A Nation of Nations by Tom Gjelten

Source of book: Borrowed from the library

This book seems particularly relevant right now. A significant portion of the [white] US population is in the middle of xenophobic and White Nationalist tantrum, leading to the election of an unqualified, malevolent, emotionally unstable ur-Fascist, who campaigned openly on said xenophobic and White Nationalist platform, and has governed accordingly. The results have been predictable: harassment of immigrants, children in cages, bans on entry from countries with an unpopular majority religion, and pushes to shut down most paths to entry into our country. Sadly, many of those pushing this agenda have the gall to call themselves by the name of “Christian.”

Tom Gjelten’s book, A Nation of Nations is a good antidote to the hate, ignorance, and malevolence of our time. I have written extensively regarding immigration history and law recently, and those are linked at the end of this post.

Gjelten is the descendant of Scandinavian immigrants (and his family’s story is given in the preface), and has been a correspondent for NPR for 30 years. This book is thoroughly researched, well written, and full of excellent information.

The book has a number of threads which connect to give a picture of the history, the law, some of the immigrant stories, and the challenges faced both by immigrants and by policy makers. Gjelten focuses on a particular place: Fairfax County, Virginia, which has seen a tremendous influx of immigrants from dozens of countries around the world.

The stories are of families from three very different backgrounds: Korea, Libya, and Bolivia. One might, perhaps, see three immigrant meta-narratives in these choices. The people fleeing political or religious persecution (Libya under Qaddafi), the people fleeing poverty and lack of opportunity (Korea in the aftermath of the Korean War), and the people fleeing the violence that comes with political instability (Bolivia during civil unrest.) My own ancestors fled the first two, and most immigrants today fit one or more of these categories. (To be sure, there are also enterprising sorts looking for opportunity - and there is no shame in that either…)

All of these immigrants were able to come to the United States because of a significant change in the law, enacted during the 1960s. Specifically, as part of a broader movement to grant civil rights to people who had non-white skin, our immigration laws were changed to eliminate exclusions based on national origin, which opened up our borders to people from places other than northern and western Europe. (I have blogged on the inseparability of immigration restrictions from naked racism in our past - and our present. See below for links.)

A Nation of Nations spends about a quarter of the book on the history of the 1965 law, and the details of how we got what we did at that time. Legislation is like sausage: it’s pretty messy to watch as it is made, and this law was no exception. In order to get to “yes” with enough legislators, it was necessary to claim that the law wouldn’t change the ethnic makeup of the United States. Whether the proponents of the law genuinely believed this is debatable, but they clearly had to pretend they did in order to pass the law.

In any event, this claim turned out to be ludicrously false in actual practice. As Europe became thoroughly democratic, the demand to immigrate from, say, England, Germany, and Scandinavia slowed to a trickle. As The Toupee Who Shall Not Be Named has bemoaned, there just aren’t that many “Aryans” with blond hair and blue eyes wanting to come here. Instead, the demand has come from other places around the globe. You know, those “shithole countries” with people who have brown skin. Unsurprisingly, people don’t tend to leave a place unless they think they can do much better elsewhere - or if they have no reasonable option to stay. So people come.

From telling the stories of these families (whose stories return here and there throughout the rest of the book), then giving the history of the law, the author turns to the specific issues that integration of immigrants brings. In the case of Fairfax County, it meant some major changes to how things were done. The first work of breaking the white hegemony was done by African American activists in the Civil Rights Era. Gjelten tells some fantastic stories about this in one chapter. But, when the demographics of these historically black neighborhoods started changing, there was some tension. It is one thing to deal with one familiar prejudice in your school. It is another to figure out how to communicate with parents who speak 50 different languages - but are not fluent in English. Throw people who are fleeing violence into a neighborhood that already has its street gangs affiliated with different nationalities and ethnicities, and chances are, they will form their own to survive.

Gjelten doesn’t sugar coat the challenges. But he does defuse a lot of the common misconceptions about immigrants and immigration. He also counteracts a lot of the xenophobic propaganda from Fox News (among other idols of the Religious Right) with actual facts, not fear mongering.

