labour day reading list

Image: Ricardo Levins Morales

Last year, I created and led a labour book club through my union, the BCGEU. 

I navigated my way through multitudes of obstacles to make this happen, so I was disappointed that our local leadership chose not to continue it. Sadly, Labour Book Club was a one-off project, at least for the foreseeable future. 

It was a great experience and I'm glad I saw it through. This was our reading list. The criteria was simply fiction about labour.

The Cold Millions, Jess Walter

In Dubious Battle, John Steinbeck

God's Bits of Wood, Ousmane Sembene

The Last Ballad, Wiley Cash

In the Skin of a Lion, Michael Ondaatje

Sometimes a Great Notion, Ken Kesey

For the Win, Cory Doctorow

Gilded Mountain, Kate Manning

Our most surprising, most challenging, and most rewarding read was God's Bits of Wood, by the Senegalese filmmaker, writer, and activist Ousmane Sembene. I had never heard of Sembene; I found the title strictly through research. 

Because it is out of copyright, God's Bits of Wood is legitimately available to read online at no cost, and I highly recommend it. It is a gripping, eye-opening, moving, and inspiring story of people organizing themselves at the intersection of labour, racism, and colonization. It is also a lightly fictionalized version of actual events that took place in 1947 Senegal, then a colony of France. The event is referred to as a "railway workers' strike" but that does not begin to describe the breadth and power of this struggle -- especially actions taken by the women, who were not themselves railway workers.

On the other end of the spectrum, I found Sometimes a Great Notion nearly unreadable. However, the others in our small group enjoyed it much more than I did. 

All the other titles are good, interesting, and worth reading if they look interesting to you.

lee zaslofsky, rest in power

This week I learned that a friend and comrade from my Toronto days has died: Lee Zaslofksy. 

Lee was a leader in the War Resisters Support Campaign, supporting men and women who refused to participate in the invasion and occupation of Iraq. For a long time, Lee was the coordinator of the network as it found housing, funds, employment, and community for war resisters coming to Canada. But "coordinator" is a shallow title that doesn't convey what Lee did; his work was much deeper and broader than coordination. Lee supplied friendship and community. He gave of himself. He showed up. He loved.

When you're involved in high-stakes activism, where your work has serious impacts on people lives, people form powerful bonds. You might know very little about someone's background or their day-to-day life, discovering bits of their story as time goes on. Sometimes you might not see or speak with each other in between meetings. Other times you'll speak five times a day. Activist comrades occupy a unique space in your life, different from an ordinary friendship. The passion of your commitment, the depth of your belief, your shared desire to move your cause forward, your deep respect for each other, creates a love that I am grateful to have experienced, more than once in my life. 

Through the War Resisters Support Campaign, I worked with people that I feel incredibly fortunate to have known, so lucky that my life intersected with theirs.

Lee was one of those people to me. Lee will always be on my list of people I am so grateful and fortunate to have known. 

I recall that we didn't always agree on everything, and sometimes differed in our visions of how to move our great project forward. We would become very heated and passionate. I recall him banging the table for emphasis -- and the next time he saw me, hugging me tightly.

Lee was a Vietnam War deserter. He had been a home healthcare aide. He had been a staffer in Jack Layton's office, when Jack was on the Toronto city council. He loved the country of Vietnam, and visited as often as he could, for long periods of time, and had boyfriends there. He was born in Brooklyn, and became a Canadian citizen as soon as he was eligible (as did I).

That might be the sum-total of what I knew about Lee's biography. But I knew much more important things: his principles, his passion for justice, his belief in human potential. His crazy sense of humour, that might elicit anything from an eye-roll to hilarity. The love that poured from him.

His death has hit us all so hard -- all the "resisters and campaigners," we used to say. Now a loose collection of people scattered around North America and beyond, some of us in touch on social media, others not at all, but our bond endures. 

Lee Zaslofsky, rest in power, my friend.

why i call kamala harris by her last name and wish you would too

Here's a question for progressive folks following the US election campaign: Why do you call Kamala Harris "Kamala" and call Tim Walz "Walz"?

* * * * 

A long time ago, way back in the late 80s, Allan and I would watch a local news broadcast together. We're talking regular TV, "the news" on three times daily -- two local broadcasts (one at 6:00, one at 10:00 or 11:00 pm), and one national broadcast.

During the sports portion of the broadcast, the sports anchor would talk about Mattingly -- Don Mattingly of the New York Yankees, Ewing -- Patrick Ewing, of the New York Knicks, and Chrissie -- tennis great Chris Evert. She wasn't Evert. She was Chrissie.

There were some pioneering broadcasters, notably on ESPN, who broke with this tradition and called female athletes by their last names, but it was unusual, and ESPN was not yet the giant it would later become.

Women's team sports, for the most part, were ignored completely. Big female sports stars were usually called by their first names. Chrissie, Martina, Steffi. Mary Lou. 

