Of Race, Language and Class

Twenty years ago, I sat next to beautiful blond, blue-eyed young lady from Mexico City during my wife and my honeymoon cruise aboard the ship Carla Costa in the Caribbean. She spoke no English but through some passable Spanish I remember learning she had a little girl. In retrospect, I learned a lot more on a ship in which the biggest single group of passengers was Mexican as was most of the crew.

And that lesson was, none of the crew was blond or blue-eyed. In fact, they all looked Indian, some as if they could have walked out of a Mayan or Aztec carving. Conversely, none of the Mexican passengers I met resembled Indians. The passengers were clearly educated and affluent; the crew, certainly not affluent and probably much less educated.

It’s probably all the discussion about immigration and language in the United States that recently had me thinking about the divisions that showed up during this week-long voyage that took us from San Juan to Curacao to the coast of Venezuela and then Grenada, Martinique, St. Thomas and back to San Juan.

There was no escaping the divisions, for instance the very clear class/race distinction of the Mexicans.

Nor, on a day trips into the Venezuelan capital of Caracas, was it possible to escape a loud-mouthed American couple, the kind that could pose for the Ugly American poster. They objected to the sound of Spanish being spoken. They were upset that the vendors in the Old City wouldn’t take dollars. I was hoping for a vendor that said, “We’re not with the idiots T Shirt.”

On the way back to the boat, the guide pointed to the rancheros, the shanties clinging to the mountain side over looking the highway and said how happy all these people were and how they loved Americans. I remember telling my wife, “I’d love to hear what he says when the tourists aren’t around.” Of course, it was that same year some of these same glowing locals rioted.  It looked doubtful many of them saw the Old City, except perhaps as street vendors.

Back on the ship on night, the very Italian captain on this ship of Italian registry held a reception. That drew together the three groups of passengers who were, in order of numbers, Mexicans, Americans and Italians.

Time being squeezed the Captain announced he would make his statements in Spanish and English only. At that point, two tables of young Italians got up and left the room, leaving a very angry captain.

I don’t know if there are any great lessons in this other than these things that divide us do not often leave us.

The Amish Are Different in a Different Way

A recent report that the Amish are heeding the "Go West, young man" advice of Horace Greeley several decades after the fact brought up the images of what people think the Amish are, and what they really are. Yes, they are very religious and yes, there are many elements of the nineteenth century in their daily life. But they are not quite the simple people living simple lives at least not in Southern Indiana.

The Amish moved into adjoining areas of Jefferson, Switzerland and Ripley Counties in the 1980s, after I had left the state. And they arrived in an area in which many residents had abandoned farming. They certainly kept much land in productive use and improved many farm houses and barns.

But one distant relative discussed what happened with the first Amish family that arrived, settling near her farm. Her husband was scheduled to be gone for the evening and she had set off for town--and their likely absence must have been known--because when she realized she needed to return for something she had forgotten, she saw a light in the barn. Investigating she found some Amish men with a buggy jacked up welding an axle with an acetylene torch.

Yes, the Amish won't own a car or have telephones in their house. But they have no compunctions about paying neighbors to drive them to distances, some short, some very long, or borrowing a neighbor's telephone (and paying for long distance charges.)

They sometimes remove electric motors from device such as clothes washers and install gasoline-powered ones. And some farmers had no problem borrowing hay elevators to get hay into their barns. Family gossip says in northern Indiana they often show up on construction job sites and borrow the tools owned by other workers to the point that it's a problem.

It is well known that the elders, or whatever the ruling bodies are called, decide which modern innovations can be accepted. It's sometimes jarring to see children dressed in clothing in a style from the 1800s playing on trampolines. They are not puritans. With their German background, they like their beer and there are pretty reliable reports that one father of a large family also had a girl friend.

Certainly, all people have their foibles. A relative talked about how hundreds of dollars of calls to sex lines appeared on his telephone and it turned out to be from an Amish teenager. After he fessed up, the ladies would call asking "what happened to Jacob?"

Having foibles doesn't mean an entire belief system is compromised or if one man has a mistress that everyone has lax morals. But these settlements are not utopian societies. Those who idealize them for their simple life and values are just as off base as those who find them misfits in a modern world.

They simply have their ways. And they are different and deal with the world in their own way.

