No Place Like 10-01

Before I had a chance to see A Thousand and One, the new film set in 1990s Harlem, I showed it to an audience of 30 people, many of them murmuring to each other as they left, asking what their companions thought would happen next.

In my 25 years as a projectionist, I’ve found that many viewers have little patience for inconclusive endings, and I can still hear the woman demanding that I tell her if actor Mads Mikkelsen and the injured woman in the sled survived long enough to be rescued by the helicopter that lands at the end of 2018’s Arctic. Does she think that projectionists see sequels withheld from the audience?

A Thousand and One is different, at least for those who left the cinema more appreciative of what Inez, played by singer and actor Teyana Taylor, had accomplished rather than skeptical of how she did it. In the latter category was one woman who left complaining, “Another depressing movie!” Those in the former category appeared glad to have the option of speculating what Inez might do next, including two women who were aglow, one saying, “Whoa, that was exhausting, but it was sooooo worth it!”

Expressions on most faces, and the “thanks” offered to me as they passed, suggested that theirs was the consensus view. That night it became my view as well when I was able to watch from start to finish.

Exhausting? Well, it’s certainly not light entertainment. It’s emotionally charged, and the setting is as crowded as it is chaotic. It begins with Inez’s release from Riker’s Island, and moves immediately into her attempts to reclaim her boy from foster care and establish a new life for them.

Obstacles abound. Their backstory is mysterious (and offers a plot twist when least expected), but the present is so fraught with obstacles and strained relationships, that we keep looking to their next steps. Arguments erupt; payphones take such a beating they may be lucky they no longer exist; reconciliation is not so much sought as necessitated. As Inez at one point exhales:

Damaged people do not know how to love.

While director A.V. Rockwell keeps the focus on Inez and Terry–played by three actors aged 6, 13, and 17, which makes for a relevant comparison to 2016’s Moonlight–the frame of 1990s New York City is a tight fit. Midway in the film, we see Mayor Giuliani’s “Stop & Frisk” policy in action as police push Terry and his friends up against graffitied walls. Before the credits roll, a new landlord buys in to “urban renewal,” which African-American leaders called–and still call–a euphemism for “Negro removal.”

The neighborhood is all apartment buildings several stories high with no space between them, targeted for demolition. Inez and Terry make a home in apt. 10-01, which vies with “one thousand and one obstacles” as the title’s reference. Not only does she afford it, she keeps him in school where he proves to high school teachers and a guidance councillor that he is Ivy League material.

She marries an old boyfriend; he woos a cashier at a fast food place. There’s also a small support group that completes a neighborhood cast that shows us what industrious, conscientious people can accomplish in the most pressing environment, defying all stereotypes without bothering to say the term “systemic racism.”

A Thousand and One is realism at its finest. The language is often rough and the street scenes are always gritty, but Ida B. Wells, Steven Crane, Richard Wright and others comitted to telling the truth of American urban life would agree with the two women who saw it before I did:

“Soooooo worth it!”

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Lighting up Downtown

As I trudge up State Street, a fellow half my age hops out of the library, waves his hand in front of my face, catches my eye to make sure I stop and listen, and says something about one of the few subjects I never consider:

“No pot shops in downtown Newburyport!”

He doesn’t yell.  In fact, he appears cheerful as if rallying me to a cause he assumes I approve, but his jabbing motion, thrusting an index finger down at the sidewalk, emphasizing every phrase, earns at least one exclamation point.

No, I don’t know him, nor does he know me except for my thumbnail picture every few weeks on the local paper’s editorial page.  He’s far from the first stranger to suggest I write about something important to them, but this is by far the most in-your-face, animated appeal ever made for my attention.

Must confess that as soon as he says “pot,” I’m no longer paying attention so much as waiting for him to pause for breath.  Takes awhile, but when he does, I say:

“Sorry, but marijuana is not a subject for me.  I haven’t followed it, so it’s best left to others, and others have plenty to say. If it’s any consolation, I can assure you that I’ll never write in favor of pot shops downtown.”

What he says next he probably already said while I was waiting him out, but this time it registers:

“State law prohibits pot shops within 500 feet of schools and day care centers.  Some councillors want a waiver that will reduce that to 200 feet.”

Is it mere coincidence that school children are walking past us on their way downtown on that Wednesday mid-afternoon? We pause as a loud gaggle blows by.  I must look like I’m impressed by his luck while making a point, so he presses another:

“I’m not against pot shops, just having them downtown.  They can go to the industrial park, or to the malls.”

Now I’m listening.  Recalling that the case for having them anywhere at all in Newburyport was that the city was losing revenue to other towns, I have to agree with him.  Not just regarding other locations, but, as I tell him:

“The very idea of a waiver to cut a buffer zone in less than half invites suspicion. That the buffer is for the sake of schools compounds it.”

“Suspicion? What’s to suspect about the referendum?” he asks, referring to a 53-47% city-wide vote that went against retail sales anywhere in the city just over three years ago.