I want to mention a few things that really stood out. The first one is Gjelten’s exploration of the objection to immigration that came from the Left when I was younger. Namely, the concern among African Americans that when “racially prejudiced employers have more workers to choose from, they may hire an illegal immigrant over an African American.” This is one of the few objections to immigration that I find morally defensible. However, as most of the Left here in the United States has realized, the damage to so-called “unskilled labor” jobs has been done far more by technology and the decline (or destruction, perhaps) of organized labor. The fear in this case (as in most justifications for immigration restrictions) turned out to be well overblown. Instead, the Left has, perhaps, realized that the problem isn’t immigrants, but prejudiced employers…

On a related note, in the excellent chapter on the history of diversity in Fairfax County schools, there is the anecdote of Robert Frye (the first African American appointed to the school board) on his efforts to get Martin Luther King Jr. Day added to the school calendar. “The first time I suggested it, you would have thought I had cursed in church.” He eventually succeed, but only by sharing the day with Robert E. Lee and Stonewall Jackson. Echoes of our own time, perhaps.

One thing I definitely did NOT expect from this book was a change to how I viewed a politician of my own era. Admittedly, I have made some unpleasant discoveries over the years. Some were easy, like realizing that Jesse Helms and Roy Moore were racist assholes, not the paragons of Christian virtue Fundies would have you believe. I realized that as a kid. Less pleasant was noticing the racism of pretty much every white politician on both sides up through the 1950s. Or seeing that White Supremacy never went away - it just became unofficial Evangelical doctrine…

But there have been pleasant surprises too. I discovered that MLK wasn’t the tame, uncontroversial figure that he is often made out to me. He was a true prophet. I also discovered this utterly amazing speech by Robert Kennedy. I now understand why he was murdered.

In this book, though, I saw a very different side of another Kennedy. For a kid who grew up in the 80s, the old, drunk, and often incoherent crazy uncle version of Ted Kennedy was all I knew. I had no idea that he was one of the driving forces behind the elimination of exclusionary immigration laws. He plays a big role in this story, and his is that of the true hero, not the villain I was taught he was. Hmm. I wonder more and more just how much of the Fundie/Conservative bullshit has always been motivated by racism. More on that in a minute.

The last part of the book focuses on the backlash against immigration, starting with 9/11. It is difficult to remember now, but up until that point, Muslims skewed toward the GOP. Seriously. Did you know that?

As this book points out, Muslims generally integrated well into the US. The roughly 3.3 million Muslims here are, on average, better educated (and that includes women), more likely to be employed (and that too...includes women), and commit crimes at lower rates than the overall population. Immediately after 9/11, the Muslim community was prominent in donating blood, offering assistance, and more.

Unfortunately, while George W. Bush did his best to distinguish between the average Muslim and extremist terrorists, far too many on the Right started gunning for Islam as the enemy. As we can see today, a significant portion of the GOP is virulently anti-Muslim - and its politicians make their reputation by proposing ever more draconian measures. (Muslim registry, anyone? Travel bans?) And now, you will find American Muslims firmly in the Democrat party.

In discussing the backlash, Gjelten spends a significant amount of time discussing some of the objections to immigration and immigrants that you hear. One of them is the question of “integration” or “assimilation.” I hate the term “assimilation” personally, as it implies a Borg-like conformity. Or, perhaps more accurately, it reflects the expectation that immigrants “become white.” Which, of course, many of them can’t, any more than African Americans can in our racist society. “Integration” is better, I think. If we are a melting pot, then we reflect the various segments of our society. My own ancestors were quite different from the original English settlers, as were the Irish and Italians and everyone else who came here. We all changed the America we came to, just as it changed us.

In this context, one of Gjelten’s observations is spot on: when people are excluded, they tend to more fiercely defend their identity. Immigrants who are continually excluded from being considered “real Americans” are indeed likely to identify more with their own national origin or religion. As a pair of researchers who studied second-generation immigrants concluded, “Groups subjected to extreme discrimination and derogation of their national origins are likely to embrace them ever more fiercely.” No shit!