The reason for this is simple: sexism. Women's sports were not taken seriously. Calling Chris Evert Chrissie was infantilizing and disrespectful, reflecting the way women's sports were served to the public.

Through the 1990s and 2000s, women's sports grew in stature. The groundbreaking US legislation that mandated funding parity for male and female sports programs -- usually referred to as "Title 9" (Title IX) -- began to bear fruit. Young female athletes received better coaching and had more opportunities. Women's college sports became more visible and more exciting. ESPN broke new ground with a 24-hour sports-news cycle, so they needed more events to cover. That organization also had a progressive mandate to report on sports with less sexism and racism. 

I don't doubt that there are local sportscasters in Texas or Florida -- or hell, in upstate New York or rural Alberta -- that refer to Serena, Simone, or Megan, but at this point, they are likely the exceptions. Sportscasters and sportswriters routinely referring to Williams, Biles, and Rapinoe is a sign of a less sexist view of women's sports.

Can we please apply this to the political sphere?

Surely if we can refer to female athletes by their last names, we can give female candidates for the presidency of the United States the same respect?

During Hillary Rodham Clinton's presidential campaigns, most people referred to her as Hillary. Some said this was to distinguish between Hillary Clinton and Bill Clinton. Really? So during the 2016 presidential election campaign, while Hillary Clinton was running against Donald Trump, if we heard the name Clinton, we might think someone was referring to Bill Clinton, who left public office in 2001? 

Another excuse given for calling female candidates by their first names is that we feel like we know them, we believe they are our friends, so we're on a first-name basis with them. Why, then, didn't anyone call Obama Barack? And how can this be said of a woman who so many voters and pundits despise? 

A more likely suspect is the feminist age-gap: why younger women are more likely to change their last names when they marry, why they don't mind being referred to as girls rather than women. I don't get it, but those are personal choices (although with political implications). We're talking about the professional, national, and international stage. Different standards  should apply.

Office workers are still routinely called girls and health-care workers can't seem to make it past ladies. To be clear: these workers refer to themselves and their co-workers as girls and ladies. I've worked in both of these environment (combined) for decades, and the habit seems impervious to change. Every time I hear someone refer to a group of social workers, hospital workers, library workers -- any group of women working in a predominantly female field --  as girls or ladies I want to cry or scream. Or I felt that way when I was younger. Now I just feel the sadness and resignation of defeat. 

Ladies should go the way of mulatto. Lady is not only sexist, but its roots are classist and tied to gender norms -- what was considered "ladylike", i.e. acceptable female behaviour. Someone will point out that the roots of a word are not important if the word is now used in a different context. Then why are we no longer using master bedroom and grandfathered in? Because those expresisons are rooted in slavery. The same applies to ladies, a word rooted in classism. Yet it is so prevalent I despair of it ever changing. 

We are finally seeing gender-neutral terms for various jobs become the norm: writer, actor, lawyer, doctor, athlete, politician, flight attendant, cleaner, housekeeper. Speech patterns are finally reflecting reality: people of different genders do all kinds of jobs. There is no need -- never has been a need -- to qualify a job title with --ess or lady. The job is the job. 

So why is the name not the name?

I don't expect anyone to change their speech habits after reading this post. Perhaps a writer with a wider reach can at least open up the conversation. The candidates are Trump, Vance, Harris, and Walz.

what i'm reading: path lit by lightning, the life of jim thorpe

Jim Thorpe was one of my fascinations as a child and teen. I spent a lot of time watching old movies on TV, and one day stumbled on "Jim Thorpe: All American," starring Burt Lancaster as Thorpe. I also read from a biography series in my school library, and there was a book on Thorpe. Thorpe was considered the greatest athlete in the world, and he was Native American. I don't know why his story captivated me so. The underdog? The outsider? Indigenous? For whatever reasons, I was star-struck.

My early interest in Indigenous peoples and cultures has lasted a lifetime, as has my abiding interest in the nexus of social issues and sport. So when I saw that David Maraniss had written a biography of Thorpe, I immediately put the title on my list: Path Lit By Lightning: The Life of Jim Thorpe.

It's a masterful work, and also a very sad story. While Thorpe's accomplishments are truly amazing, and should be much more widely known, his life story is more about frustration and loss than about excellence and winning.

