Category: Faith

A Reflection on The Talk: Lessons On Racism in the United States

~ Linda Wright

After reading Citizen: An American Lyric by Claudia Rankine

As the sun set outside the kitchen window, Mom would do the dishes. She would rub the Ivory soap bar onto the sponge and scrub each plate, fork and knife, pot and pan. Then she would gently place the item in the drainer. Unless I had to stay in bed with an ice pack on one of my bruises, I picked each up and dried it. It was a special time of the day when I could ask about things that were puzzling to me.

The year I was seven, while I was wiping a plate with the towel, I asked “Why are some people not riding the buses in Montgomery, Alabama?”

Mom told me that after my father enlisted in the Navy he began basic training in Richmond, Virginia. My parents had only been married a few years, so Mom packed up and moved to be near him. Richmond was very different from the Nova Scotia, Canada she had grown up in, or the Massachusetts she moved to when she married Dad. 

“In Virginia,” she said, “a lot of people had dark skin and they were called ‘colored’ then. Now they want to be called black. I took the bus to my job every morning. If I was the only one at the bus stop, the bus would stop for me and open the door. If colored folks were there first, the bus would not stop. It would breeze on by like the driver didn’t see them standing there. Those people needed to get to work just like me. I couldn’t believe it. How could the driver not see these people standing and waiting for a ride? But no one else seemed surprised. The bus driver would signal me to get on first and then a few of the other folks too. But sometimes the driver would slam the door shut before everyone else had a chance to get on board.” She paused, scowling, “I think they just want to be treated fairly.”

I already knew what it felt like to be left out. The Elementary School Principal had tried to ban me from going to her school because of my bleeding disorder. As I thought this over, I said, “Mom, I don’t think I know any people who are black.”

Then she started her second story of that night. “You know Mrs. Walker the librarian.”  

I liked Mrs. Walker better than my first grade teacher and I nodded enthusiastically. I had never paid attention to her skin color. I knew Mom liked her too because they would talk while I picked out books to take home.

Mom went on, “Did you know she has a Masters degree in education but they would not hire her as a teacher here? That’s why she is a librarian. So even though we live in Massachusetts, black people don’t get treated the same as white.” 

While I was still processing all of this, Mom began her third story. “Before you were born I worked as a clerk in the ‘Better Dresses’ department on the third floor of Forbes and Wallace. One day the world famous singer, Marian Anderson was to perform in the city auditorium. She had sung on the National Mall in Washington, D.C. Thousands of people stood outside to hear her sing and it was broadcast on the radio. When that famous lady came in wanting to buy a dress, the store manager told her she would have to come up to the department I worked in by the service elevator. It was then that I realized that it didn’t matter how talented or famous you were if you had dark skin.” Mom didn’t get angry often but I could hear anger in her voice then. 

By the time I reached adolescence, the Civil Rights protests had reached our city in Western Massachusetts. Whenever my injured ankles would allow me to climb the stairs, my parents went to church and I attended Sunday School. One morning our teacher brought a guest, a friend who was a lawyer and a young black man. His name was Oscar Bright. His lesson was about how head cheese is made. Then with a grin, he said, “Would you like to eat some?” 

There was a chorus of “Yuck, no thanks,” from the teenagers. Then he talked about prejudice and how you can miss out on somethings that are really good if you have a closed mind.

Not long after that day, the morning newspaper headline read “Oscar Bright Arrested at City Hall Protest on Drug Charge.” My best friend, Cheryl joked, “I guess Oscar Bright wasn’t very bright.” I didn’t laugh. I believed that the man I had met would not be so stupid as to carry drugs in his pocket when he knew he might be arrested by police. I said so, feeling angry, like I remembered my mother being when she had told me her stories.

Blueberries: Generosity and the Economy of Abundance

~ Linda Wright

After reading: The Serviceberry: Abundance and Reciprocity in the Natural World by Robin Wall Kimmerer

This week we purchased three blueberry plants. We haven’t had a blueberry bush since we said farewell to our home in Massachusetts in 2007. Those plants were a birthday gift from my father one April. I don’t remember most of the birthday presents I have received in my lifetime, but I can still remember the joy those blueberry bushes gave me.

The blueberry bushes were a gift that fed me pleasure for years. Each spring when their pink tips started to spread at the edges of green leaves, I relaxed in the return of spring. Gradually the pale white blossoms would begin to expand. The bees and butterflies thought the flowers were an offering just for them. They kissed each tender bloom and carried the pollen from one plant to an other. By mid summer each flower had transformed into a plump juicy berry, dark blue with a rim of pink by the stem, like a berry belly button.

It didn’t take long before the birds discovered the gift too. I’m not sure how many years it took for those bushes to produce enough berries to fill a small bucket, but it did take us a while to notice that if we didn’t put a net over the bushes the birds would gobble all of them up before we had a chance to berry pick. Even after we tied netting around each bush, the birds still got a generous share from what dropped to the ground. Once they discovered that, if they flapped their wings around the netting, a shower of berries would land at their claws and they could feast to their fill. We didn’t mind sharing. There was still enough to put on our morning cereal bowl or put in a bumbleberry crumble.

