Them

 Them: Why We Hate Each Other by Ben Sasse

2018

Weight: 1.06 lbs

Method of Disposal: Donating

I was drawn to this book when Trump was in office, and the growing division was unbelievable and stressful.  It seems like the damage has been happening for quite some time now and that now we cannot seem to turn it around.  We took a huge hit in the 2016 and 2020 elections, though they did not start it.  I was feeling frustrated and angry towards the Republican Party, and I was struggling to find compromise.  I was hoping this would be helpful and that, maybe, magically, someone had ideas on how we might heal from this.  Because the thing is, many people think you are for America or against America, but in actuality, many people who want America to change and are fighting for change, love America too.  That is why it is worth the effort and the pain.  There is an idea that compromise and learning and evolving is flip flopping, and this comes from both sides, but it is not.  It is necessary for our current political system.  And, when your side breaks the rules, no matter what side you are on, it will hurt your party in the future when it gets turned around.  We must be ethical and respectful, but how?

You will not find the answers here.  It is clear that the author has a lot of opinions and biases that are quite strong,  It almost felt as if he was saying, the answer for all of us to get along is to agree to embrace the same ideals, to embrace tradition and conservatism. That, clearly, will not be happening.  There must be some other way than agree with me, that is the answer.

That being said, I do think someone else should write a similar but better book that also covers news, social media, politics, and tribalism.  There is a lot in here that is interesting and worth a closer look, and there is a big problem in this country right now with division.  I wish I knew the answers.  I give him props for trying.

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A Day No Pigs Would Die

 A Day No Pigs Would Die by Robert Newton Peck

2005 edition (copyright 1972)

Weight: 3.2 oz

Method of Disposal: Recycling (because it is in such poor shape)

(spoiler alert)

I brought this book with me to Mexico because it was in such rough shape that I figured I could just recycle it after having read it on the plane.  The cover was missing and pages were torn.  I'd had this mangled copy awhile, and it is possible I was scared to read it, loving animals as I do.  It had a great title though, and it did call to me.

I will tell you that I read half of it on the way to Mexico and was not overly impressed but understood it was a young adult book from a certain time.  It had all the lessons on being a man, responsibility, hard work, modesty that I am accustomed to in the young reader classics.  I couldn't give a damn about being anyone learning to be a man, but the characters were admirable in their grit and determination.  

I read the other half on the way home and did not handle it well--the main character's pig and friend was slaughtered due to being infertile and the family being poor.  I completely fell apart and then his dad died, and there was no coming back.  I was just flying over the ocean, bawling, and embarrassing Harriet who could not get away from me, despite her headphones being on loud and her leaning out into the aisle.  The tears were coming down my face and collecting on the ridge of my mask, my nose was running, which is bad for several reasons.  One, it is uncomfortable, inside a mask. Two, no one wants to be blowing their nose on an airplane now that we live in COVID world full-time all the time.  

I was also relieved to have an outlet for my stupid emotions and a distraction from real life.  We had just flown a dog named Scrappy home to his mama who had been deported over two years ago and had been in an ICE detention center in Ocilla, GA before that.  The things that people do to other people are appalling and discouraging, and I know that is an understatement.  Yet, some people are so strong and determined.  They still see the good and the value, and they are grateful for it, instead of just angry.  Somehow.  Scrappy's mom is one amazing lady, and we could  were so glad to be reunited.  You could see it right away.  We flew in, spent one night, and flew out.  It was a lot packed into one small trip and a long time coming.  My mother had fostered that dog all these years, waiting for this moment she would not end up being able to be a part of.  There was the unpredictability of ICE and Homeland Security and then the truly unexpected Covid-19 pandemic.  One thing I know for sure, there are people out there that are far stronger than I have ever dreamed of being and Scrappy's mom is one of those people.  The United States is missing a good one, and it was a decision our country made and poorly executed.

The Line Becomes a River

The Line Becomes a River: Dispatches from the Border by Francisco Cantú

2018
Weight: 9.6 oz
Method of Disposal: Giving to a Friend

I found this book on display at Little Shop of Stories in Decatur, GA.  For Better or for worse, I always justify buying a new book or two when I am around an independent bookstore.  There are just so few bookstores left, and I love them!  I made this trip to Little Shop to buy a gift for both my mom and dad.  If you have not seen Cicada by Shaun Tan you should check it out.  I thought it would be the perfect small gift for a retirement party.  Tok tok tok.