Over the years, journalists often portrayed Thorpe as down and out, a shadow of his once grand self, working his way back to a better life from the bottom he hit digging ditches in Los Angeles during the depths of the Depression. It was an understandable if inadequate depiction. The arc of his life after his prime athletic years was less a series of jagged ups and downs than an unceasing exertion against the tide. He had launched so many endeavors in and out of sports, always temporary, always on the move. Hollywood extra. Indian organizer. Seamen. Bar greeter. Banquet speaker. Parks employee. Sports entrepreneur with the Tampa Cardinals in football, the World Famous Indians in basketball, Harjo's Indians in baseball, Jim Thorpe's Thunderbirds in women's softball. [His third wife] Patsy had many more plans for Jim, ranging from a national television show to an agreement to return to pro football with the Philadelphia Eagles, to serving as a pro wrestling manager -- all, they hoped, leading to the ultimate goal of fulfilling Jim's long-held dream of running the Thunderbird Fishing and Hunting Lodge along Florida's Indian River. As usual, most of it would never happen.

Just how good was Thorpe?

In his prime, Thorpe was universally considered the greatest athlete in the world. He ran faster, jumped higher, threw farther, and excelled in more sports than anyone the world had ever seen. He was unquestionably the greatest American football player the world would see for decades, perhaps a century -- possibly ever. He was big and strong, and also light and graceful, winning trophies for ballroom dancing. Thorpe's sports intelligence was so keen that he could watch someone perform a feat or technique once, then effectively imitate it, then best it.

In the 1912 Stockholm Olympics, he won gold medals in both penthalon and decathlon, which then consisted of long jump, javelin throw, 200-meter dash, discus throw, and 1500-meter run. In an incident now famous on social media, someone stole Thorpe's track shoes only moments before the competition. Scrambling, he found two shoes, a mismatched pair -- one retrieved from a trash can -- and won a gold medal wearing those.

After the Olympics, in the Amateur Athletic Union's All-Around Championship -- equivalent to today's world championships in any given sport -- Thorpe won seven of the 10 events he competed in and placed second in the other three, breaking the world record for total points scored. Martin Sheridan, a five-time Olympic gold medalist, was present when his record was broken. He told the press, "Thorpe is the greatest athlete that ever lived. He has me beaten fifty ways. Even when I was in my prime, I could not do what he did today."

I don't watch football (in any of its forms), but reading Maraniss's thrilling descriptions of Thorpe's preternatural ability to avoid tackles, running around, through, and over any opponent in his path, I would give anything to have seen Thorpe play. Sportswriters ran out of superlatives to convey what they had seen.

Here's a view from 1950.

The Associated Press, after polling 391 sportswriters and broadcasters, declared Thorpe "the number one gridiron performer of the last 50 years," as he far outpaced Red Grange and Bronco Nagurski, the only other players in double figures in the voting, followed by Ernie Nevers, Sammy Baugh, Don Hutson , and George Gipp (who had four votes). 

When the same electorate chose the greatest track athlete of the half century, Thorpe finished second behind Jesse Owens. More bests were named in succession in baseball, boxing, basketball, golf, tennis, swimming, and horse racing -- until on February 11, 1950, the AP announced the ultimate crown.

The group of 56 athletes who received at least one vote as greatest athlete of the half century included Willie Hoppe in billiards and Dave Freeman in badminton, but the top 11 formed a gallery of major sports legends. At 11th came the electric Jackie Robinson, in his third year as the pioneer of [B]lack players in the major leagues, with two first-place votes and 24 total points. Next, counting down, came Nagurski at 10th, then Lou Gehrig, Owens, Grange, Joe Lewis, and Bobby Jones, none of whom reached 100 votes. 

For the top four, the numbers jumped exponentially. Ty Cobb had one first-place vote and 148 points for fourth. Jack Dempsey claimed 19 first-place votes and 246 total points for third. Babe Ruth had 86 first-place votes and 539 total points for second.

All overshadowed by the colossus. Jim Thorpe finished with 252 first-place votes and 875 total points.

Disgraced by a disgraceful injustice

In 1913, one year after Thorpe's internationally celebrated success in Stockholm, he was stripped of his titles, and his medals and trophies were confiscated, after it was revealed that Thorpe had played some loosely organized semi-pro baseball. 

Playing bush-league baseball during the summer was a fact of life for hundreds of college athletes. This was technically against the rules, but the rule was rarely, if ever, enforced. Most college athletes would play under a fake name, and officials simply looked away. Thorpe made the "mistake" of using his real name and took no great pains to hide his play. The price for his honesty was catastrophic. The Olympic Committee invalidated Thorpe's wins, and declared the silver medalists the victor.

Protest rang out all over the world. The silver medalists in pentathlon and decathlon, athletes from Norway and Sweden respectively, refused to accept the gold, saying Thorpe had earned it and they had not. Athletes, coaches, fans throughout the world, and the King of Sweden were united in their opposition to the decision. It was not reversed.

Thorpe would press his cause throughout his life, writing letters, speaking to sportswriters, and mentioning it in public appearances, asking for his gold-medal status to be reinstated, and to be given the medals and trophies he had won. 

One man made sure this didn't happen: Avery Brundage.