There is an interesting counterpart to this, though. In many places, Fairfax County included, various immigrant groups are intermingled. (This is true in many places in California too.) While often subjected to prejudice from whites, these groups have tended to develop interracial relationships. This is something I have definitely seen in California. Whites are the least likely to have interracial friendships, relationships, and marriages - although here in CA, interracial friendships are actually the norm, particularly among Gen X and younger. Unsurprisingly, forming relationships like this leads to less prejudice. If you want to understand why California loathes Trump so much, this is a good place to start.

I want mention as well, one final truth. There is nothing inevitable about political affiliation. At one point not that long ago, the GOP was, relatively speaking, the party in favor of immigration. One of the reasons that I was a Republican in my youth was this belief that opportunity should be available to all, regardless of race or national origin. (Please don’t laugh. The GOP used to believe this - it was Bill Clinton and the Democrats that were opposed to immigration in the 1990s, not us!)

This has, shall we say, changed, and changed dramatically. Gjelten notes a number of factors, from the Democratic realization that labor unions needed to embrace immigrants (and non-whites generally), to the careless blunders of many well-meaning Republicans on racial issues.

But the big tipping point can be boiled down to two things: the Tea Party and Fox News. Gjelten doesn’t quite say this. But the evidence in the three years since he wrote this book has sure been overwhelming. We now notice that Tucker Carlson and Ann Coulter are openly racist in their views about immigration. It’s not a dog whistle, it’s a bullhorn. But Gjelten quotes Bill O’Reilly as saying much the same thing in 2012. It is a concern about the “browning of America” that drives this. Aka naked, unashamed, evil racism. I’m not going to sugarcoat that anymore.

I want to end with one final thought on this book. The idea of “A Nation of Nations” is nothing new. The phrase itself came from Walt Whitman. As Gjelten points out, the idea goes back to George Washington (who urged that the US embrace not just the rich, but the poor of every nation), Alexis de Tocqueville (who noted that the US was unique at the time as being diverse, not an ethno-state), and others. It is the vision of an America that isn’t based on national origin, skin color, religion, or background. Instead, it is based on a commitment to uniquely American values: freedom - including freedom of religion, opportunity, diversity, human rights, justice for all, and other “universal” ideals. An America that hasn’t really ever existed in fact, but certainly has inspired as an aspiration. It is a commitment to the equality of humankind, the rejection of hierarchy, and the right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. (Which at the time meant well-being - a decent life…)

Since the founding of our nation, this idea has always been in conflict with another, baser idea: that “America” is just another ethno-state, bound together by common skin color and common [toxic] civic religion, and justified in bullying and oppressing everyone else. That second ideal is, unfortunately ascendant in our politics right now, although I believe it is likely the last gasp of a generation of white bigots. Also unfortunate is that this evil ideal dominates white Evangelicalism to the degree that many of us who cannot go the route of White Nationalism are no longer welcome in the American church.

Gjelten wrote this book before the rise of Trump, and one wonders if the book would have been as optimistic had he known the future. I would like to hope that he would be. I believe the future, ultimately, will not be one of white hegemony. California is (as usual) on the cutting edge here. My kids grew up in a multicultural, multiracial, immigrant heavy world. They (much like myself) cannot imagine not knowing people of other races, religions, and national origin. That is what America means to us, and it is the vision that intend to work to see fulfilled in my lifetime.

***

My immigration series:

I still have more to write, when I get time. The five installments so far, I have looked mostly at the law and history. I hope to eventually write about my ancestors, the reasons we can’t have a reasonable discussion about the issue, and my vision for a more open world. Here are the parts so far:

Immigration Part 1: Introduction

Immigration Part 2: Immigration and Naturalization Before 1882

Immigration Part 3: The Chinese Exclusion Act and the Racist History of Immigration Restrictions

Immigration Part 4: The Reality of Current Law

Immigration Part 5: The Openly Racist Goals of the Trump Administration

Faces in the Crowd by Valeria Luiselli

Source of book: Borrowed from the library

My “library reading list” is ridiculously long and out of control. Basically, it consists of books I do not own, and are not sure I want to purchase, but do want to read. The non-fiction section is the longest: I like to read a wide variety of those, but can’t justify giving up precious shelf space. That’s what the public library is for, after all. But I also have a long and growing fiction section. These are primarily modern novels or short story collections by authors I do not know or have not read. If I really like one, I’ll try to find a used hardback for my own collection. The problem with this list is that I started it years ago, and didn’t include who recommended it. Some were by friends, some were by other authors I like, still others were from reliable sources like NPR. 