Still, I don’t want to commit:  “Well, if I did oppose it, it’d be just the waiver for a downtown location, not the sale or use of it.”

“Yes, that’s all that matters.” He looks like he just reeled in a yellowfin tuna.

“I would have the advantage of identifying myself as a former pot head, so I couldn’t be accused of not knowing what I’m talking about–as I am on everything else.”

My new friend chimes in, “I smoke pot.  I get high.  I just don’t want kids exposed to it.”

“Well, if we had this conversation twenty years ago, I’d probably have some on me, and we could get good and stoned right now–just not here.”

“What happened?”

“About 15 years ago, it started making me paranoid.  One hit, and I could no longer function.  Even when alone, and oh, the worst hell is trying to hide from yourself.”

“Must be tough when your picture keeps getting in the paper.”

“Old age. You’ll find out for yourself someday. Hey, thanks for stopping me, I’ll see what I can do.”

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State Street viewed from Market Square where it begins, facing south. The Newburyport Public Library where this conversation took place is about where the street leaves this picture. As you can see, the city welcomes plant life downtown. https://www.visitingnewengland.com/scenesofnewengland22.html
A stand-alone pot shop, as most of them are, on the outskirts, also as most are, of a city–in this case, Bellingham. Washington. https://www.starbud.com/star-buds-recreational-marijuana-dispensary-bellingham/

From the Newburyport Daily News, March 15:

Councilor proposes reducing pot shop buffer zone

Addiction at First Bite

Market Square Bakehouse, Amesbury, Mass.

Years ago when I was still dispatched up the Maine coast every Friday morning, I made a habit of stopping at the Market Square Bakehouse in the center of Amesbury, just across the Merrimack, for an almond croissant to go.

It’s one of those items that makes all others impossible to enjoy.  Since tasting it, I’ve tried them in countless bakeries as far as my routes take me, and by comparison most taste like nothing at all.  Only one coming close is White Bakery & Cafe down in Mansfield where I no longer go.

Bakehouse’s almond croissant is addiction at first bite. Lately I enjoy them once a month or so when I rendezvous with a high school friend who lives in the Carriage City.  Back when I had the Maine route, I’d eat them while on I-95 right out of the bag so that shaved almonds and bits of dark crust would be caught, and I could eat a couple of handfuls as if it was trail-mix.  I’d savor those last bites all the way to Portland.

Wasn’t often that I’d be back in Massachusetts by lunch, and anyway I’ve lost count of the places in Maine that serve tasty clam chowder.  But I will vouch for the turkey panini that I had at Bakehouse on one odd, zigzag of a day.

Last Friday was another odd zigzag that had me driving from Wilmington to Salisbury at lunchtime with an unusual hankering for roast beef. I aimed for Bakehouse only to be told they were out of it. Before I could say “turkey panini,” the woman behind the counter started listing the options, ending with grilled cheese.

Readers of this blog may recall that just last month I was amazed by a grilled cheese sandwich that I ordered in Turners Falls out there on the Connecticut only because it was the only sandwich listed on a breakfast menu. The name of the place, Upper Bend Brucheonette, should have warned me, but I was glad I ignored the warning. Thick, dark, crunchy, by far the most satisfying grilled cheese sandwich I ever had.

At Bakehouse I ordered it as soon as I heard the two words just to see how close it might come. Before long I was relishing it, wondering if the cook at Upper Bend had left the Connecticut for the Merrimack. Just as thick, just as dark, just as crunchy, just as satisfying.

Market Square Bakehouse is now on a short-list of places I can count on for both breakfast-to-go or for lunch. And as I keep telling my high school friend, before too long we’ll enjoy the outdoor seating.

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https://www.marketsquarebakehouse.com/ Photo from Newburyport Daily News

Library by the Sea

Not far up the ever-ragged, rocky Maine coast is the quaint tourist town of Ogunquit, one of those few-and-far-flung outposts of the “Keep Weird” movement, if it is a movement, of places as diverse as Louisville, Nantucket, and most of the State of Vermont not to allow any chain stores, any neon, any businesses that require employees to wear uniforms in their centers.

Restaurants and lodgings are aplenty for those who might turn a trip to the Oqunquit Playhouse, best known for its musicals, or to Clay Hill Farm’s dinner-theater, often with actor Kirk Simpson’s one-man shows of Robert Frost, Edgar Allan Poe, and Charles Dickens, into weekend getaways. North of the town center are plenty of beaches on a barrier sandbar much like Plum Island.

Much of Ogunquit is seasonal, and the season hasn’t started yet, which why a friend and I converged there this weekend for a walk on what may be the town’s biggest attraction, The Marginal Way, a one-mile walk from Perkins Cove to a point with, thankfully, the OGT Beanery near the town center.

Fairly well-travelled in the offseason. Near the start facing north, with Ogunquit’s center around the bend. Photo by Carla Valentine.