Nazis and ordinary snakes

Avery Brundage was a powerful Olympic official (and a competitor of Thorpe's) who staunchly defended the elitism of the Olympics. Under his vision, the modern Olympics were a celebration of amateurism -- meaning, people wealthy enough to have copious leisure time, unsullied by the need to support oneself or one's family. He defended this vision at the expense of an incredibly talented, honest, and vulnerable athlete. 

Brundage, not incidentally, was a Nazi. He had a long, glorious career defending racial purity and the murderous, racist regimes that sought to enforce it.

Arguably more devastating than the rescinded gold medals was the betrayal that enabled it. Thorpe's influential coach, Glenn "Pop" Warner, and the head administrator of the Carlisle Indian Boarding School claimed to have no knowledge of Thorpe's baseball play. They took the athlete on whose talents their careers -- and profits -- were built, and threw him under the proverbial bus. They blatantly lied about their knowledge of Thorpe's activity, and feigned shock and outrage, thus saving their own careers and ruining Thorpe's.

The rest is struggle

The rest of Thorpe's life would become a series of struggles, or perhaps one long struggle and a long series of disappointments. People would routinely rip him off. He would go on a baseball barnstorming tour, play all the games, live on a meager allowance, then at the end of the tour, the producer would say, sorry, I have no money to pay you, goodbye. There is story after story like this. Bad investment deals. Grand schemes for a football league. Organizers doling out hope and stringing him along. And always, Thorpe`s generous nature, always wanting to help others, giving away money he himself desperately needed. 

Maraniss writes:

Over the years, journalists often portrayed Thorpe as down and out, a shadow of his once grand self, working his way back to a better life from the bottom he hit digging ditches in Los Angeles during the depths of the depression. It was an understandable if inadequate depiction period the arc of his life after his prime athletic years was less a series of jagged ups and downs than an unceasing exertion against the tide. He had launched so many endeavors in and out of sports, always temporary, always on the move. Hollywood extra. Indian organizer. Seamen. Bar greeter. Banquet speaker. Parks employee. Sports entrepreneur with the Tampa Cardinals in football about that the world famous Indians in basketball, hard joes Indians ing baseball, Jim Thorpe's Thunderbirds in women's softball. Patsy had many more plans for Jim, ranging from a national television show to an agreement to return to Pro Football with the Philadelphia Eagles to serving as a pro wrestling manager dash all, they hoped, leading to the ultimate goal of fulfilling gene gyms long held dream of running the Thunderbird fishing and hunting lodge along Florida's Indian River. As usual, most of it would never happen.

The Hollywood Indians, the Big Chiefs, and the warpath

Thorpe had a minor movie career, at a time when Hollywood was making westerns, in which the Indians were always bad guys, while also promoting the "noble savage" stereotype. It comes as no surprise that the Hollywood Indians, as they were called, were paid less than white actors, and used only as extras. If a movie called for a starring Indian role, it was invariably played by a white actor. This was, of course, a practice that Hollywood employed for decades with leading roles depicting Asians, Latinos, and Native Americans, and has only recently begun to drop, from public pressure.

Thorpe became a spokesperson for Native Americans in the movie business, advising newcomers on how to survive in the business and advocating for Native actors, pushing for them to get their fair due. I had no idea, and I loved this.

If you've never had occasion to read sports pages of old newspapers, you might be shocked at the way the press covered Thorpe. The racist stereotyping is constant and so pervasive, you might think it was a parody. 

Native American athletes were always called Chief, and said to be "on the warpath". Headlines routinely read "Big Chief Thorpe Runs Heap-um Fast", "Injun Thorpe Say You No Catch Me," and similar. 

Having read a lot of this kind of thing over time, I was not surprised. When Joe DiMaggio signed with the New York Yankees, sportswriters gleefully told their readers DiMaggio hardly smelled like garlic at all. Seriously. These "jokes" never stopped. There were pitifully few instances of game stories or features about Thorpe that did not contain these racist stereotypes. His greatest champion in the press, the talented and famous Grantland Rice, wrote seriously and beautifully about Thorpe. But even Rice employed the accepted wisdom of the day, that Thorpe was the last of a "dying race," childlike in his innocence.

Crossing many paths

Thorpe didn't lead an exemplary life. He struggled with alcohol and relationships. In that, he was no different than millions of others, and he had the additional burden of racism and discrimination. Thorpe lost his twin brother when he was a little boy, and his first child to the influenza pandemic. There was a lot of sadness and loss in his life.

Thorpe's career intersected with many people who would later become famous. He demolished both George S. Patton and Dwight D. Eisenhower on the football field, he batte against the great Walter Johnson, he was friends with Babe Ruth (he and Thorpe had much in common), and was befriended and aided by Bob Hope. Maraniss skillfully uses each encounter to illuminate facets of Thorpe's personality and talents.

