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As I mentioned in my last post, my wife was born and raised in Jackson, Mississippi, where the novel The Help is set. Her childhood memories include a quiet, unpretentious black maid named Rose, whose responsibilities were mainly cleaning and ironing -- at least as far as my wife recollects. The rationale of many white families was that they were providing much needed employment in exchange for services that made their lives a little -- or a lot -- more comfortable.
Becky and I spent two months in Zimbabwe in 1985, part of which time was spent on a tobacco farm owned by a white couple. At the time, white farmers were still the dominant force in Zimbabwean agriculture, with entire villages of black Africans working for them. Wanting to identify with the Africans, we elected to sleep on our air mattresses in the huge tobacco shed next to the villagers' huts. After a few nights, however, the rats had eaten holes in all our air mattresses, and the farmer's wife persuaded us to spend the last remaining nights of our stay in the house.
The first morning, we awoke to a tray of tea outside our bedroom door, provided by the household staff. When we were invited to go on an overnight excursion to our hosts' cabin at Lake Kariba (the world's largest artificial lake), the "help" came along to do all the cooking.
As a middle class white American, I felt ambivalent about the treatment we were receiving. Sure, who doesn't enjoy a little pampering. But what was my vague sense of guilt about? It just didn't feel right.
Since that time, President Mugabe's policies have driven many of the white farmers not only from their land, but from the country. I have to rejoice, on the one hand, that the land is under the primary control of the majority blacks; but the objective truth is that many of those white farmers used agricultural methods that, if brought back today, would almost certainly improve the greatly deteriorated Zimbabwean economy. (The Zimbabwean situation is far more complex than agricultural methods and has more than anything to do with a despot clutching inordinate power.)
What do we do with all this? What is our personal responsibility? The way I see it, I am to live a life that treats all people with the respect and dignity I believe we were all created with. The places I see this happening on a regular basis are unfortunately few and far between.
I will say this in closing: most of us white Americans and Europeans are a long way from understanding what it truly means to be a minority. Since we cannot change the color of our skin, even if we wanted to in order to conduct some kind of experiment (or move to South Africa), the best we can do is examine our own hearts and "see if there be any wicked way" with regard to people of other color.
My wife, son, daughter-in-law and I saw this powerful movie this weekend. I don't claim to be a movie critic, so won't overly pontificate on the merits and flaws of the movie. I will say that there are a number of extraordinary performances, and I won't be surprised to see Viola Davis's name on the list of Oscar nominees for 2012.
The story itself, based on the best-selling book by Kathryn Stockett, is one I find hard to shake. (I won't recount it here for the sake of those who haven't seen the movie yet.) My wife was born and raised in Jackson, Mississippi, and seeing the movie through her eyes made it that much more poignant. My reaction of anger and shame reveals a particular sensitivity to the subject of race relations in American culture -- but we're mistaken if we think this is a strictly American phenomenon. More on that in my next post.
As we whites look at our parents' generation's treatment of blacks, there is a mixture of emotional responses. My Texan grandfather, a barber, refused to cut the hair of blacks or Mexicans. Not all whites were as openly hostile to African Americans; in my wife's Jackson, having black "help" was accepted as a normal part of southern culture. The attitudes of the white employers varied from blatant prejudice and condescension to a much more subtle form of racism. Many black nannies, as portrayed by Viola Davis, were so close to the children they cared for that they were like family. Though it is true that we tread on dangerous ground when we talk in stereotypical terms about that era (the notion of building a separate bathroom for the help, for example, was completely foreign to my wife), we can clearly talk about cultural trends that shift with each generation.
Not all whites were as hypocritical as the movie makes them out to be. Many were sincere, God-fearing families who believed they were doing the blacks a favor by providing them employment.
"They were doing the best they knew how," we like to say.
While that may be true, it makes me shudder.
It makes me shudder because I can't help wondering what our children will be talking about when they say the same thing about us. I have often wondered about the collective blind spots in our cultures: why did it take so long for us to realize the evils of slavery? Why have women generally had to wait so long for equal rights? Why has democracy still not taken hold in many nations of the world?
But the most sobering question to me is this: what blind spots in this generation will our descendants identify? Of course we are aware that our current world leaves much to be desired and hoped for. But a blind spot is just that -- what is it that is completely escaping our attention?
After many hours of sitting in my own classroom, so to speak, learning about merchant accounts and all the elements of the back side of the tapestry, the e-book is finally out of the oven.
If I were seeking help and encouragement about a particular subject I was preparing to study, I wouldn't look for a large volume on how to go about it; I would want something concise -- so that's what I've done here.