My best guess as to where I found this one was off a list of modern books by Latin American authors - probably posted by a friend. But that is the most I can remember. Anyway, Faces in the Crowd was first published in Spanish as Los Ingrávidos in 2011. I read the English version translated by Christina MacSweeney. The original title translates roughly to “The Weightless,” which puts a slightly different spin on the book’s meaning.

It is kind of difficult to describe the way the book works, but I will try. I initially started it, got a few pages in, and realized that I needed an extended period of time to read it without distraction, because it wasn’t a straightforward narrative. At all. Rather, as the one voice in the book describes it, it is “a vertical narrative told horizontally,” or later, as “a horizontal narrative told vertically.” Which gives at least some indication of the difficulties presented by reading a few pages at a time.

There are essentially three stories being told simultaneously, and also interconnectedly. Like many of the great Latino classics, there is a supernatural element that blends seamlessly with realistic writing. In this case, it isn’t so much magical realism in the usual sense, but, well, it’s hard to describe. Let me start with the three narratives.

The most “realistic” story is that of the unnamed narrator. At the opening of the story, she is a young wife and mother of two, living in Mexico City, and deeply unhappy. (Well, happy people rarely make good fiction, what can I say?) Her marriage is failing, she is worn ragged by the demands of the kids, and works to create space by writing her novel.

The second narrative is the narrator’s story of her younger years living as a bohemian in New York City, translating obscure works from Spanish into English. While doing this, she first becomes interested in, then obsessed with, the poet Gilberto Owen. Owen was a minor figure in the Harlem Renaissance, and worked as a diplomat before drinking himself to death in middle age. Some excerpts of his poems are quoted in this book. The narrator, unable to convince her boss to publish translations of Owen, fabricates and forges a supposed translation of Owen by “Joshua Zvorsky” (basically a fictionalized Louis Zukofsky), who happens to be her boss’ favorite writer. The lie gets out of control, even though her boss doesn’t really believe her, and she has to bail out at the last minute, cratering both her career and her boss’ career.

The third narrative is a imaginative story of Owen’s last days in Philadelphia, where he battles with his ex-wife over his kids, writes, and hangs with other poetic figures of his time.

The first two narratives alternate, more or less, for the first third of the book. However, when the narrator fabricates the translations, Owen enters the story. First, she starts seeing him in the Subway (even though he has been dead for decades) - and he starts seeing her. A blind friend of Owen’s expresses his theory that we die many times, but continue to live. We are separated into the old us and multiple future versions of ourselves. The author uses this idea to mess with the nature of reality as the book goes on. Owen becomes another version of the narrator’s estranged husband, she as his ex-wife, and other characters past and present as other characters.

Within this interweaving, we become aware that the narrator is unreliable on more than one level. In fact, which is the real narrator in the first place? What is true, and what is fiction in this book? And goodness only knows how to interpret the ending, which is intentionally vague and inconclusive.

The first clue of all this is when the “modern” narrator mentions her husband reading her drafts, and asking about the old lovers she mentions in her book. Which we assume is the one about her bohemian days. But then, later, he objects to things about himself in the book - things which he claims are totally untrue. (Such as the idea that he is leaving for Philadelphia.) Is the tale of the New York days true about the narrator? Are they true about the author herself? Are they even true within the confines of the narrator’s novel?

Once the third narrative starts intruding on the others, and objects that should logically be separated by decades (and thus not exist in all the threads) end up showing up, and expressing meaning within each narrative.

The disturbing suggestion is that everything in the book is a fabrication, even on its own terms, much like the narrator’s spurious translation of Owen. In fact, one can say that the only thing we can be sure of is that Gilberto Owen was a historical person - but little other than his name, some poem fragments, and the rough outline of his life, are tied to reality. Did the narrator make up her own story as well as his? Can we trust anything? And, at a deeper philosophical level, is there an “us” which exists outside of the narratives we all tell about ourselves and each other?