Maraniss has an excellent take on Native American issues. Living at the Carlisle Indian Boarding School worked out well for Thorpe, not unlike how St. Mary's Industrial School for Boys worked out for Babe Ruth. But Maraniss doesn't use this to mount a specious argument on the effectiveness of the Indian Boarding Schools. He is very clear on what was going on -- the destruction of families and culture, the infantilizing of adults (Native Americans were forced to petition Indian Agents to access their own money), the forced assimilation, the school conditions that were ripe for, and rife with, abuse.

Here's an interesting and maddening note.

Ten days before Christmas, a letter arrived from Horace J. Johnson, chief agent at the Sac and Fox Agency in Stroud. One document inside proclaimed that James Francis Thorpe had qualified to be deemed a United States citizen. He was 29. He had lived his entire life on American soil. He was educated at government schools. He could read and write. He had brought glory to the United States as the greatest athlete at the Olympics in 1912, praised by President Taft for representing "the best type of American citizen". His income as a professional baseball and football player exceeded the $3,000-a-year minimum that required him to pay federal taxes. All of that, yet only now was he granted citizenship.

* * * *

Many years ago, I put Maraniss's book They Marched Into Sunlight on my List. Looking over the list for our recent pilgrimage to Powell's in Portland, I thought, do I still want to read this? Nah. I moved the title into the "no longer want to read" section. (No deleting!) Now that I've read Path Lit by Lightning, my interest in that earlier book is renewed. Maraniss has also written a biography of Roberto Clemente, among many other works,

I will also note that Path Lit by Lightning reminded me greatly of my partner Allan's first book, 1918: Babe Ruth and the World Champion Boston Red Sox. 1918 has a shorter time-span and narrower focus, but the two books and the writing styles have a lot in common. Maraniss's play-by-play of football games is almost as good as Allan's recreation of baseball games from those long-ago days.

If you're all tl;dr about my blog, this excellently written review of Path Lit by Lightning by Keith Olbermann is really worth reading. 

things i heard at the library, an occasional series # 41

I'm filling in for frontline staff on a break. A customer approaches.

Customer: I put a book on hold. Is it here?

Me: Did you receive a notice that it is in?

Customer: I don't want to answer any questions. Just tell me if my book is in.

Me: I need to know your last name.

Customer: [tells me last name]

Me, finding book: Please check that the last digits of your library card match these numbers.

Customer: How do I do that?

We stare at each other for a moment.

Me: Please show me your library card.

Customer: I don't have it with me. Can't you help me anyway?

Me: Yes, I can. But I will need to ask you some questions.

More staring.

Customer: OK. 

I ask her the required questions and check out her book.

Now she appears to be embarrassed and over-thanks me. 

Notice to library users: if you want information, we need to ask you questions!

what i'm reading: how the word is passed by clint smith, a road trip through history and racism

Among the many recent titles published about racism, Clint Smith's How the Word is Passed: A Reckoning with the History of Slavery Across America is probably the most meaningful and accessible book I've read.

Smith takes the reader on a journey to nine places that are potent with the legacy of slavery, to see how the stories they tell reflect, distort, or deny that history. 

Smith visits: 

• Monticello, the plantation home of Thomas Jefferson,
• The Whitney Plantation, a non-profit that seeks to educate the public about the slavery,
• Louisiana State Penitentiary, always referred to as Angola,
• Blandford Cemetery, best known for a mass grave of Confederate soldiers,
• a Juneteenth celebration in Galveston, Texas,
• the African Burial Ground National Monument in New York City,
• the National Museum of African American History and Culture in Washington DC, and 
• Gorée Island in Senegal, which was a holding station for kidnapped and enslaved people before they were forced onto ships. 

Smith, who is a poet and also writes for The Atlantic, tells these stories with a blend of research, interviews, and personal reflection, and with a warm, open-minded, open-hearted approach that I found very engaging. How the Word Is Passed has won a boatload of awards, and there's no shortage of reviews online, so I'll just share a sample of some passages from the book that resonated deeply with me.

* * * *

I thought of my primary and secondary education. I remembered feeling crippling guilt as I silently wondered why every enslaved person couldn't simply escape like Douglass, Tubman, and Jacobs had. I found myself angered by the stories of those who did not escape. Had they not tried hard enough? Didn't they care enough to do something? Did they choose to remain enslaved? This, I now realize, is part of the insidiousness of white supremacy; it illuminates the exceptional in order to implicity blame those who cannot, in the most brutal circumstances, attain superhuman heights. It does this instead of blaming the system, the people who built it, the people who maintained it.

Many Jewish people, especially of earlier generations, felt deep shame that European Jews "allowed" themselves to be rounded up and slaughtered. Rape survivors believe they "let" themselves be raped. 

The section on Angola was absolutely wild, one of those "I thought I knew how bad this was" moments.