Perkins Cove compares to Bear Skin Neck in Rockport, Mass., with one very narrow lane beyond the paid parking lots. Mercifully, one of those lots belongs to Barnacle Bill’s where we met and prepared ourselves with chowder and a crab roll before “taking care” of the parking attendants–who obviously know why you are there–and starting our trek.

Conveniently, Marginal Way begins (or ends) at Barnacle Bill’s parking lot, or as it happened, at the hatchback of my friend’s SUV, with a sharp incline (or decline) of the rocks that overlook the ocean. As someone who always walks on Plum Island’s flat surface or on a treadmill that I never tilt, I worried.

Perhaps the sensational views took my mind off the grind. Neither of us thought to bring field glasses, but to the north we could see the Maine coast sweeping eastward at least as far as the Biddeford Pools, possibly to Portland Lighthouse. South was all ocean until we thought we perceived a hint of Cape Ann, as Marginal Way’s cliffs are rather high.

The 39 benches (yes, they are numbered) were reassuring, and we sat several times in each direction to enjoy the view and prolong the experience. We noted two benches on the same ledge perpendicularly placed which meant that, if we had an argument on the way back, we could sit without having to look at each other.

From a bench facing south toward Perkins Cove. Photo by Carla Valentine.

We walked into town and slightly north on US 1 just to look at the Brickyard Hollow Brew Pub where we planned to bring our appetites later in the day. My friend thought we should stop for a pint. Well, she’s younger than I, so I had to admit I’d never make it back to the parking lot where we had two, not one, cars.

Instead, I talked her into going back to OGT where I sat forever with a dark roast while she sipped an iced matcha before browsing in a shop where she found a large, stuffed, white lamb to give her mother for Easter.

Before we returned to the Marginal Way, we each recalled driving past a library built of stone, a short distance down the Shore Road. We detoured for a closer look and to see inside.

To drive past is one thing. To stand still and face it, or maybe have it face you, is another. I wondered if, in 1897, those who built it knew that they were creating a work of art, something that would cause future generations (i.e. us) to stop and marvel?

Or did they just put up something functional with all that excess rock Ogunquit has and say:

Okay, we’re done, you can start putting books on the shelves.  Don’t forget to oil the door hinges every few months.

Says my friend: “Definitely form over function. I don’t think they did just function in those days–not the fashion. But as a memorial, and since it was always a library, I’m sure the architect wanted something so charming, no one would take it down.”

When we left, we rejoined the Marginal Way and sat on more than one bench to enjoy various views. My friend named the lamb “Margie” to commemorate the walk, and we took our cars to Brickyard Hollow for crab and ale before her drive north and mine south.

No question that the views of Marginal Way, reminiscent of Nova Scotia’s Cabot Trail, are well worth a day-trip or weekend getaway. After all, the Algonquin word, Ogunquit, literally means “a beautiful place by the sea.”

But, I swear, that library stole the show.

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The main desk, 25 feet from the front door.
By the same architect, Charles Burns of Philadelphia, just down the road: St Peters by the Sea Episcopal Church in Cape Neddick Maine https://st-peters-by-the-sea.org/

Worth Banning

Yesterday, my eight-year-old grandson read a book to me, laughing with every line and making me laugh at my own memories as much as at his delight.

No, I didn’t give it to him, would not have dared. It was his own choice off the shelf of a public library: The Adventures of Captain Underpants.

Lachlan is a budding prankster, a chip off this ancestral block, and so the story of two boys whose hijinx so unnerves the principal that they are able to hypnotize him, strip him to his underwear, give him a cape, and mask his face, turning him into the most improbable superhero of them all.

George and Harold–an always fun-seeking, upbeat duo with none of the cynicism-verging-on-nihilism of Beavis and Butt-Head–may have started small by re-arranging words on signs that say “Football Game Today” to “Boy Our Feet Smell Bad” and glueing restroom doors shut. But with Capt. Underpants to do their bidding, there appears to be no limit to their trickery.

Nor is there any limit to to reading about them, as I learned just this morning when I ran into a friend in the supermarket and told her the story above. She let me know that Captain Underpants is now a series of 14 titles and counting, with at least one film adaptation. A woman in front of my friend in checkout, perhaps my daughter’s age, turned and nodded with a pumpkin smile to confirm.

My friend said she heard an interview with CU’s creator and author of the 14 “epic novels” (as it says on each cover), Dav Pilkey, who claims that it’s all based on his elementary school days when teachers were so annoyed with his antics that many warned, “You’ll never amount to much.”

Great stuff, but I had to inform my friend and the younger woman that, when I arrived home last night, I learned that Captain Underpants is among books being banned from town and school libraries. Many of my friends know I have an acute interest in book banning, and so as soon as I logged in, after a full day off-line, the photo was on my screen:

Photo credit in more ways than one: Barnes & Noble.

Bad? For sure. Alarming? No question. Yet the three of us kept laughing at the absurdity of efforts to control thought by people who accuse others of thought control.