The writing (and the translation) are poetic rather than definite. The writing is quite good. But it will drive those who dislike poetry a bit crazy. Meaning is seen, like faint astronomical objects, by looking adjacent to it, rather than directly at it. I walked away from the book a bit unsure of what to make of it, yet feeling like it had been a satisfying experience. It has no grand themes beyond what I have noted, as far as I can tell. (And other reviewers I read after reading it concurred.) The author attempted on grand narrative arc. Nothing epic happens. Most of the story concerns mundane, everyday stuff, with some introspection thrown in. But that is part of the charm. It is a book to be felt, rather than analyzed.

I do advise readers to set aside enough time to read it uninterrupted. It isn’t long, less than 150 pages. It just hangs together better when read without distraction.

Under the Willows and Other Poems by James Russell Lowell

Source of book: I own this

Back in my high school days, I had to memorize a poem by James Russell Lowell. I do not remember which one, honestly; just the impression that it was the sort of poem that old-fashioned teachers make high school students memorize. That is not a compliment. As a result, I kind of had a poor impression of Lowell, and never really went back to read more of his works. I did, however, pick up a nice used hardback anthology at some point.

I decided to revisit Lowell, and see if my earlier impression was justified. Fortunately, it appears that he was indeed better than that one selection.

Lowell was one of the “Fireside Poets,” that group of 19th Century American poets who were the first to rival the poets of Europe in popularity. They were, at the time, rather superstars. However, in the 20th Century, their reputation declined as taste in poetry changed. Their traditionalism in form and themes does seem quaint now, and none of them ever rose to the pinnacle of artistic achievement that Tennyson did - and really, who did? That said, they still hold their charms, and I found a number of Lowell’s poems to speak to me.

I also wrote about Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s poem, Evangeline, a few years ago. Like Longfellow, Lowell was an ardent abolitionist, and was generous with his time and money to the cause - he wasn’t wealthy, but still assisted escaped slaves with financial help. Lowell was an interesting character, and a rather admirable person. 

 Epic Victorian Hipster look, and a great quote.

Under the Willows and Other Poems was published in 1868, and contained primarily poems published in magazines previously.

How about the poems? Here are the ones which stood out to me.

To Charles Eliot Norton - Agro Dolce

The wind is roistering out of doors,

My windows shake and my chimney roars;

My Elmwood chimneys seem crooning to me,

As of old, in their moody, minor key,

And out of the past the hoarse wind blows,

As I sit in my arm-chair, and toast my toes.

'Ho! ho! nine-and-forty,' they seem to sing,

'We saw you a little toddling thing.

We knew you child and youth and man,

A wonderful fellow to dream and plan,

With a great thing always to come,--who knows?

Well, well! 'tis some comfort to toast one's toes.

'How many times have you sat at gaze

Till the mouldering fire forgot to blaze,

Shaping among the whimsical coals

Fancies and figures and shining goals!

What matters the ashes that cover those?

While hickory lasts you can toast your toes.

'O dream-ship-builder: where are they all,

Your grand three-deckers, deep-chested and tall,

That should crush the waves under canvas piles,

And anchor at last by the Fortunate Isles?

There's gray in your beard, the years turn foes,

While you muse in your arm-chair, and toast your toes.'

I sit and dream that I hear, as of yore,

My Elmwood chimneys' deep-throated roar;

If much be gone, there is much remains;

By the embers of loss I count my gains,

You and yours with the best, till the old hope glows

In the fanciful flame, as I toast my toes.

Instead of a fleet of broad-browed ships,

To send a child's armada of chips!

Instead of the great gun, tier on tier,

A freight of pebbles and grass-blades sere!

'Well, maybe more love with the less gift goes,'

I growl, as, half moody, I toast my toes.

If that isn’t the quintessential Fireside Poem, I don’t know what is.

Many of the poems in this collection have nature as a theme. The rather long (and good) title poem has these interesting lines I figured I might quote.

I care not how men trace their ancestry,

To ape or Adam: let them please their whim;

But I in June am midway to believe

A tree among my far progenitors,

Such sympathy is mine with all the race,

Such mutual recognition vaguely sweet

There is between us.

Written in an era when Darwin had turned our understanding of natural history on its head, that little dig at the controversy is a nice touch. Kind of like how George Strait handled it for his own audience later.

