Typically Texas

On Facebook I come across a picture of the United States with Texas highlighted in red, along with Oklahoma, Tennessee, Idaho, and Iowa. “TEXAS PASSES CRITICAL RACE THEORY BILL,” is the headline that accompanies the article. One of the comments below the posting reads, “It’s about time.” Another declares, “Go, Texas!”

Race again. Hasn’t this issue been dominating our lives for long enough? While I believe that systemic racism should be taken seriously and that it has ruined lives, I also believe that minds have been opened and the majority is ready to move forward in making the changes that need to be made. Like many, I have a short attention span and I grow bored with discussing instead of doing. Though admittedly, I leave the doing to others. 

But wait: I’m not actually sure what Critical Race Theory is. I look it up. According to Wikipedia, Critical Race Theory is “a theoretical framework or set of perspectives by which structural and institutional racism may be examined.”

That sounds worthwhile. Someone, not me, should definitely look into it. 

However, knowing my fellow Texans, and knowing the person who shared the article, I doubt the implication of the heading, which is that Texas is on board with adopting a policy dedicated to examining the history and causes of systemic racism. This doesn’t sound like the Texas I know; so I look up the bill. Well, no. What’s really going on is that Texas has banned the teaching of Critical Race Theory in our schools. 

But wait. I see that I’ve landed on an adversarial website that wants me to think that Texas is against teaching kids not to be racist. Looking into it further, I see that the law doesn’t ban Critical Race Theory: it bans schools from being required to teach Critical Race Theory. Does this mean that all those states that aren’t red have a law requiring their schools to teach Critical Race Theory? Does this also mean that, until this law was passed, Texas teachers were required to teach it? Because here is a law that implies exactly that; and this, I highly doubt. Although please, if you know of a school system in the state that, up to this point, has required the teaching of Critical Race Theory, let me know, because I sure haven’t been able to find one.

So. We have a state legislature legislating something that doesn’t need to be legislated. And politicians using the education system like a tool. 

With federal, state, and local powers all weighing in, our education system is unwieldy enough without superfluous interference. As to Critical Race Theory, do teachers need a bill for them to know that their job is to teach children how to think, not what to think? And do they need a law to know that preaching against opinions that’re passed from parent to child over the dinner table is overstepping and futile? What teachers do know, without it being legislated, is that the best place to learn empathy concerning race is found in literature—A Lesson Before Dying by Ernest Gaines; The Color Purple by Alice Walker; and To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee—and so many more. Also, history is right there in the classroom, presenting facts to be discussed and interpreted, offering lessons about morality, greed, power-grabbing, land-grabbing, and political manipulation.

On the lighter side of the race issue—and believe me, if there’s a lighter side, I’ll find it—here’s a story of racial diversity in the workplace: 

A friend of ours works in a business office in Dallas. Every couple of months a memo about diversity is circulated wherein personnel are encouraged to contemplate how the firm can obtain a more diverse standing. But realistically, workers are busy doing their jobs and there are no qualified brown people applying to the company, so what is the expectation here? People of color with higher degrees are rare and, in light of the country-wide drive toward the appearance of diversity, understandably sought-after. She told me that when Juneteenth was declared a national holiday, everyone was given the day off and instructed that they should use the time to reflect on diversity and racial relations, which I’m certain they all did. Also, it was suggested that the employees attend an online seminar concerning racial relations, which meant, for her, sitting in front of her computer, wearing a nice blouse, and listening to Latino lawyers share problems and suggestions concerning issues in the Latino community, while she ate fine cheese and sipped a robust Bordeaux. 

I always enjoy a verbal ramble, but this post’s so scattered that I’m confused about what I wanted to say in the first place. Scanning back to see what the take-away is—if there is one—I find my three points. One: While teachers don’t need the government telling them how to teach kids to be human, they also don’t need legal protection from something that doesn’t exist. Two: Passing unnecessary laws just to look like you’re doing something is self-serving and stinks of duplicity. And three: There’s no such thing as one-sided diversity. 

The hat is a rather weak symbol of Texas, but it’s all I had at hand.

An indication that construction’s fixing to start across the street. From this moment on, they have six months to get their house built. The guy moving in is Sgt. Sam, a conservative talk radio host in Austin. Predictably, he’s quite popular in this area.

These guys are heavy, made of ebony, and quite old. Considering the subject of the blog, I thought that they were quite delightfully inappropriate.

Can't Be Unread

My son, Sam, tells me that he’s reading Shuggie Bain. Though they’re grown, I like to know what the kids are reading, much in the same way as, when they were younger, I paid attention to what they were watching on television. When they became enamored with The Sopranos, I watched it right along with them with my finger on the pause button; and every thirty seconds I’d pause the show and say, “This is not the way nice people speak to one another.” Or I’d say, “Never, never say that word.” 