The two women were already laughing when I mentioned that the Barnes & Noble display gave Underpants a place right next to The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. Both of them dropped their jaws for a moment, although it couldn’t have surprised either generation that the 19th Century wonder tale and its witchcraft still offends uptight fundamentalists.

More shocking was seeing Dr. Suess in the display. Whether or not “violent undertones” actually encourage young readers to “use violence against their fathers” might be a cause for conversation and understanding between children and parents, or children and teachers–were they allowed to have it.

What’s shocking is that, just two years ago, the same people who are pushing today’s book bans went ballistic when the business that preserves the author’s legacy announced that six Dr. Suess titles will no longer be published because they “portray people in ways that are hurtful and wrong.”

Considering that people who want to ban books are not exactly known for their attention spans, it’s likely that they read no further in the story which made it clear that this was a business decision. Those six books simply were not selling. The company was honestly acknowledging the reason why.

Still, it contradicts what those who want to sanitize schools and turn them into comfort zones for the perpetually innocent believe is the first and foremost cherished freedom in America today:

The freedom not to give a shit about other people.

If only they would hear an eight-year-old read Captain Underpants, they might realize that he or she understands that the stunts of George and Harold are all entertainment, all make believe. It’s their own laughter–and the thought that laughter as much as language engenders–that is real.

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From Grave to Big Screen

Last fall, a friend handed me a book she spotted at a sale and had reason to think I would want.

The book is Digging for King Richard: The Search for the Lost King, and she brought it to King Richard’s Faire where I have strolled as a minstrel since 1999, or 1499 as we rennies might prefer to call it.

As anyone who has read English history can tell you, there’s little resemblance between the real Richard III killed in The Battle of Bosworth in 1485 and the jolly, joking, song and dance Richard who rules Carvershire down in the cranberry bogs well south of Boston.

In fact, we are now ruled by King Richard XI, and not one of the eleven has ever reminded anyone of the title character of William Shakespeare’s most frequently performed, published, cited, critiqued, and quoted history:

My horse! My horse! My kingdom for my horse!

According to Digging, Shakespeare’s play is not so much a portrait of a character as it is character assassination.  Except for the controversial king’s love of his horse, the Bard, perhaps with an eye on the Globe Theater’s box office receipts, was intent on delivering us into and then away from evil.

Author Mike Pitts paints a very different picture that compares–without attempting to equate–the king who died young to America’s John Kennedy, a charismatic figure who inspired a nation with his promise, was killed for his noble cause, and was mythologized into sainthood despite many flaws.

Except that Richard III was mythed into deviltry as soon as his body was thrown into a shallow grave not far from the battlefield in Leicester, now a bustling city in central England. No markings were made, and his whereabouts were unknown until 2012 after a persistent Ricardian named Philippa Langley prevailed upon archeologists at the University of Leicester to check a local parking lot, or “car park” as the Brits call it.

Ricardian? Yes, such folk exist all over the world, dedicated to rehabilitating the name of a good man who they say had no motive to kill those kids in the tower. If that sounds far fetched, at least one Canadian is mentioned in the book as a contributor of DNA evidence. Furthermore, the Ricardian I know at the faire, a native of Chicago, offers far more documentary evidence than old Willie-Nillie was willing to include in his hatchet-job dressed in iambic pentameter.

Richard III’s skeleton indeed revealed a curvature of the spine, a case of scoliosis that would not have been visible when he was fully clothed–a far cry from the “hunchback” in Shakespeare’s Richard III. Other than that, the only mystery remaining after the bones were found was what happened to the monarch’s missing feet. Pitts guesses that at some point the car park was repaved, and the preperatory cut went a bit too deep. Maybe King Dick parked himself slightly over the line, but at least he was spared the fate of “Off with his head!”

All of this is now a film, The Lost King, with the always enchanting Sally Hawkins (The Shape of Water, Maudie) cast as the intrepid Philippa Langley, and Steve Coogan as a husband who balances his attempts to aid and abet her dream with some semblence of practicality.

The casting of Coogan is telling. He starred opposite Judy Dench in 2013’s Philomena, also directed by Stephen Frears, and also about a woman in search of someone lost. That gained four Oscar nominations, including Best Picture and Best Adapted Screenplay, an award shared by Coogan. He’s now co-writer of The Lost King.

For that reason I offer a preview rather than a review–and also because the film may play in Newburyport for just one week and I can’t see it until the second-last day.

Judging by the book, we’re in for a can’t-look-away mystery even though we know the outcome before it starts. Judging from the trailer, we’re in for a whistful fantasy as Hawkin’s Langley imagines the young, charming king by her side offering encouragement as she campaigns for his return to the good grace of British memory.

Judging from the other Frears-Coogan collaboration, we’re in for a most satisfying ride that I have reason to think you will want to take.

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A Shape of Things to Come

FT. MYERS, Fla. (April 1) — In a 6-3 decision late last night, the US Supreme Court cleared the way for the State of Florida to begin a massive construction project in the Gulf of Mexico to reshape its boundaries to look like an AR-15 assault rifle.