This book was amazing.  It was terrible, and it was hard to read, but the author is open and speaks with such sincerity and emotion that it is impossible to look away.  It is a book that is "easy" to read in that I was hooked on every word but also challenging because of the darkness and desperation that will permeate you to your core.  It was emotional and important.  Cantú ensures that you will see the humanity of those crossing the border and those working for the United States Border Patrol, but you will also see people who do terrible things and you will read about deep suffering. 

It is important that you read The Line Becomes a River right now and do not wait because people are dying every day, dreams are being dismantled every day, and the natures of people are changing with each death, drug bust, deportation, detainment.  Our countries (the US and Mexico) are changing and the violence is increasing.  No matter what you believe, this cannot be the way forward.  This is not how we treat our neighbors or how we should be treating our own citizens.  One thing that will come through clearly is that this is a complicated and deep-rooted issue but, for me, it really made me think about who I want to be and what I want to do with my life.  It is challenging to go on each day, acting like there is not a major problem in this country and that our stance on immigration is actively obliterating people's lives.  Of course, it is easy for me to say all of this and not offer a solution.  I understand that, and I hate it.  I wish I knew what we needed to do.  I wish Francisco Cantú knew what to do but, just because we do not have all the answers, does not mean we should not search for them.  It does not mean we cannot be better.

Rosa Lee

Rosa Lee: A Mother and Her Family in Urban America by Leon Dash
1996
Weight: 8.8 oz
Method of Disposal: Give back to mom or lending library

This book was brutal.  It was a window into a world I can clearly see I have no known experience with, and it was hard to face.  The very idea that a mother would feel like she had to sell her own child and that she felt the child had been able to consent in any way is truly shocking to me and what is more shocking is that you cannot just villainize that mother and neatly put her away in a box labeled "terrible."  There is so much more to Rosa's story--good and bad. Rosa Lee's family is so influenced by institutionalized racism that is impossible to even imagine what would have happened to them in a different society or place.

I understand the fear that some people have that this book makes black people look bad, but I definitely disagree.  It is very clear that it does not represent all black people or all poor black people and, if you were ignorant enough to think it truly did, the author clearly writes that it is a thorough case study on just one family and explains why he thinks it is important.  Still, I know that there are many people who would read this story as evidence for whatever they already believe and that is always scary. 

The author writes, "I recognize that there are many ways to look at Rosa Lee.  There is something of her life to confirm any political viewpoint--liberal, moderate, or conservative.  Some may see her as a victim of hopeless circumstances, a woman born to a life of deprivation because of America's long history of discrimination and racism.  Others may give her the benefit of the doubt in some cases but hold her personally accountable for much of what she did to herself, her children, and her grandchildren.  A third group might say that Rosa Lee is a thief, a drug addict, a failed parent, a broken woman paying for her sins, and a woman who seemingly was so set on placing her children on the path to failure that it is amazing that even two of them manage to live conventional lives" (p. 251).

No matter how the reader feels about whether it should have been written or not, there is one thing we should all be able to agree on.  It is heartbreaking from beginning to end.  The destruction the drugs wreaked on this family and this community is unbelievable and frightening.  The individual understanding, accountability, and expectations each hiv-infected person had about their illness, their future, and the future of others around them was eye-opening. 

I could not help but think about myself now aged 32 and Patty Cunningham, Rosa Lee's daughter, being in her thirties in the book and completely addicted to heroine.  Unable to get through a single day without the drug, despite the danger she was in, without jail time.  The sexual abuse she suffered again and again.  We know what happens to Bobby and to Rosa.  I don't know if I want to know, but I cannot help but wonder what happens to Patty and Junior.  I also wonder about the others, of course, about Alvin, Eric, Ducky,Richard, Ronnie, hell, even Mr. Dash.  This appears to be Patty: http://www.tributes.com/obituary/show/Donna-D.-Wright-86154465.  What did she do until 2009?  I suppose it is none of my business, but I am grateful to the author for taking the time and for Rosa and participating family members for sharing their secrets and their lives.

Behind the Lines--Oh no they didn't! Get it, Lines/Lines.