Lowell’s life included the tragic. Of his four children, three died by age two. His wife died of tuberculosis a few years later. This poem is in response to one of those deaths. In the letter he wrote, submitting the poem to The Anti-Slavery Standard, he said, “May you never have the key which shall unlock the whole meaning of the poem to you.”

The First Snow-Fall

The snow had begun in the gloaming,

And busily all the night

Had been heaping field and highway

With a silence deep and white.

Every pine and fir and hemlock

Wore ermine too dear for an earl,

And the poorest twig on the elm-tree

Was ridged inch deep with pearl.

From sheds new-roofed with Carrara

Came Chanticleer's muffled crow,

The stiff rails softened to swan's-down,

And still fluttered down the snow.

I stood and watched by the window

The noiseless work of the sky,

And the sudden flurries of snowbirds,

Like brown leaves whirling by.

I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn

Where a little headstone stood;

How the flakes were folding it gently,

As did robins the babes in the wood.

Up spoke our own little Mabel,

Saying, 'Father, who makes it snow?'

And I told of the good All-father

Who cares for us here below.

Again I looked at the snow-fall,

And thought of the leaden sky

That arched o'er our first great sorrow,

When that mound was heaped so high.

I remembered the gradual patience

That fell from that cloud like snow,

Flake by flake, healing and hiding

The scar that renewed our woe.

And again to the child I whispered,

'The snow that husheth all,

Darling, the merciful Father

Alone can make it fall!'

Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her:

And she, kissing back, could not know

That my kiss was given to her sister,

Folded close under deepening snow.

A friend of mine recently lost his son, and I see in his pain the emotion that Lowell shows in every line. I won’t quote it here, but “After the Burial” is also a lacerating response to a child’s death.

Also on the theme of the brevity of life, here is a short one, to be used in a yearbook these days, perhaps.

For An Autograph

Though old the thought and oft exprest,

'Tis his at last who says it best,--

I'll try my fortune with the rest.

Life is a leaf of paper white

Whereon each one of us may write

His word or two, and then comes night.

'Lo, time and space enough,' we cry,

'To write an epic!' so we try

Our nibs upon the edge, and die.

Muse not which way the pen to hold,

Luck hates the slow and loves the bold,

Soon come the darkness and the cold.

Greatly begin! though thou have time

But for a line, be that sublime,--

Not failure, but low aim, is crime.

Ah, with what lofty hope we came!

But we forget it, dream of fame,

And scrawl, as I do here, a name.

Lowell was (I suppose like most poets), a bit of a mystic in his way. One of the more interesting things about my particular collection is that it has introductions to many of the poems, indicating the circumstances in which they were written. In the introduction to “The Dead House,” Lowell opines that “I have a notion that the inmates of a house should never be changed. When the first occupants go out it should be burned, and a stone set up with ‘Sacred to the Memory of a Home’ on it. Suppose the body were eternal, and that when one spirit went out another took the lease.”

Here is another one which struck me as interesting. In our own times, when Muslims are vilified, it is interesting to find a more favorable mention. This poem also has a great message about our own idols.

Mahmood the Image-Breaker

Old events have modern meanings; only that survives

Of past history which finds kindred in all hearts and lives.

Mahmood once, the idol-breaker, spreader of the Faith,

Was at Sumnat tempted sorely, as the legend saith.

In the great pagoda's centre, monstrous and abhorred,

Granite on a throne of granite, sat the temple's lord,

Mahmood paused a moment, silenced by the silent face

That, with eyes of stone unwavering, awed the ancient place.

Then the Brahmins knelt before him, by his doubt made bold,

Pledging for their idol's ransom countless gems and gold.

Gold was yellow dirt to Mahmood, but of precious use,

Since from it the roots of power suck a potent juice.

'Were yon stone alone in question, this would please me well,'

Mahmood said; 'but, with the block there, I my truth must sell.

'Wealth and rule slip down with Fortune, as her wheel turns round;

He who keeps his faith, he only cannot be discrowned.

'Little were a change of station, loss of life or crown,

But the wreck were past retrieving if the Man fell down.'

So his iron mace he lifted, smote with might and main,

And the idol, on the pavement tumbling, burst in twain.

Luck obeys the downright striker; from the hollow core,

Fifty times the Brahmins' offer deluged all the floor.