“We are tired of looking like a puny handgun,” said Helen Highwater, director of Gulf’s Alternative Geography, or GAG, a new state agency created by Gov. Ron DeSantis as part of his “anti-woke” campaign.

“As anyone who reads the news knows, the AR-15 is today’s weapon of choice,” she continued, “as American as grieving motherhood and consoling apple pie.”

“This is Florida’s tribute to the 2nd Amendment,” said the governor while vacationing in Iowa.

His wife, Amy, was more expansive, citing several Republican Christmas cards with smiling moms, dads, and kids brandishing automatic assault rifles. “The very atmosphere of firearms anywhere and everywhere restrains evil interference—they deserve a place of honor with all that’s good, on or off shore,” she said while touring New Hampshire.

“The governor and his team, all of us, are working tirelessly for the people of Florida,” said DeSantis’ chief of staff, Evan Elpus, while attending strategy meetings in South Carolina.

To pay for the project, the National Rifle Association has pledged an unspecified percentage of anticipated profits from a new law requiring all students of all schools, kindergarten through college, to own and carry a loaded gun.

The state’s Republican-controlled legislature is expected to easily pass the measure this month, following their current push to repeal a long-standing state law that requires a sitting governor to resign if he or she runs for president. Both measures will take effect immediately.

Environmental groups, gun-control advocates, and the International Cartographic Association, meanwhile, are considering an appeal to the United Nations as well as organizing flotilla protests in the Gulf such as the rallies Trump supporters floated in harbors on both coasts in 2020.

“Geography is not fungible,” read a press release from Rand McNally, Inc.  “Like mathematics, it is defined, literally set in stone.  Once in a century, an earthquake or some other natural disaster might change coastlines, and then only slightly. But not people.  We can protect and preserve our coasts, as the Dutch have done with their dykes and sea gates, but we cannot turn water into land.”

Highwater dismissed the claim. “Sounds like old Rand missed a memo from the NPS,” she laughed, citing the National Parks Service’s “promise” to “look into” the “possibility of” shifting the Earth’s axis to combat climate change suggested by US Rep. Louis Gohmert (R-Texas) in 2021.

“But the Parks official only said that as a way not to embarrass the congressman who mentioned it,” interjected a reporter who covered the hearing when Gohmert, with all seriousness, posed the moronic question.

“Which means they didn’t say no,” Highwater shot back, “which we take as yes. We’re Americans, we can do anything we want!”

Another reporter asked if the artificial peninsulas to create the box magazine and handle will be “sound science,” which drew a comparison to Florida’s response to the Covid pandemic. Said Highwater:

“It is sound when it suits us. At first we took the precautions, but when we saw how masks and vaccinations didn’t suit our supporters, and interfered with our Spring-Break economy, we condemned them both.”

“But you can’t legislate geography,” insisted the first reporter as the governor’s private police began to move her toward the door.

“Why not?” Highwater yelled as the journalist disappeared. “We’ve just seen science legislated for the sake of both addressing and denying Covid. Here in Florida, we’ve legislated race relations and the labor movement out of history and literature, and you liberals have legislated English and mathematics for reasons known only to yourselves.”

The last claim drew a collective “What???”

Highwater ignored it: “Geography was the only K-12 subject left!”

“When was math ever legislated,” asked the second reporter.

“Your ‘order of operations’ nonsense,” Highwater snapped. “A pure triumph of something-out-of-nothing over common sense. Instead of reading an equation or a formula naturally from left to right, today’s math teachers say look across the line and do the divisions and multiplications first. If that’s the case, why are they not written first, ahead of any addition and subtraction?”

The reporter was speechless.

“See! You can’t answer. It’s hierarchy for the sake of hierarchy. You create confusion and then want credit for a convoluted way to cut through it. And you wonder why the public is lately so quick to distrust educators?”

“What was ever legislated regarding the teaching of English other than the governor’s own ‘Don’t Say Gay’ bill?” asked a reporter who hadn’t yet spoken.

“Well, ‘legislated’ may not be the word,” admitted Highwater, “but you have to admit that this idea of people ‘owning’ pronouns, or using such a presumptuous phrase as ‘my pronouns’ is bending rules to suit one’s own preferences. They even use the very word preferred.”

“But that’s for the sake of accuracy, according to how individuals identify,” countered the reporter.

“Language doesn’t care how anyone identifies,” Highwater ridiculed. “There are adjectives for that. Or do we now have a right to ‘preferred adjectives’? From now on I will be described only as charming, witty, erudite, fearless, compassionate, and admirable.”

Reporters started laughing, and so Highwater raised her voice, “That’s no more absurd than using the plural ‘they’ for ‘he’ or ‘she’. If you want to sound stupid, be my guest, but don’t insist that the rest of us do the same.”

Highwater turned and gestured toward reporters from Miami’s Spanish-language press corps: “Now you have these academics telling you to use the word ‘Latin’ with an X as a suffix. The word is Latin, right?”