Behind the Lines by Andrew Carroll
2005 (audio book)
Weight: 5.6 oz
Method of Disposal: Donating or giving away

I think about my brother often, and I think about him in different ways. I think of him as a child. I remember playing a post office game. There was some piece of furniture outside the door of my room with small drawers on the bottom. We would leave each other letters in the drawers. Is this where I developed my love of letters and of sending/receiving mail? I think about bodysurfing in the ocean and wiping out. Sometimes, I think of the mean sibling antics. I remember crying, as he threatened to “turn me off” with a remote control or key. The taste of batteries after he convinced me to lick them, they taste like candy. I especially like nice memories, like him giving me one of his favorite toys for my birthday. I saw a piece of the truck sticking out of the poor wrapping job, and I knew exactly what it was. I was so happy. I wanted to be just like him, have toys like his, hang out with him and his friends. He once saved up his allowance money to buy me a beloved Aladdin’s lamp, where the genie could come out and go back in his bottle.

 I think about him as a teenager. His massive Kurt Cobain poster and his constant strumming of an electric guitar. His girlfriend, his El Camino, and the Mane and Tail he used to grow his hair out long. We sometimes got in all out brawls. I once threw a tire at his head. Another time, I screamed at him and his friend, silencing them for once, and then walked straight into a shut door with such force that I fell to the ground, taking away all the ground I had gained. I also remember that when my mother told me that her and my dad were going to divorce, I grabbed my cat and ran, crying, to a nearby lake. My brother came after me to take care of me and to tell me it would be o.k.

Before he went away for boot camp, we watched atomic dog and talked about personal things, like my trying to come to terms with my queerness. He thought it was fine, better than fine, and was very comforting. He commented on how obvious I was, with all my Gillian Anderson pictures plastered on my walls. He noted that often the men in my posters were covered. I felt like he had become my best friend but then he had to go away. I wrote him letters all the time.

I often think about him as a soldier. I think about when he went to Iraq and how I had never been (and have not been) so scared in my entire life. The night before he left, I drank a bottle of vodka and had to stop at a KFC on (or near) base to vomit on our hike to the going away ceremony. I hated saying goodbye and could not look at him without bawling, full on weeping. I had to walk away and then run away. Another soldier was screaming at his mom in the parking lot, telling her he wished he would never see her again. I could not imagine it. I was in college dealing with relationship troubles, roommate situations, and ant invasions. He was getting shot at, sometimes I would see him in the local newspaper or on the news.

He is still a soldier, and he is also now a husband and a father. He is still amazing, and I am overwhelmed with love and protective feelings when we get the chance to hang out. The last time I saw him he read me a book while I drove. We learned all about plane crashes and why they happen.

Sometimes, when he is far away, I do ridiculous things trying to feel close to him. Things that make no sense. I buy things I would not usually buy—the consequences of being born into capitalism. Spend Money, feel better. I bought this audio book when it was on sale. I hope that I will never understand war fully. I do not want to know what it is like to lose friends, to have to kill people or be killed. I wish so much that my brother did not have to see the things he has, the things I rarely hear about, because he loved his country and his family. I do not want to know what that pain is like, but I do want to understand and know to the best of my ability. Does that make sense? I do not want to turn my back on one of the many facets of his life. I bought this book and others like it, trying to feel connected or get a glimpse. Sometimes, I would read or watch whatever I bought right away and other times it was too painful, and I would put the items away until I found them again.

The other night I noticed Behind the Lines on my bookshelf, amongst the actual books, and I took it to work. I listened to it while I cleaned out puppy cages and later in my car on a drive to Loganville. There were times when it brought tears to my eyes and once I even laughed. Components of it aggravated me. It seemed to have a Christian bias, didn’t it? There was an attempt at diversity. In some ways it was successful, but not in all ways.  The letters were from soldiers, civilians, people on different sides of the war.  There were men and women.  Some letters seemed to be selected with such an obvious purpose, like the one from a Japanese girl in an American camp stating that she was lucky to not be on the outside. With no other letters beside it I felt like it was such a placating, let us not think about what we did, moment. There were a lot of good things too. I have more positive feelings about it than little critiques. The letters spanned many wars and years. Soldiers of the past and the present were tied together by their feelings of love, fear, remorse, camaraderie, pride, hope. Overall, I liked it, for lack of a better word. They were actual letters and they all contained so much value and so much truth—some truth told through thinly veiled lies.

So many different people. I thought about the letters I received from Iraq and the many I sent. The letters that went to boot camp. The rare Yahoo Messenger conversation or e-mail. The photographs. And, while this book did not bring me closer to my brother in any unexpected way, I did find myself missing him again. That is why I was drawn to it after all. I did remember how grateful I am, despite anything else in life, that he is back, safe, with a loving family, and happy. I wished on every star, eyelash, and penny thrown into every pond from the day he left until the day he came back that he would come back alive, but also happy. How lucky am I?