The conditions under convict leasing [from Angola Prison] were often as gruesome as anything that had existed under slavery. . . . As one man told the National Conference of Charities and Corrections in 1883, "Before the war, we owned the negroes. If a man had a good negro, he could afford to take care of him. If sick, get a doctor. He might even put gold plugs in his teeth. But these convicts, we don't own 'em. One dies, get another."

From W.E.B. Du Bois in 1928, quoted in How the Word is Passed. I love hearing the states' rights argument demolished.

Each year on the 19th of January, there is renewed effort to canonize Robert E. Lee, the greatest Confederate general. His personal comeliness, his aristrocratic birth, and his military prowess all call for the verdict of greatness and genius. But one thing -- one terrible fact -- militates against this, and this is the inescapable truth that Robert E. Lee led a bloody war to perpetuate slavery. Copperheads like the New York Times may magisterally declare, "Of course, he never fought for slavery." Well, for what did he fight? State rights? Nonsense. The South cared only for State Rights as a weapon to defend slavery. . . . No, people do not go to war for abstract theories of government. They fight for property and privilege, and that was what Virginia fought for in the Civil War. And Lee followed Virginia. . . . Either he knew what slavery meant when he helped maim and murder thousands in its defense, or he did not. If he did not, he was a fool. If he did, Robert E. Lee was a traitor and a rebel -- not indeed to his country but to humanity and humanity's God.

I also especially loved the sections on monuments and naming of public places. I want to see all the names on Vancouver Island restored to Indigenous words, especially those place-names that recall the architect of the residential "school" system: Duncan, Campbell, Scott. And most of all, I want to see the ridiculously named British Columbia wiped off the map and restored or updated. Here are several passages about that. Turns out we're all supporting white supremacy.

It is not simply that statues of Lee and other Confederates stand as monuments to a traitorous army predicated on maintaining and expanding the insitution of slavery; it is also that we, U.S. taxpayers, are paying for their maintenance and preservation. A 2018 report by Smithsonian magazine and the Nation Institute's Investigative Fund (now Type Investigations) found that over the previous ten years, U.S. taxpayers have directed at least forty million dollars to Confederate monuments, including statues, homes, museums, and cemeteries, as well as Confederate heritage groups. And in Virginia, the subsidizing of Confederate iconography is a more than century-long project.

In 1902, as Jim Crow continued to expand as a violent and politically repressive force, the state's all-white legislature created an annual allocation of the state's funds for the care of Confederate graves. Smithsonian's investigation found that in total, the state had spent approximately $9 million in today's dollars. Much of that funding goes directly to the United Daughters of the Confederacy, which received over $1.6 million in funds for Confederate cemeteries from the State of Virginia between 1996 and 2018.

Why should we restore names? 

The creation of any monument sends a message, whether intentional or not. I think of the statues around the country of people who presided over Native genocide or forced resettlement, and how a young Indigenous child might experience that pedestaled figure. 

 More from W.E.B. Du Bois:

The most terrible thing about War, I am convinced, is its monuments -- the awful things we are compelled to build in order to remember the victims. To the South, particularly, human ingenuity has been put to it to explain, on its war monuments, the Confederacy. Of course, the plain truth of the matter would be an inscription something like this: "Sacred to the memory of those who fought to Perpetuate Human Slavery." But that reads with increasing difficulty as time goes on. It does, however, seem to be overdoing the matter to read on a North Carolina Confederate monument: "Died Fighting for Liberty!"

Smith, driving around his hometown of New Orleans:

"Go straight for two miles on Robert E. Lee."

"Take a left on Jefferson Davis."

"Make the first right on Claiborne."

Translation:

"Go straight for two miles on the general whose troops slaughtered hundreds of Black soldiers who were trying to surrender."

"Take a left on the president of the Confederacy, who understood the torture of Black bodies as the cornerstone of their new nation."

"Make the first right on the man who allowed the heads of rebelling slaves to be mounted on stakes in order to prevent other slaves from getting any ideas."

 On the ancestry of Black Americans:

In my experience -- as both educator and student, as researcher and writer -- there was little mainstream discussion of who Black people were before they reached the coasts of the New World, beyond the ball and chain. This was something I had heard when I lived in Senegal, a decade prior, that we Black Americans were taught so little of our traditions, our cultures, our voices before we were taken and forced onto ships that carried us across the Atlantic. As Sue pointed out, the risk is that Black Americans understand our history as beginning in bondage rather than in the freedom of Africa that preceded it.

Language matters:

A statement like "Black Southerners were segregated because of their skin color" . . . that passive construction makes it seem as if segregation was completely natural, which absolves the enforces of segregation . . . from any sort of culpability. 

This immediately reminded me of a familiar whitewashing: "Jackie Robinson broke the color barrier." Allan and I have often noted how this phrasing conceals the truth. It sounds like Robinson was the first Black person good enough to break through to the major leagues. How about "Black people were not allowed to play in this league because of the racism and discrimination of the teams' owners"? Or perhaps, "As in society overall, the owners of Major League Baseball teams supported segregation and discrimination, and did not allow Black players on their teams."