Thinking about The Sopranos reminds me of an amusing story about how, when we lived in Kuwait, the German in the downstairs flat kept getting fired from his jobs, and he seemed confused as to why. But I thought it was probably because his vocabulary was so offensive. And it turned out that, yes, he’d learned to speak English from watching The Sopranos. He had no idea that normal people didn’t sprinkle everyday conversations with obscenities. 

Anyway, Shuggie Bain. I look it up. It won the Booker Prize last year. Richard Russo, one of my favorite authors, predicts that it will knock me sideways—though I question whether being knocked sideways is a good thing; but it must be or why else would the publishers have posted the review? On the other hand, being knocked sideways might be one of those ambiguous things someone says when he can’t think of anything that’s not insulting. But look—the Booker judges call it intimate, compassionate, and gripping. Wow! I am compelled to download it. 

What the reviewers don’t say is that it’s a depressing slog through a nasty Irish bog. To sum up, an alcoholic woman’s adulterous husband moves her to a poverty-stricken mining village and dumps her and their young son there while he goes to live with his latest lover. When the little boy gets raped by an older boy I read no further. In the portion of the book I do manage to read, I come across not one kind soul or object of beauty. Every character is cruel and crude; every wall is peeling and moldy; and every landscape is smelly and bleak.  

I hate to spend money on a book and then not finish it. But sometimes that’s just the way it goes. As to Richard Russo’s line about being knocked sideways, he’s a humorist that I’ve studied to the point where I’m almost as familiar with his work as I am my own; and I’m certain my interpretation was correct—while he was reluctant to slam a Booker prize winner, I can’t see him enjoying this laborious dragged-out moan. 

Also, it’s my belief that what goes into our heads bumps around in there forever, influencing us in ways so insidious that we don’t realize it. So why deliberately plant ugliness in our brains?

To be fair, Sam didn’t exactly recommend it. He simply said that he was reading it. This happened to me once before when I mistook an off-hand comment for a recommendation when a friend told me that The House of Mirth was a must-read. She might’ve meant that it was an important read in the literary sense, not that I would find pleasure in it. In a nutshell, the main character, a young woman from a good home and with a hopeful nature, endures a decline in circumstances until she dies poor and alone. 

As to the author, Edith Wharton, I can’t count the number of times people have said to me, “As a writer, you must love Edith Wharton.” Must I? Have I read anything by Edith Wharton? Maybe. I look her up and find that, indeed, I have read several of her books—but all the titles bring to mind are feelings of betrayal and oppression. No joy to be found. So no, I’m not an admirer. 

My older son, Curtis, reading the remarks I make in the family email chain about how I disdain depressing novels, sends me a link to The Early Morning Riser, which The Washington Post says is the funniest novel of the year. Marian Keyes, another favorite of mine, says that The Early Morning Riser is “. . . very, very funny in a knowing wry way. . .”

Funniest novel of the year? Funny is what I write! These reviews stir my competitive nature. Okay, I think, Katherine Heiny let’s see what you’ve got. 

Well, for one thing her last name makes me smile. When I was a little girl I had a friend who said, “My hiney!” the way other people said, “Boloney!” It was cute. And I, too, have a whimsical last name that leads to lighthearted thoughts. So we have that in common. 

I analyze her work carefully. She adroitly contrasts solemnity and humor by presenting a tragic circumstance laced with absurd description or dialogue. She serves up clumsy or inappropriate remarks that lead to embarrassment or misunderstanding; and she uses amusing words like befuddled or confounded to illustrate how the main character is never quite in sync with those around her. Her dialogue flows naturally and her characters are audacious. She writes well and meets her goals and I will happily read her next book. This begs the question—does she leave me in the dust? Absolutely not. I do all the stuff she does; and I do it just as well if not better. Yet famous authors and notable publications are touting her. How can this be?

I received an email from a reader in the UK a couple of weeks ago asking when my next book will be out, which, believe me, is a question that looms so hugely in my mind that if I’m not vigilant it will consume me. A grad student in England recently wrote her dissertation based on the theme of materialism that runs through both my published novels. Since Old Buildings in North Texas and Why Stuff Matters were released, I have written six novels. Where are they? With my agent, who is presenting them with regularity. Who is she presenting them to? Who is reading my work? Is there any feedback? This lack of knowledge and control is the most frustrating thing about being a writer. I’m despondent to think that my lovely and funny Fran Furlow mystery series may never see the shelves, may never be enjoyed by anyone other than me. 

However, reality offers bizarre distractions. Yesterday in the parking lot of Ross Dress for Less, I came across a pair of athletic shoes in pretty good condition sitting side-by-side on the yellow line, as though they’d been carefully arranged. What’s that about?

