By admin
…and neither is George W. Bush, apparently. Now, I haven’t read his book, nor did I see Kanye West’s post-Katrina accusation, or any recent interviews with Bush or West. So my highly informed opinion is based on clips I’ve heard on the radio–of Matt Lauer’s interviews, to be precise…
What struck me most was George II’s deep pain at being called racist. (Well, West actually said he “doesn’t care about black people,” which, I suppose, is about the same thing.) Yes, looking back on one of the most devastating disasters in our history, the president is most concerned about his image and fragile feelings. Mr. Lauer was also concerned about this, so he checked in with West, emphasizing that this was the only time in the entire 3-hour interview when G-II became emotional. Not, it would seem, about the tragic loss of life and cataclysmic damage to personal property and an historic city. Nope, he was crying because mean Mr. West said he didn’t care about black people. Poor President Bush: he’s so sensitive. (Lauer went back to Bush after speaking with West to get a response to his response–way to make the news, Matt.)
Which, of course, has nothing to do with me. Except…
I was a party a few weeks ago, at a friend’s house, let’s call her V. I didn’t know anyone there, except V’s immediate family. It was a big party, so I got a drink and milled about. I met new people, sat with some of them at dinner, exchanged contact information. A good evening all around. In the car on the way home, I got to thinking. Most of the people at V’s party were African-American. Most of the people I talked with were white. Not all, but most.
Did I do that? Not on purpose, of course, but still… Or did we all do it, black and white alike. I told this story to another friend, M, who had a similar experience. M has gone a number of unintentionally segregated parties. She attributes the chromatic separation to the fact that the host’s white friends and black friends are from different parts of her life, and don’t know each other. Each group hangs out with the people they know, who all happen to be the same color. I don’t have this excuse, since I didn’t know the black people or the white people. But it could be part and parcel of the same impulse. Right? I’m not racist.
A few days later, I was at a restaurant, trying to flag down our server–a slim, young, Asian woman. It took only moments for me to discover that all the servers were slim, young, Asian women. Not in a uniform, but all in variations of black and white: stripes, solids, plaid even. I had no idea which one was ours. My companion was equally flummoxed. We shared a slightly embarrassed they-all-look-alike moment, and enjoyed a good belly-laugh before I caught the first server passing by to make my request.
I’m not a racist.
So why do I feel vaguely icky about these two events? I feel guilty, even. But, really… should I make a greater effort to talk to everyone at a party? If I pay attention to the color of their skin for a more balanced party-going experience, is that affirmative action socializing? Racial profiling? Would that be even worse? What if we have nothing to talk about, should I soldier on, just to be balanced? And would I have recognized my server any better if she had been white? Probably not. Maybe I’m not a racist, but a classist?!
No, I don’t actually think I’m racist. But I’m not color blind either. And I sort of expect myself to be. I think I should probably lower the bar on this one. I can admit that I am more comfortable around people like me. And, really, that’s not unreasonable–we all are, based on any number of factors, not just skin color. They call them affinity groups, and affinity groups are good too, as long as you’re not friends with Bernie Madoff, that is.
By admin
I was sick last week – down with a flu for five days. An enforced stay-cation. Idleness without guilt. I spent most of my days on the couch watching TV and drinking tea. I watched a lot of TV – really, a lot. And so I feel I should take this opportunity to confess publicly: I love television.
And not just the good stuff on PBS or Discovery. Give me Tabatha’s Salon Takeover and RuPaul’s Drag Race. Launch My Line and So You Think You Can Dance. Fringe, Heroes and Doctor Who. Gray’s Anatomy, Private Practice and House. Bones, CSI and NCIS. I am addicted to Project Runway and Top Chef. I don’t give a fig for cars, but I can’t stop watching Top Gear. I love staying home to veg in front of the TV. It is with guilt and embarrassment that I reveal my weakness for the “Big Bright Green Pleasure Machine.”
But, why a confession? you might ask.
I am not supposed to like television. I am supposed to be far too sophisticated, too cultured, too busy to waste my time with the boob tube. I should find it boring, pointless, grating or cloying. I should be appalled by the poor quality, the ridiculous plotting, the vacuous people… but I’m not. (Well, there are some shows that fall below even my watchability threshold.) I am a disgrace to my upbringing – a failed culture snob.
I worship my DVR and I’m done trying to hide it.
By admin
There is a movie from the 1980s called Mr. North, based on a book by Thornton Wilder. Anthony Edwards, with a full head of hair, plays the title character, a cheerful, young jack-of-all-trades rumored to have mystical abilities. He installs himself in uppercrust Newport, Rhode Island, for the summer and takes on a variety of tasks from teaching tennis to reading to the elderly.
I think of it now because the story features a somewhat morbid local oddity – the “death watch.” Avaricious relatives impatiently await the demise of their patriarch, making every effort to be ingratiating and appear caring in the meantime. My recent death watch was not driven by greed, nor was it as protracted as in the movie. Nevertheless, I have been waiting this week for a relative to die.
We were not close enough to warrant a rushed trip east to see him before he was gone. So I waited, hour by hour, for news of his passing. As is often the case, he hung on far longer than the doctors expected. It has been a sad week.
And I feel guilty, too. Guilty that I wished for him to die on a schedule convenient for me. How selfish of me to feel the seeds of resentment at the thought of missing out on things for the sake of his funeral! My life will go on – I have many more opportunities. He is dead. The least I can do is be gracious in his final moments.
But I am human, and I am relieved that I will not miss my Thanksgiving. (Me, me, me.) The next few days will be for him. Even more so, they will be for his wife, who I am close to. And I am thankful to him for allowing me to be a comfort to her and still be home for turkey.
By admin
Writing your own bio is hard. Really hard. On my first attempt for this site, I wrote what is far more suited to a blog post, so here it is:
Rachel knew she was a writer in the 2nd grade, when her teacher, Mrs. Kleinman, told her mother she’d be a high school drop out. This is not to say that because Rachel was destined to drop out of high school, she knew she was a writer. In fact, these two events have no causal relationship whatsoever. Thus, it would be more correct to state, “In the 2nd grade, Rachel knew she was a writer. That same year, through no fault of Rachel’s new-found career, Mrs. Kleinman told her mother she would drop out of high school.”
Well, that’s not exactly true, either. The reason Mrs. Kleinman was convinced of Rachel’s impending delinquency had to do with writing. It had to do with writing too much. Rachel fell behind on her Alphabet Stories, and by the end of the year had only reached the letter “P.” You see, starting with the letter “F,” Rachel entertained her friends with a soap opera about a bowl of Fruit that lived in a Field. At “G,” a bunch of Grapes came to visit. And the saga continued throughout the alphabet, 8 – 12 pages at a time; and a second grader just can’t write that much in a single week.
Contrary to Mrs. Kleinman’s dire prediction, Rachel did graduate from high school – on time, even – and continued on to Smith College and the University of Southern California. She studied theatre and mathematics and earned a degree in technical direction for theatre. You may have noticed she did not study writing. Rachel forgot, for a while, that she was a writer. Or maybe being forced to finish her Alphabet Stories over the summer vacation soured Rachel on writing, for a time. We’ll never know for sure.
But Rachel couldn’t escape writing for long. As her job at Center Theatre Group evolved to fit the changing needs of both the company and Rachel herself, words and language played a larger and larger role. Before too much time had passed, words and language were nearly her entire job. And she couldn’t have been happier about it.
Because Rachel loves words.