Part motivation, part practical how-to's, How to Learn a Foreign Language: 7 Tips for Making the Daunting Doable is designed to be a shot in the arm for those who are either considering undertaking a foreign language, or those who have already begun but could use a little fresh perspective.
That word perspective is a huge word in my life. One of the themes of the e-book is the importance of taking the necessary step of lifting ourselves above our cultural assumptions in order to take a fresh look -- in this case, at the language we're tackling -- but it's a principal that applies in all areas of life.
Perspective comes only when we are willing to loosen our clutch on what we perceive as real and important.
Check out the book for yourself, or forward the information to someone you know who could use a shot in the arm and a little perspective.
We're almost there -- we just need to make some tweaks to the website where my new e-book will be available. While I'm learning about online shopping carts and merchant accounts, we're getting great feedback and constructive criticism from my test group. Many have said it has made them want to go out and do something crazy like learn a foreign language.
If so, mission accomplished.
Dear loyal or occasional reader,
One year ago today, Becky and I were sitting at a long, food-laden table in the back yard of good friends in a quaint village outside Strasbourg, France. We topped off an already wonderful evening by standing in the midst of a festive crowd in the center of Strasbourg, oohing and ahing like kids at the fireworks above the medieval towers of the old city.
Today in France is what Americans call Bastille Day. The name Bastille is nowhere in the French name for the holiday; they simply call it la Fête nationale, or, even more commonly, le quatorze juillet -- just as we commonly say July 4 instead of Independence Day.
If you've been following me for very long, you know I'm an avowed francophile. What you may not know is that I was born on the 14th of July. It would seem my life was destined to be intertwined with that of our French friends, of whom I have many. This year, I'm celebrating at home with my family and good friends, taking part in local celebrations of Bastille Day hosted by the few but proud francophiles in my city of Nashville.
You haven't heard from me in a while because I've been busy putting the finishing touches on an e-book on how to go about learning a foreign language. I'll send updates soon, but in the meantime, feel free to sign up here if you're specifically interested in foreign languages -- and spread the word!
Finally, you've been reading for some time in this blog my musings on cultural and international issues, my passion and mission being to awaken cultural curiosity among English speakers. From now on, however, I intend to muse on other topics of interest as well; this will likely include more opinions, which you may or not agree with. Maybe it's my age (and we do tend to be more philosophical as we muse on our birthday, dont' we) -- but it's becoming less important to me to avoid stirring the waters a little. My philosophy is that we treat each other with the same respect we hope to be given, and I trust you'll stay on board with me.
In the meantime, Bonne Fête du 14 juillet!
My wife and I have owned a timeshare in Orlando for a number of years. We bought it while our sons were still at home and were really into the idea of vacationing one mile from Disneyworld. This is the first year we have found ourselves using the week all by ourselves -- just the two of us. Since we have never been to Universal Orlando, we decided to go (under the pretext of checking it out for our new grandson -- yeah, right).
Our timeshare is just every other year, and I was in Europe the last time it came around, so my wife loaded up two of our sons and some of their friends and had a grand time. So it has been at least four years since I experienced the genuinely American phenomenon called the theme park. Some raw reflections:
First, I was taken back to my years of living in Europe when I would land at an American airport after months or even years away and be immediately struck by the number of obese people. America, the land of extremes. A multi-billion dollar fitness industry alongside the highest obesity rate in the world. I'm sorry, but this makes me ashamed.
Second, you've probably heard me say before that one of America's strengths is creativity and innovation. Disney and Universal are creativity on steroids, a celebration of storytelling and imagination. As I stroll through Universal's Seuss Landing or the new Harry Potter section, for example, it's impossible (for me) not to appreciate the wealth of imagination that was in operation not only when the original stories were conceived, but also in the translation of those stories to tangible "things" that can be touched and crawled on and ridden in.
What is contained in my ticket is a mixed bag, symbolic of the paradoxical day and culture in which we live. On one hand, my entrance price pays for the creators' innovations. I was thinking how much fun it must be to be an architect for Disney or Universal. Or an orchestrator. Or an engineer. The multi-faceted skills that go into just one of those rides is staggering. It also pays for summer employment for hundreds of high school and college kids. On the other hand, the ticket also represents obscene profit margins on food and drink, not to mention the not-so-subtle message, delivered long before you arrived at the park, that your kids HAVE to have that toy or keepsake in order to "keep the memory alive." These parks have a way of bringing out the worst in us consumers -- or teaching us a measure of restraint if we let them.
Since, at least for the time being, I don't have to choose between a make-believe theme park world and the preferred adventure of experiencing the real world we live in (stay tuned for more European adventures this summer), I'll most likely cave when my grandson asks me, with those big blue eyes, if we can go see Mickey.