Seriously. Whose? Why? The shoestrings are clean and white and tied in neat knots. Is the cigarette butt a deliberate placement? If so, what’s it meant to convey?

Gullible and Not thinking

During the time when Covid was first winding its way through our communities, and society divided into Pro- and anti-mask factions, so that the people who dutifully wore masks looked at the people who accidentally left theirs in the car like they were evil and had cooties; and random and contradicting mandates were being issued by every level of government; and horrifying rumors spread of noncompliants being arrested in the bigger cities, we received this email: 

March 30, 2020

From: 

Social Distancing Task Force for the State of Texas

Regional Director - Dan Ciste

1100 Congress Ave

Austin, Texas 78701

To:  

David Waldo

Jennifer Waldo

103 Creekside Cove

Marble Falls, Texas 78654

Via Email to jwaldo19@yahoo.com; dwaldo19@gmail.com

RE:  NOTICE OF CITATION FROM THE STATE OF TEXAS, Incident No. 11112284

Dear DAVID WALDO and JENNIFER WALDO:

My name is Dan Ciste. I am Regional Director for the Social Distancing Task Force for the State of Texas, serving the tri-county area of Burnet County, Williamson County, and Travis County, created by order of the Hon. Governor of the State of Texas, Greg Abbott, Order No. 2020-2727, dated March 25, 2020. It has come to the attention of this Task Force that you have hosted an illegal gathering at your residence of 103 CREEKSIDE COVE, MARBLE FALLS, TEXAS 78654, on or around MARCH 29, 2020. As hosts of this illegal gathering, you are solely liable under Order No. 2020-2727.

Our office's intake agent has registered the following notes regarding this illegal gathering:  

Assembly of vulnerable age population members. Proximity within required six feet. Food and drink served. Small dog displaying unhygienic behavior with humans.  

At this time there is no monetary or jail-time penalty for this first-time documented offense. However, state law requires me to inform you that in the event of a second documented offense, the following mandatory penalties shall be assessed:

SECOND OFFENSE:  $1,000 FINE

THIRD OFFENSE:  180 DAYS IN JAIL

FOURTH OFFENSE:  4 TO 6 YEARS IN JAIL

The source of this complaint is: ANONYMOUS. 

Per Order No. 2020-2727, there is no right to trial or right to confront an accuser for violators of this critical order relating to public health and safety.  

Per Order No. 2020-2727, email service of this citation is deemed sufficient and necessary to preserve public health and safety. Due process rights are not relevant at this time under Order No. 2020-2727.

Please visit the website of the Social Distancing Task Force with any questions, or feel free to contact me at any time.  

Social Distancing Task Force

Dan Ciste        

Shocking. Due process rights aren’t relevant? No right to a trial? David and I took this citation very seriously indeed. We’d had a few gatherings where friends, some masked, some not, walked through the house, grabbed food, and we all met on the back deck, where we ate and drank and discussed all the dreary foolishness while making no effort to comply with any rule. Also, I was hosting Mahjong at the house once a week, where we hunched indoors at the table, unmasked, breathing each other’s air and unabashedly exchanging tiles. 

Every time cars and trucks showed up in our driveway, the next day we’d receive outdoor and distanced comments from the neighbors. “You’re living dangerously,” one said; “We’re not supposed to be entertaining,” from another. “This is the way it’s spread,” cautioned a third. 

And now, we’d been turned in. By whom? Anonymous! We were certain it was one of the fearful and judgmental neighbors. Paranoid, suspicious, and deeply wounded, we took a walk up the street outside the cul-de-sac and ranted and pondered, discussing options when our only recourse seemed to be to stop enjoying our lives. 

“It has to have been Taylor,” I said, with a mean squint, planning revenge. “He’s officious and judgmental.”

“Yeah, but he’s a good guy. He wouldn’t turn in a neighbor.” 

“Then who? Who would do this to us?”

“It’s like we’re living in Nazi Germany. They called Dilly unhygienic. Is it evil to have a dog during covid?”

“If anonymous accusations are accepted as fact, anyone could turn anyone in.”

Oh, we were hurt and frightened, indignant and furious. I emailed Curtis and Sam, sending them copies of the ominous letter and asking for their thoughts and advice. I forwarded the letter to the women who’d been coming over to play Mahjong, and David forwarded it to his friends from Habitat, with whom he’d continued to socialize regularly. We were laying the groundwork for revolution. People might take this crap in the big cities, but we wouldn’t stand for it here in Marble Falls. 

Curtis wrote back, suggesting that we check the link at the end, adding a confounded, “Maybe that’ll offer more of an explanation.” 