A few of them nodded, and Highwater went on: “The added O is a suffix. So is the A. If you want the word to be neutral, just use it without a suffix: Latin. Not this tin-eared, cross-eyed, mealy-mouthed, snub-nosed, brain-dead Latin X. I swear, when I first saw it (“Latinx”) in print, I wondered, ‘Does it rhyme with stinks?'”

“Bigot!” yelled an onlooker from the back of the hall.

“Thank you for the compliment!” the new GAG director taunted as she turned to leave the podium.

She froze when another voice came from the back of the hall: “What about the Robin Williams’ line???”

Reporters were puzzled until one remembered the 1990 film, Awakenings, when Williams’ character, wooing a nurse, told her she gave him “a hard-on the size of Florida.”

Highwater smiled and leaned back toward the microphone: “What could make that point better than a gun?”

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Might look like a bad joke, but it’s a decal that you can purchase on-line for under $5.00. One site offers three for the price of two.

Killing Curiosity First

Oh, say, can we not see how bizarre we now be?

How else do you explain the social media post of a dual photograph to show a presidential candidate flexing a baseball bat next to the head of a district attorney investigating him?

Anyone else doing that would be arrested before the post gained a comment, but influence over violent mobs works wonders for someone bold enough to wield it. If we are going to remove things from textbooks, shouldn’t we start with the absurd lie that, in America, “no one is above the law”?

Time to treat the lies like dominos and knock ’em all down. Anyone who still thinks that E Pluribus Unum has any truth left to it has forgotten the English translation. Only one exception I can think of: When atheists object to “In God We Trust” on our money, we only need tell them that money is the God we trust.

Americans may sing that we are “the land of the free and the home of the brave,” but that’s another lie we should purge from public schools and public events. What is free about schools banning To Kill a Mocking Bird, The Color Purple, and Custer Died for Your Sins? What is brave about a political party kowtowing to a demogogue?

Call it the land of the fearful and the home of the controlled.

It’s way past time to change “sweet land of liberty” to “taste-free land of conformity.” “This Land Is Your Land” needs a revised title, “This Land Is Private Property,” and a sequel, “It’s All for Sale.” Sorry, Woody, no more socialist tresspassing for you!

At times the greedy go too far, even by America’s present-day survival-of-the-slickest standards. This past week, The Boston Globe treated its readers to the story of the Boston Red Sox’ attempt to trademark the name, Boston. The team owners wanted exclusive rights to use the name on hats, shirts, jackets, bibs, mugs, and related merchandise. An overwhelming public objection forced them to withdraw the bid, but you have to wonder how anyone or any corporation–since, in America, corporations are people–could expect to gain ownership of a geographical name.

More often, they find legal technicalities and loopholes that favor them. Another Globe report last week told of a homeowner on the tip of Cape Ann looking to privatize a beach that has had public access since the Puritans realized that Massachusetts has a second cape. The Red Sox may have been as thwarted as they were in last year’s playoffs, but one rich resident of Rockport may get her privatizing way.

Dismiss those items as regional if you want, but another development last week has national implications. To satisfy Florida’s wish to white-wash American history as taught in the state’s public schools, a textbook publisher was willing to remove any reference to race in a passage about Rosa Parks’ refusal to give up her seat on a Montgomery, Alabama, bus in 1955.

The proposed new passage did not even mention that Parks was African-American.

The publisher has since relented, no doubt swayed by an inability to sell such a dumbed-down excuse for a book anywhere north of the Mason-Dixon line, on the west coast, or to private schools with any degree of integrity in the South–if integrity is or ever was legal in the South. Still, it is clear that history texts will be re-written to avoid the protests of parents who don’t want to hear it and, therefore, do not want their children to know it.

Maybe they think that if curiosity kills anything, they should kill curiosity first. No word yet on whether Gov. DeSantis will insist that the text describes Parks as making a “normal morning commute.”

This is nothing new. Since the end of Reconstruction, publishers have bent to the wishes of school boards that pick texts for large populations. Since Texas has long had a state-wide board, it was by far their biggest prospective customer. Because publishers want to maximize profit, only one version of a text would be printed to distribute nation-wide.

In effect, Texas has for decades filtered the texts used across the USA–texts that adhere to the board’s very specific criteria such as portraying slavery as “a mostly benevolent institution” and saying “nothing critical of the free market system”–which is why the labor movement and most details of the New Deal are absent from American history textbooks.

Today, however, it’s not just historical accuracy that is at stake. Logic itself is a victim when you do not or cannot disclose the reasons for things such as someone’s choice to be arrested rather than change her seat. This isn’t anything approaching “critical race theory.” Nor is it necessarily what we promote as “critical thinking.” This is a limit on the very ability to think.

For a vivid example of what such a limit can do, consider any conversation or argument you’ve had or overheard in recent years regarding American athletes who have knelt during the National Anthem before a game. How many times do you recall those who complain of “disresepect for the flag” ever addressing the reason for the act? How many times do they so much as mention it?

