United States, the Clotilda. The black queen was descended from a slave on that ship.
A young lady from one of the WASP families made a documentary about the situation and a slice of Mobile race relations. I was invited to the premiere. Needless to say, there were lots of uncomfortable moments. . . .
The documentary is The Order of Myths, directed by Margaret Brown. It is enlightening.
For the past week, readers and I have been batting around the phrase “I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck” and related phrases (“I was born at night, but not last night”). Here is a note from a lawyer in Tyler, Texas:
I was not an angel when I was a yute. When she caught me in a lie, my mother would say, “I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck.” I figured it was a saying my maternal grandmother had coined — she was a wit, who loved professional wrestling. But I learned it extends beyond my family . . .
Thank you, one and all.