Since we moved into the retirement community our house has a much smaller garden space, so the blueberry bushes are a variety that is supposed to grow in a pot and they will reach a height of only two to three feet. In Florida February is a good time to plant. The advertisement claims that the plants will produce sweet, dark blueberries. Will there be enough berries to put a few on our cereal bowls, or into a bumbleberry crumble? If not, we will be glad to provide a bit of sustenance to the bees and birds. 

For those who do not know about bumbleberry pie or bumbleberry crumble, here’s how I make mine. It is different every time. I use any mix of assorted fresh and/ or frozen berries… strawberry, blueberry, blackberry, raspberry. My Canadian relatives usually add some chopped apples. If strawberries are part of the mix, you can add some chopped rhubarb. It takes about five cups of fruit in all. I toss the fruit in a small amount of sugar and some cornstarch. I like mine quite tart but most people add more sugar and even honey to their crumbles. Then I put the fruit in a nine by nine baking dish and cover with a mixture of oatmeal, flour and brown sugar. I plop several small chunks of cold butter on the top and bake. It’s my favorite dessert and best when shared.  

Early Sign

Photo by Greg Hume
~ Linda Wright ~ 2 Comments

From my seat at the dining room table, I can see a slice of bright pink through the window. The skinny Eastern Redbud tree stands at the edge of the woods in full bloom . Most of the year this tree is so slender, so fragile, so spindly, that I don’t notice it.

Today though, my eyes are focused on it.. It knows something I didn’t. Spring is on its way even on this chilly February day.

Photo by Greg Hume

Reflections on Blogging

~ Linda Wright

I seem to have attracted a few followers every day since I started this thirty-one days of free writing challenge. Each day I glance at the names of the other bloggers out there who have clicked like on what I posted yesterday. Then I puzzle over what they write. It seems to me that most are picking up on the key words I have added to signify my topic. When I used food as a tag, my piece was noticed by people who write exclusively about recipes. Most of the people who say they “like” my post have only done so once. I see no evidence that I have a true following with the exception of a few personal friends. What I notice is that many of the people who claim to be following my blog in fact have hundreds, if not thousands of followers themselves. This make sense if they are going around and liking posts rather willy-nilly. Maybe it’s like having friends on Facebook and the more you have the better you feel about yourself. Today, day twenty-one, I actually liked someone’s blog back. Call me a snob if you want but I’m just not that easily swayed by popularity clicks.

Day 21 (of 31 days of free writing)

“Everything…affects everything”

~ Linda Wright ~ 1 Comment

Ralph the custodian at the library arrived for work on a chilly morning. He noticed another car at the back of the parking lot. “That’s odd,” he thought, “the library doesn’t open for another two hours.” He thought perhaps the owner had not been able to start it for some reason and left it there, but then he noticed the engine was running. Ralph walked over to see if the car’s owner had left a note on the windshield. It startled him to see that in the driver’s seat was a young woman, slumped over the steering wheel. He knocked on the window and got no response. The car door was locked.

By the time I pulled my car into the lot everything appeared as usual, Ralph was standing by the door waiting for me. He opened the door so that I would not have to use my key. His usually cheerful face was grave. Halting a bit, he explained the police had come and gone. As Ralph feared, the woman was dead. She had blocked the car’s exhaust pipe, turned on the car engine, locked the doors, and waited to die. If she had had any second thoughts later she would have been too paralyzed by the fumes to get out of the death trap she had constructed.

I had often thought of Ralph as our Tin Woodman, a man who was more comfortable building bookcases and taking care of people, than acknowledging his kind heartedness. He lowered his voice and said, “They took her body to the morgue and towed her car away.”

It was mid-morning when the police officer came to the library to say that they had identified the body. She was a college freshman. The officer told me her name, but I didn’t recognize it. Her name rippled from one staff member to another in hushed tones. Most shook their heads and said, “No I don’t remember her.” Murmurs of “How sad,” echoed each time another staff member came into work.

But Emily at the circulation desk said, “Oh yes, I remember her now. She was soft spoken, kind of shy. She probably used the college library most of the time, but she came here every once in a while.” 

Most of that day few people talked about it. The atmosphere was somber. At the staff meeting the next day, I asked everyone to say a few words about what they had felt when they learned of the suicide. Some librarians, who had children of their own, thought how the young woman’s parents must be grieving. Several people said that they wished they had known her better, known that she seemed withdrawn and anxious. Perhaps if they had taken the time, while checking out her books, to inquire how she was, they could have offered her some comfort. If she hadn’t felt so alone, could it have made a difference? Then Ralph spoke, “I thought I was the only one who thought perhaps I could have prevented this. I wondered if I had just arrived extra early to work, could I have saved her life.”

I think she would have been surprised that the town librarians sat together mourning her death. She may have been astounded to know that thirty years after her suicide, the director of the library still remembered her death as tragic.