A Matter of Black and White in a Small School

When I was in the fourth grade at Central School, about 1959, I was asked to learn a song for an upcoming musical. It had two verses, the first of which went

"I'z a little pickaninny, blacker dan a crow
I'z as sweet a 'lasses candy, mammy told me so
She calls me tiny bit of sunshine
Calls me precious lamb.
Calls me tiny bit of sugar
Cause dat's what I am."

By the way, my fourth grade musical was a minstrel show done in black face. Central, which then had fewer than 250 students in grades 1 through 12, was just north of Madison, Ind., which is probably 80 or 90 miles south of the Mason-Dixon line.

After learning the song, I refused the part, not because of the racial message, but I thought it was sissy and I still remember watching from the wings as a classmate sang it to approving parents at the performance. The whole thing was vintage complete with "Mister Interlocutor", a standard minstrel show character who was essentially an emcee, The only other thing I remember was him telling the audience it would now see a dance by the Central Fifth and Sixth graders.

The reason I remember this has nothing to do with the theme. It was the age at which everything we learn sticks with us. I can still recite Longfellow's "Ship of State" which is from a longer poem. But somehow I'm glad I did because it's a part of history that needs to be told.

I didn't know any blacks. There none in our school and the only one I remember seeing in elementary school was a gentleman who worked at the Kroger Supermarket and whom my Dad was friendly with. About the only kind words I heard from relatives and friends say concerning blacks were about "cute little nigger kids." I think when they got bigger, they must have seemed less cute and I have relatives who never liked any black that showed leadership or decried the system. The "N" word got used a lot.

We are all born with innocence. It is things like minstrel shows, which treated a minority as cartoon characters, that soured it for many and as a friend of mine who taught in Madison in this decade said, there were many students he taught who showed unbelievable racism.

It is this innocence that led me not to recognize how segregated Madison, Ind., was during the 1950s. Of course, living in the country, I didn't see it every day. I had heard much later from a friend how when his family moved into the area, members were urged to join the now defunct country club so they wouldn't have to swim with the black kids at Crystal Beach, the municipal pool.

The real lesson came when I read excerpts of "All We Had Was Each Other," an account of the Madison black community published in 1998 by Don Wallis Jr., son of the editor of the Madison Courier. Even the country club/Crystal Beach issue apparently was an improvement as Wallis wrote that blacks once had to swim in Crooked Creek, which runs through town.

In one chapter, a trio of women born in 1948, a year before my birth, recounted segregation during their childhood, including the fact blacks had to sit in the balcony of the theater. In fact, I'm not sure from the book how much of the strict segregation, blacks not eating in white restaurants or being able to join white organizations, still operated during the late 1950s. My research tells me that school segregation and segregation of public facilities were outlawed in Indiana in 1957. One of the women recounted hostility when the elementary schools were integrated.

And there was a flash when I suspected I now knew why my parents never gave in to my request to sit in the balcony, which always seemed like a cool thing to do.

There are other stories that defy my memory of a quiet little town. The town wouldn't run sewer lines to black homes and Crooked Creek was full of sewage. Black women couldn't have their babies at the hospital.

There are some tremendous ironies here. Jefferson County, Ind., was a leader in the abolition movement in the 1800s and coincidentally had more than its share of residents who caught escaped slaves for the reward. One community built the Eleutherian College, an integrated, co-education college in Lancaster Township, which opened 1848. And there were those who burned down buildings students were to live in.

Even more ironic was the role of Central School (now Ryker's Ridge Elementary), which sits between the Ryker's Ridge Baptist Church and its cemetery. The church has always been proud of its role in aiding slaves to escape via the Underground Railroad and the story is they were hidden in the church. The caveat is that the blacks buried in the graveyard are buried in a corner far away from all the other graves.

Oh, yeah, the other public high school in Jefferson County is still called "The Rebels" with the requisite Confederate flag as the symbol. Unless things have changed recently.

I suppose the good news was that in the musical when I was in the fifth grade (chosen by the same teacher), I got to play a seal who rescued the hero. And the villain and I dueled it out vocally in a song that I realized years later was based on the quartet from "Rigoletto".

We had some class, after all.

On the Joy of Raspberry Preserves

It is always with trepidation that I open the first jar, that jar with purple goo where the hot mixture of berries, water and sugar coalesces after being dribbled down the side. It is the first testing of the season's preserves.