There was something unexpectedly passive about this response. He’s a lawyer who’s passionate about the laws and freedoms of our country. You’d think he’d be outraged. And then a memory crept in. Several years ago Curtis pranked us by saying there was a homeless man named Herb living in the dilapidated shack on the property behind our house. And, because our oldest son is one of the most honest people I know, I’d believed every word—and oh, the havoc I caused by complaining to the property owner, who warned all the neighbors and then called the authorities to come on out and evict poor nonexistent Herb! Also, Curtis had been giving us a hard time about pursuing our regular activities during this irregular time, so perhaps he felt that a lesson was called for. 

I hurried in to where David was sitting at his computer. We shared a look and, at the same time declared, “It was from Curtis!”

David clicked the link at the end of the letter and it took us to a YouTube video of a couple of otters and their baby paddling around in a pond, looking harmless and cute. Curtis has always been fond of otters. 

I didn’t have a relevant picture so I just went with something colorful.

Mortification

I was in high school when I decided to keep track of how often I embarrassed myself. After a year of tallying, the average was at least once a week. Tactlessness, ignorance, misunderstandings, and misconceptions hounded me in my interactions with everyone—friends and family, classmates and strangers; but I figured that my options were to never step outside my front door, or to accept the awkwardness and do the best I could. 

The other day I embarrassed myself in the worst way, and it happened because of balloon pants. For those who don’t know, balloon pants are baggy and gathered into a cuff at the ankle. Mine are a lovely buff, soft faux suede. I’m very fond of them. The cuffs drape beautifully over my black boots—oh, and I’m fond of them, too. I made the pants, and the fabric was a joy to work with. 

So, Easter Sunday. The service is over. I float on a lofty cloud, spiritually refreshed, taking comfort in the fact that, for a time at least, I’m in a state of sanctity. The priest gave a good sermon and I want to tell him so. I like it when others tell me I did well, so I figure other people like it to. 

He stands outside the door of the narthex, on the top step, a short man with warm twinkling eyes, wishing his congregants well as they depart. Then, as is the way of things, people move to the side and laugh and talk amongst themselves. The sky is the brightest blue and the air is crisp with a hint of warmth. Spring’s been late in coming this year and I’m pleased to welcome it. 

When I stand before our priest, I say, “Hey, Dave, good sermon.” That’s all, just a simple compliment from behind my mask. And I move on—only the heel of my beloved boot catches in the gathers of my beloved pants as I step away. 

Gravity takes me. 

Falling down a couple of stairs in front of a crowd of proper churchgoers is humiliating, but even more humiliating is what I shout as I’m helplessly falling, which is “SHIT!”

A woman rushes to help me to my feet.

“Please tell me no one heard that,” I plead as I scramble to a squatting position and push myself up with my rear end looming largely. 

“What?” she asks as she supports my upper arm. “Did you curse? No, I certainly didn’t hear it.”

What a kind woman. 

Oh dear. All eyes are on me. Mouths are frozen in horrified gasps. I’ll be getting dubious looks and people will be asking if I’m okay for months. 

Mortifying, yes, but as I said, I’ve been embarrassing myself once a week for my whole life. I’m used to it.  

More significant than my pride is the spiritual aspect. Church. I go, I pray, and I ask forgiveness for all the stupid or thoughtless things I’ve done; and I recognize how I’m lacking in absolutely every area—then I’m absolved and I take communion and for a brief time I’m in a state of holiness that feels pretty wonderful.  

But it never takes more than a few seconds for me to tumble from my divine plain. An erroneous chord from the organist or a piercing note from a choir member will stir my critical nature and, without thought, I’ll send a nasty glare toward the choir. Or the man in the pew behind me will sneeze on my neck, which is disgusting and rude, and will cause me to hope that horrible things befall him. 

Shouting shit outside the church on Easter morning isn’t the first time I’ve done something appallingly irreverent. 

Once in the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem, at what is celebrated as the manger where Christ was born, I spit out a loud, “Dammit!” when I couldn’t get the camera to work. Right there, in one of the most holy places in the world. Though, really—and here I rationalize—how can we know for sure that it was exactly the square meter on this whole planet where a baby was born two thousand years ago? 

I’d gone to Jerusalem with a couple of friends and David had given me his ridiculously complicated camera, merrily telling me to bring back lots of pictures. There had been devout pilgrims there! People solemnly milling around in states of saintly euphoria! What kind of monster cusses beside the manger? 

Mortification. God forgives me, but the trouble is forgiving myself. I should’ve learned to control my tongue by now, but I obviously haven’t. 

And to this day I disdain cameras. Oh, my phone camera has its uses—like if I want to remember a measurement or a brand name, I can take a quick picture. But as to stopping life in order to commemorate a moment, I never do it. 

Balloon pants, black boots with a high heel. What was I thinking? How silly, how shallow. Vanity and style have no place in church. What will I do with my balloon pants?

Not nearly as cute on the hanger as when I’m wearing them. But you get the idea.