On this episode of "It Wasn't Only in the South", this is about slavery in Dutch New Amsterdam.

According to historian Jill Lepore, for every 100 people taken from Africa, only about 64 would survive the trip from the region's interior to the coast. Of those 64, around 48 would survive the weeks-long journey across the Atlantic. Of those 48, only 28-30 would survive the first three to four years in the colony. [Historians Ira] Berlin and [Leslie M.] Harris refer to New York at this time as "a death factory for black people."

From a teacher in Senegal:

Part of what Hasan teaches his students is that we cannot understand slavery and colonialism as two separate historical phenomena. They are inextricably linked pieces of history. Slavery took a toll on West Africa's population; millions of people were stripped from their homelands and sent across the ocean to serve in intergenerational bondage. The profound harm continued during colonialism, with much of the contenent stripped of its natural resources instead of its people. Hasan reflected, "In both situations, in slavery and colonization, what you have is a system of plunder. First, in slavery, we have a plunder of human beings. Africa had been ripped of its people. And colonization is a plunder of natural resources. Both are plunder systems."

I'll close with the passage that was immediately and profoundly resonant to me, as I wish it would be for all American Jews. My notes say "xref zionism".

What would it take -- what does it take -- for you to confront a false history even if it means shattering the stories you have been told throughout your life? Even if it means having to fundamentally reexamine who you are and who your family has been? Just because something is difficult to accept doesn't mean you should refuse to accept it. Just because someone tells you a story doesn't make the story true.

what i'm reading: the red parts: a powerful, haunting memoir of trauma, loss, and the limits of justice

This is why I keep a running book list that is decades long. For more than 15 years, my list has included this note.

The Red Parts - Maggie Nelson - murder of aunt she never knew

The Red Parts was published in 2007. I never would have remembered it. But it remained on my list, and last month, I found it at Powell's. I'm not a fast reader, but I read this book in two sittings. I was riveted.

* * * *

In 1969, Jane Mixer was 23 years old, a law student at the University of Michigan. She was on her way to her parents' home to announce her engagement. She never arrived. When her body was found, it was clear she was murdered. 

Maggie Nelson was born four years later. Jane Mixer was her mother's sister. 

In 2004, Nelson was about to publish Jane: A Murder, a collection of poetry and research snippets about the aunt she never knew, and about her death. Our of nowhere, a bomb dropped: Jane's case -- unsolved for 35 years -- had been reopened. Then: an arrest, a trial, media attention. A re-opening of wounds. Fresh trauma.

*  *  *  *

Nelson never knew her Aunt Jane, but her life was profoundly affected by her murder. The echoes of Jane's horrific death reverberated through her life and the lives of everyone in her family.

When Maggie Nelson wrote this book, I don't think the expression intergenerational trauma was commonly used, and Nelson never refers to her family's situation in such clinical terms. But this book is a view of intergenerational trauma from the inside -- from deep inside.

Although the subtitle of this book is "The Autobiography of a Trial", The Red Parts is more memoir than trial reporting. Although there is an investigation, a court room, a jury, an autopsy report -- and autopsy and crime scene photographs, which the family must decide whether or not to view -- and although producers of true-crime TV are already re-packaging the story into a series of clichés -- the book is not a procedural or a legal thriller. It is a profoundly emotional recounting of how trauma plays out in our lives. 

It's very difficult to write clearly about emotions, to bring a reader close to an emotional truth without resorting to melodrama, hyperbole, or cliché -- without being gruesome, but without pulling punches. Nelson comes as close as any writer I've ever read: raw, unflinching, self-aware, humbled and sometimes overwhelmed by the responsibility she has taken on. She is brutally honest, and courageously revelatory about her own life. How much of what she reveals was the result of the trauma of Jane's murder is left for the reader to contemplate.

Threaded through the book is an undercurrent: the author's thoughts on justice -- what passes for justice in the legal system, what real justice might look like, questioning whether justice can ever truly exist. There is no soapbox, no lecture, no statistic. Nelson simply questions everything, interrogating the popular conceptions of healing and closure, and the relative value our society places on certain lives. Her conclusions are only more questions.

I'm grateful to Maggie Nelson for her opposition to the death penalty, and for her recognition of the relative value of lives as reflected in the media. But mostly I'm in awe of her writing and grateful for her honesty.

greetings from victoria, last post of the trip (days 13-15), plus the ethics of travel

Bluefin Tuna

Yesterday morning we packed up, drove to one of the big drugstore chains, and bought a soft cooler case and ice. The leftovers from Asadero were just too good and too plentiful to leave behind! We'll get good use out of the cold pack.