Call it the land of the oblivious and the home of don’t-hold-your-breath.

If we are going to be a nation in which there is no cause and effect, no truth or consequence, no concern for consistency or contradiction, no attention and even less memory, then what good is the dawn’s early light?

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Rosa Parks riding on the Montgomery Area Transit System bus. The photo is undated, and the unconcern of her fellow passenger suggests that on this occasion, it was “a normal morning commute.” Parks refused to give up her seat on a Montgomery bus on Dec. 1, 1955, and ignited the boycott that led to a federal court ruling against segregation in public transportation. In 1955, Montgomery’s racially segregated buses carried 30,000 to 40,000 blacks each day. (AP Photo/Daily Advertiser)
https://www.dailybreeze.com/2017/12/01/photos-rosa-parks-arrested-for-refusing-to-give-up-her-bus-seat-to-a-white-man-on-dec-1-1955/

Recovering the Green Book

Eight years ago my daughter, then living in Los Angeles, took me to the Autry Museum of the American West to view an exhibit titled, Route 66: The Road & the Romance. Among so many hoped-for items, such as the original manuscripts of Steinbeck’s Grapes of Wrath and Kerouac’s On the Road, was something I had never heard of nor imagined:

The Negro Motorist Green Book. Or, as it is more commonly called, The Green Book.

Though I was not able to pick it up and thumb through, I was close enough to read fine print through the museum glass. There were two copies, one closed to show the cover, shown here at the far left:

The other was open to sample pages. Like those historic manuscripts, they were quite faded. A plaque aside the display offered a paragraph’s summary of the purpose served by the book’s annual editions from 1936 to 1967.

Months after my trip to LA, I was hosting a small gathering of friends, when one asked if any of us had ever heard of the Green Book. Seems he heard an unexplained reference to it in a documentary about Jim Crow. I hoped someone else could offer an answer with more than my memory of a single paragraph, but none of my seven guests could.

So I did the best I could: “A travel guide to let Black people know where they could find hotels and restaurants all across the country that were not segregated,” or something like that and nothing much more. At the time, the eight of us, all white, all high school graduates in the late-60s, treated it as historic trivia, interesting to know.

In retrospect, that moment was an indictment of American education.

Three years later, Green Book was the title of the film that won three Oscars, including Best Picture. It was also a box office hit, and so millions of viewers–including many African Americans–heard the title for the first time and gained some idea of the book’s purpose, even if it was wrapped in an entertaining road-trip/buddy flick that veered to and fro delightful and menacing:

This year, finally, Victor Hugo Green’s eponymous annual travel guide, compiled when he was delivering for the United States Postal Service full-time with the help of a network of USPS friends and contacts–not to mention the effect of word-of-mouth on business owners eager to advertise for an “underserved” clientele–gets its due:

Author Alvin Hall’s title is taken from his own award-winning podcast he’s been doing for a few years, but it originated with two road trips he took to research the Green Book along routes where he might find places listed and people who remembered them before the Civil Rights Acts made the book moot–in theory anyway.

With associate producer Janee Woods Weber and field producer Kemi Aladesuyi along for the ride, Driving the Green Book benefits from the perspectives and responses of three distinct generations and backgrounds. Indeed, the book keeps gaining strength in the number of voices we hear along the way, such as Bryan Stevenson, founder and director of the Equal Justice Initiative in Montgomery, Alabama, who just last week received a National Humanities medal from Pres. Biden*:

My grandfather would say to me things as a child, like whenever a white person comes up to you don’t look them in the eyes; you always say “yes, sir,” you always say, “no, sir.” There were strategies you had to adopt to stay safe. My grandfather was a proud man; he was a smart man. But in the presence of white people, he would become something else that was deeply painful for him because he wants to model something for me, but at the same time he wants to keep us safe. There is that duality, that burden that I think few people understand.

Writes Hall:

Sometimes a person’s story and their telling of it unexpectedly connected deeply with my own history growing up in the rural, deeply segregated South and worshiping in a Baptist church. The person’s voice, accent, and cadence were like hearing a spiritual or the humming of a gospel song I had known since the time I could feel music.

Alvin Hall may yet be better known as a television and radio host of and guest on shows offering financial advice, but The Green Book caught his attention when he saw it mentioned in a magazine article in 2015. Like my friend at the party, he knew only that it was something used during segregation. Unlike my white friend, it reminded the Florida Panhandle native who grew up in the 1950s of things that his family and other African American families did when planning and taking trips.

Following the great migration of African-Americans in the deep South to the booming industries of northern cities ignited by WWI, and along many US routes before the interstate was mapped out, many trips were made between the Rust Belt and the Cotton Belt, and for some, off to California. The Green Book grew exponentially, soon dropping the word “Motorist” for “Traveler” to include advice on buses and trains–including which train lines restricted their seating to the polluted cars immediately behind the locomotive’s coal car.