There have been the jars full of rock-hard, raspberry candy and the ones full of liquid that could not possible settle on a biscuit with ease. Yet, I am too proud to do other than stir and attempt to judge from color, thickness and the kinds of bubbles that well up when it is ready than do the sensible thing and buy a thermometer. And so I stir and sweat over a stove when the temperature outside is already in the nineties. And I test the thickness by letting drops fall into a cup of water and judging the results.

All of this is for these jars that surpass expectations; that have just that right mixture of texture, not runny, not hard, full of flavor. And all my doing.

What is it about food that is derived direct from your source by your own hands? There were the peas that decorated my yard in spring and fall for a full years, yielding memories of home and tender seeds until the Eastern rabbits learned their taste and drove me from this field. But they were always fresher, hence better, than anything from the artificial store shelves.

Then, there is the walnut tree in our back yard that I had not noticed for years until an unplanned change of career left me home during day light with time to notice the hulls on the ground. I spent days sifting through fallen leaves. Most of the tree leans over our neighbor's yard and I would lean over the fence and grab them with one of those "garbage pickers" or use a rake to bring them closer. My neighbors did not use walnuts and for some reason, never seemed to be around when I wanted to ask permission to come over to remove them from their yard. I graduated to using a tree trimmer with an extensible pole to broaden my reach.

After a suitable drying period, they were cracked. I found that lying them flat on concrete steps and tapping firm, but not hard enough to send pieces flying, produced decent sized chunks. These are black walnuts, not the Asian varieties from supermarkets that produce large seeds that separate easily from the shell. These yield bits and pieces and require frequent use of a knife pick.

"Those were mighty expensive walnuts," someone wrote after I posted on Facebook the amount of time it took to harvest a couple of plastic bags full. And yet, I have been more inclined to use walnuts in hot cereal with these pieces than I ever have been with purchased nuts, despite having to pick shell fragments out of my mouth.

There is a satisfying lesson that food has a life apart from us; that it is not there simply for our pleasure; that it does not exist for us. It exists for itself, for its own perpetuation through the product its species; to be knocked accidentally to the ground or carried through the digestive system of some animal; and to fall somewhere on good ground.

We make use of it, but for someone somewhere, in getting the ingredients to our table, there is work by someone, that effort must be made, that there is a cost to everything, and that we are simply part of the chain.

Becoming a Facebook Chameleon

The thought has been growing: what if I were to adopt a new life, pick parts that suit me and present a new face to the world. In the era of social media, there's never been a better opportunity to experiment with personality.

Simply start with Facebook and create a page that has a legitimate email address. But from then, I could create a new profile. Suddenly, I have an interest in fine wines and tractor pulls (probably not a convincing combination). I rarely miss romantic comedies and stock car racing, none of which are true currently. I would enter the information falsely, but consistently about what movies I like books I have read and favorite television shows. None of which would match my current profile.

Then, I would begin inviting friends, making sure that only people I have never met will populate my list. Of course, there would be many rejections. But some would hit the "Accept request" button without thinking. Others might be simply intrigued by being solicited by someone who shares so many interests with them.

It would take some effort to convincingly engage in dialog, creating new family members, school history and job experience. But for the most part, most friends would not dig deep if approached in an engaging, seemingly sincere manner. There might be some evasiveness needed if anyone of them want to meet me. Oh, I have this terrible agoraphobia and not only cannot I not leave me house, I got into screaming panics if visitors try to enter.

There has always been this thought that, if I am not me, who would I be? What would I be like had I taken this course, not talked to that person, and missed a particular telephone call? Here is the chance to take that other direction, or perhaps as many directions as I have legitimate email addresses.

I suppose this is not much different than the experience of an actor who is deeply involved in a role or a law enforcement agent who has spent too long assuming a different personality to go underground during an investigation. Or perhaps it's like the impersonator whose story was the basis for the movie "Catch Me If You Can?"

How quickly would I become the other person? Would I indeed become another person or something that's a mix of what I am now with a new reality? Would this be better or worse? Would I be me? Would I know?