I also bought a Pyrex (glass food storage) container for our leftover milk. I'd rather add to my vast collection of Pyrex than throw away milk. No matter how many Pyrex containers I have, sometimes they are all in use.

After that, we hit the road and had an easy drive to Port Angeles. We stopped at Joshua's for food. Pro tip: don't plan on eating on the Black Ball Ferry. The offerings there barely qualify as food. BC Ferries, on the other hand, has a White Spot onboard, so you're safe, especially for breakfast.

Traveling by ferry involves a lot of waiting -- boarding, disembarking, clearing customs -- but eventually we made our way, first to BC Liquors for wine, then to the Airbnb in Esquimalt, just outside the Victoria downtown. 

We've been drinking wine on this trip, which has been a nice change. When we get home, we'll go back to hardly drinking or not drinking at all. This has been one of the biggest changes of our lives -- on par with moving west or buying a house! Even more amazing, it started with Allan. He stopped drinking completely a few years ago, and now will sometimes have a glass of wine or a beer when we go out, but not all the time, and very rarely more than one.

Today is Monday. We normally would spend one night in Victoria, then drive home the following day (today). However, on Tuesday morning I have an appointment for a fitting at Victoria Classic Lingerie. Getting to Victoria from Port Hardy is time-consuming and expensive, so it makes sense to take care of things while we're here. The store is closed on Mondays, so we get a free vacation day! (Funny, I believe our first-ever trip to Victoria was timed around a bra-fitting appointment!)

There is a downside to having an extra day of vacation: waiting another day to see Cookie and Kai! We miss them so much. I also wanted an extra day between travel and work, but we'll be home Tuesday night, and I do have Wednesday off before returning to work on Thursday.

Today we are doing "nothing" -- reading, maybe a walk. Tomorrow morning is breakfast at Jam Cafe, then bras, then we drive home, stopping in Campbell River for food shopping.

* * * *

The ethics of travel and eating

I know that many people oppose the use of VRBOs and Airbnbs. There are housing shortages everywhere, especially in large cities, and theoretically, many of the suites used as Airbnbs and VRBOs would be rented or sold. 

I've thought a lot about this. I believe that, like most problems, the housing shortage cannot be meaningfully addressed on the consumer level. Just like boycotting Walmart or Amazon will not change those stores' labour practices, not staying in an Airbnb will not change the housing situation. We live in a society that takes the most basic need, having a roof over one's head, and subjects it to "the market". The housing crisis is capitalism at its worst. 

I'm not suggesting that people should stay at Airbnbs or VRBOs if it troubles them to do so! Nor am I saying their actions are useless. I just don't believe one could ever induce enough people to make the same choice that it would make a significant difference. If we don't want Airbnbs or VRBOs in our communities, we have to join with others who agree, and collectively try to change the laws and regulations on the community level. That is a daunting and possibly fruitless tasks, but it's the only avenue that could make a difference. 

I wonder how many people who claim to never stay in Airbnbs actually travel. It's easy to boycott something when you have no occasion to use it. On this trip, we spent three nights in a comfortable mini apartment for less than the cost of one night in a downtown Seattle hotel. In Victoria, our former go-to hotel has raised its rates by 40-60%. In addition, most hotels have drastically cut back on labour costs, by eliminating services. I don't know many people who would willingly choose the more expensive option based solely on ethical considerations. Choosing hotels over Airbnbs also overlooks the grim state of hotel labour, which is notoriously exploitive.

As I write this, I know that many people will tell me that they do, in fact, eschew Airbnbs when they travel. Others will tell me they don't travel because travel is environmentally unsustainable. If you think something is making a difference and it fits into your life, then you go for it. I question how many people actually do this, and whether it makes any difference.

At least one person will also tell me that I'm a hypocrite and rationalizer. Well... whatever.

The other ethical question -- or questionable ethics -- that came up was at the sushi bar, when I heard the words bluefin tuna. I have learned enough to know there should be a worldwide moratorium on the bluefin. There are more than 25 different species of tuna, and many of them have healthy, sustainable stock. The bluefin is akin to a dolphin or a whale: humans should stop killing them.

Most of us never eat bluefin tuna. The worldwide appetite for high-end sushi, along with high-tech hunting and killing techniques, has tipped the balance. When the chef at Sushi Kashiba said bluefin, I balked. I muttered to Allan, "Bluefin tuna. We're not supposed to eat bluefin." I ate the sushi, then felt sad, and defeated. Today I still feel bad about it, but my feelings don't help the bluefin.

Obviously I could have passed on the two or three pieces that were bluefin, but I didn't -- mostly because I didn't want to learn what else I might have eaten that is similarly endangered. 

I'm not suggesting this is right. I'm just being honest. 

Much is being written about the ethics of travel, sustainable travel, decolonizing travel. It's important to be mindful, especially of how we treat the people and lands we visit. But if we want to change the world, only collective action can create a meaningful difference.