Sixty years later, Hall realizes why mid-summer family trips of his youth always began in the wee hours, included “shoebox” lunches, made improbable detours around some places, never stopped in others, and why African-Americans always bought the largest cars–a detail that Martin Luther King noted in his 1963 “Letter from Birmingham Jail.”

Hall also realized why many Black men bought and kept chauffeur caps at the ready in their cars. And with stories gleaned from elderly locals when he re-created two trips–from Tallahassee to Ferguson, Missouri, and from Detroit to New Orleans–he illustrates the African-American realities of “Sundown Towns” and “driving while Black,” as well as the frequent and emphatic advice given by parents to their children: “avoid eye-contact.”**

Places listed by The Green Book that we visit with Hall vary from the legendary Dooky Chase restaurant in New Orleans, to James Baldwin’s Beale Street in Memphis, to the Lorraine Hotel, now a museum, with roots in Black history long before it became known to the world in 1968. We also hear of Esso (now Exxon) which, way ahead of the rest of corporate America, “not only carried The Green Book, [but] encouraged Black ownership of their franchises.”

Hall immediately makes clear that the 2018 film was not at all about the Green Book anymore than Grapes of Wrath was about grapes or vineyards. Before long, Hall convinces us that the book was about far more than travel. In the context of segregation and of a country where whites–whether empowered by a uniform and badge or just out on a drunken lark–could threaten and harm Blacks with impunity, the Green Book was about safety and reassurance. At a time when Americans were just starting to drive and long highways were connecting destinations asking them to call, the Green Book made possible for Blacks what whites have always taken for granted.

Hall’s Driving the Green Book describes a book that was more than anything a book about freedom.

Because of that, Hall’s amazement at his own discovery is palpable when he informs us that nowhere in any edition of the book, do words such as “segregation,” “racist,” “harrassment,” or anything like them appear. It was all understood, and it was left unsaid so that children wouldn’t worry about what might happen to them–so long as they remembered to avoid eye-contact. As his introduction says of the people he interviewed:

Amazingly, virtually every person, without my asking, connected their past experiences to current events. They just did it seamlessly. I understood and, most important, received the wisdom and insights these generous people were passing along to me about driving as well as living while Black in America then–and now.

Today, as state legislatures–with loud public support–move to suppress historical truths that they deem “uncomfortable,” Driving the Green Book is no mere description of three-decades way beyond the reach of America’s rear-view mirror. It is more accurately described by its subtitle: A Road Trip through the Living History of Black Resistance.

Heed the word “Living.” While Black children may yet be well-advised to avoid eye-contact, white adults will be ill-informed until we start making it.

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* https://www.msn.com/en-us/news/us/biden-honors-ejis-bryan-stevenson-with-national-humanities-medal/ar-AA18YtLu

**Also in 1963, this became a song on The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan album: https://www.bobdylan.com/songs/oxford-town/?

A Quiet Film

Cait is hiding when we first meet her.  Crouched down in the middle of a large field of overgrown hay, we hear Mammy call her name several times before she stands up and starts for the farmhouse.

Inside, a gaggle of sisters and an overwrought mother make it clear why the nine-year-old would have preferred to stay in the hayfield.  Before long, Da, who prefers liquid lunches, will make it clearer yet.

In school, Cait is a self-conscious misfit, barely able to read aloud, and unwilling or unable to join her classmates in games at recess.  In the hallway, other girls tell her sister, “”Your sister’s weird.”

That’s one of very few lines of dialogue in the quick opening scenes before a letter arrives from a distant cousin a few hours away in rural Ireland–which is about as wide as Ireland gets–offering to take the girl for the summer.

As a title, The Quiet Girl describes the film as much as it does Cait, played by first-time actor Catherine Clinch.

Thus begins a transformation, although Cait will remain a girl of few words while living with a childless older couple, helping with chores both in the kitchen and out on the farm.  Most notable is the daily assignment to run the length of a farmhouse driveway to retrieve the mail each day while Sean sets his watch. Seeing the gradual glimmer on her face is like viewing the Mona Lisa.

Equally fascinating is the transformation of Eibhlin (EF-linn, Gaelic version of Evelyn), a story told not in dialogue but hinted at in visuals–a secret slowly unfolded in a home that, as Eibhlin told Cait, “has no secrets because, where there are secrets, there is shame.”

The Quiet Girl could be classified a mystery, and among the best in which you realize later in the film that hints were hidden all along–at times worn–in plain sight.

Even the overgrown hay gains meaning.


Also in plain sight when it is over are patrons who are visibly moved, and the comment most often heard is “powerful,” with several thanking me, the projectionist, for showing it–by which, of course, they are thanking the Screening Room for booking it.

Easy to understand why it gained one of the five Oscar nominations for Best International Film. This was the first feature film for Colm Bairead, know for his documentaries. His emphasis on visuals kept the English subtitles to a minimum while making Gaelic something of an audio treat.

To quote NPR’s headline: “This tender Irish drama proves the quietest films can have the most to say.”

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