Men as Steak-Loving, Beer-Guzzling Simpletons

Father’s Day reminds us that men have simple needs. They need to know how to grill steak, keep a yard green and how to use a remote while utilizing a big-screen television to watch their favorite sport. At least, that’s what advertising tells and if that’s what most men in America are, no wonder television comedies turn us into boobs.

The image of men in the United States on TV sitcoms is a stereotype. But since advertising reflects at least some accepted beliefs and also impacts how its subject is perceived, there’s some truth to the image and it is aggressively perpetuated.

When did American men become such simpletons? At least, how hard is it to grill a piece of steak that it produces such an expression of pride. Or what better way can we spend our time than using an abundance of water and chemicals to artificially to keep grass in eternal spring? When did sports become the defining element?

But there it is. Many men in 50 states have been convinced that a man’s meal is a three-pound steak accompanied by ample helpings of starches at a steak house and you haven’t had a meal unless you’re so stuffed you are ready to vomit. Dad has to be rooting for a bunch of sumo-sized linesman on his favorite football team to pound equal large defenders on the other team as hard as is legally allowable.

This is not the image of men in all societies present or past. A fellow skater once remarked that the lead dancer at the Bolshoi, lean and muscular, is perhaps THE image of masculinity in Russia.

In this country, choruses usually stagger from the weight of female members while their male counterparts are in short supply. In Wales, all-male choruses are abundant. Men take time to share the poetry they have written with fellow workers. It’s difficult to get an image of a bunch of autoworkers taking time out to read their verse or even admit they have written it, or to spend time after work to practice a musical piece instead of heading for the bar, beer and TV.

How did we become trapped in this caricature? If you’ve ever tried figure skating, you know that landing jumps of more than one rotation is not for wimps. It requires strength and it just happens to also require artistry. To an extent artistry is celebrated in the catch of a wide receiver in football or via the slam dunk competition of pro basketball. But here, the artistry is either incidental to the game, or not really admitted to be artistry, all the while announcers drool over the beauty of a player’s move.

Maybe the acceptance of gays wlll help the macho men alter their image. I believe the television show, “Queer Eye for the Straight Guy” both reflected increased toleration and helped many Americans get an image of gays as people with a variety of temperaments and styles, and not as sex-craved queens.

Just maybe we can begin to accept there is something manly about muscular moves and about artistic moves on the football field and elsewhere. And we can let the grass grow and have a quiche on Father’s Day.

Food with Thoughts?

The conversation was not generally the kind that takes place on the steps of a Unitarian church. But here were three of us, all members and over 50 (whether that is relevant I don’t know) discussing the virtues of freshly-killed meat and how good it tastes.

Many inside would agree that fresh food is good and that organically grown vegetables are to be preferred. What they would have thought given the number of vegetarians and vegans, about our assertion of the superior flavor of some animal that has recently left its happy foraging grounds is not hard to imagine.

And yet, there we were, hunters, small town kids, people who know how to use a gun. For my part, having grown up on a farm, we didn’t have our own cattle butchered and packaged for home consumption. But people purchased a half a side or a side of beef and for flavor it is simply matchless when stacked up against the stuff laid out under lights designed to heighten the red color of flesh that has been pumped full of water.

There is that ethical dilemma as we realize increasingly that other animals can use tools that chimpanzees engage in war and in ritual murder. People in Africa eat monkey meat a fact that gets discuss in how the aids virus crossed from the jungle primate population in to humans. The higher primates all show some intelligence. So how far down on the chain of life is it OK to eat sentient beings? We haven't really come close to needing to make the decision. Those who eschew meat avoid it all; they don't have a threshold about what to eat.

Other species don’t ask these questions. Crocodiles do not engage in internal debates about devouring someone who enters their world. The fact that a young woman from the same address as our church, Morristown, N.J., on vacation in India recently ended up as a meal for one of these reptiles reminds us that they have no qualms. Being eaten is not on our list of expectations of things that can go wrong on a trip. But however rare such a fate is these days, it's still one that humans can experience.

We are living proof that intelligent creates can be eaten. However, we haven’t had to face the dilemma of ourselves eating a species that has great cognitive ability, even if not up to human standards. When we aim at a deer, it doesn’t yell, “Hey I don’t go around hunting you, do I?"

But suppose on some planet while hunting a meal we come across a slow witted, but tasty creature. And as we aim, it looks at us and says “please don’t."