Another one of religious theme is this one. The opening stanza is fantastic, with its tribute to the unknown and unsung heroes of everyday life.

All-Saints

One feast, of holy days the crest,

I, though no Churchman, love to keep,

All-Saints,--the unknown good that rest

In God's still memory folded deep;

The bravely dumb that did their deed,

And scorned to blot it with a name,

Men of the plain heroic breed,

That loved Heaven's silence more than fame.

Such lived not in the past alone,

But thread to-day the unheeding street,

And stairs to Sin and Famine known

Sing with the welcome of their feet;

The den they enter grows a shrine,

The grimy sash an oriel burns,

Their cup of water warms like wine,

Their speech is filled from heavenly urns.

About their brows to me appears

An aureole traced in tenderest light,

The rainbow-gleam of smiles through tears

In dying eyes, by them made bright,

Of souls that shivered on the edge

Of that chill ford repassed no more,

And in their mercy felt the pledge

And sweetness of the farther shore

One final poem I will mention is a more humorous one. The occasion was that John Bartlett (yes, of the famous book of quotations!), a neighbor of Lowell’s, sent him a seven pound trout as a gift. There is so much that is fun about this poem, from the idea that Death is an angler, to the hope that the trout will weigh in Bartlett’s favor at the Last Judgement.

To Mr. John Bartlett - Who Had Sent Me a Seven-Pound Trout

Fit for an Abbot of Theleme,

For the whole Cardinals' College, or

The Pope himself to see in dream

Before his lenten vision gleam.

He lies there, the sogdologer!

His precious flanks with stars besprent,

Worthy to swim in Castaly!

The friend by whom such gifts are sent,

For him shall bumpers full be spent,

His health! be Luck his fast ally!

I see him trace the wayward brook

Amid the forest mysteries,

Where at their shades shy aspens look.

Or where, with many a gurgling crook,

It croons its woodland histories.

I see leaf-shade and sun-fleck lend

Their tremulous, sweet vicissitude

To smooth, dark pool, to crinkling bend,--

(Oh, stew him, Ann, as 'twere your friend,

With amorous solicitude!)

I see him step with caution due,

Soft as if shod with moccasins,

Grave as in church, for who plies you,

Sweet craft, is safe as in a pew

From all our common stock o' sins.

The unerring fly I see him cast,

That as a rose-leaf falls as soft,

A flash! a whirl! he has him fast!

We tyros, how that struggle last

Confuses and appalls us oft.

Unfluttered he: calm as the sky

Looks on our tragi-comedies,

This way and that he lets him fly,

A sunbeam-shuttle, then to die

Lands him, with cool aplomb, at ease.

The friend who gave our board such gust,

Life's care may he o'erstep it half,

And, when Death hooks him, as he must,

He'll do it handsomely, I trust,

And John H---- write his epitaph!

Oh, born beneath the Fishes' sign,

Of constellations happiest,

May he somewhere with Walton dine,

May Horace send him Massic wine,

And Burns Scotch drink, the nappiest!

And when they come his deeds to weigh,

And how he used the talents his,

One trout-scale in the scales he'll lay

(If trout had scales), and 'twill outsway

The wrong side of the balances.

I enjoyed Lowell more than I expected. He was much more of an emotional and thoughtful guy than the one poem would indicate. I am glad I gave him another chance.

The Astonishing Life of Octavian Nothing, Volume One by M. T. Anderson

Source of book: Audiobook from the library

This book was recommended by a friend. I listened to it with three of my kids: my eldest daughter, age 15; and my sons, ages 12 and 10. They are the ones who were interested in backpacking with me and brother-in-law, so we listened to it on that trip. 

This book is probably not suitable for all children. The subject matter is difficult, disturbing, and uncomfortable in the extreme. It isn’t as graphic as it could be, and the history behind the story is even worse, but some honesty is required. Nothing is gratuitous. Everything is necessary.

The story was loosely inspired by some real life events and institutions. The setting is the early American Revolution and the years before. The Novanglian College of Lucidity was inspired by various philosophical and scientific societies of the time. The “experiment” to determine if Africans were as intelligent as Europeans was actually a thing. The problem, of course, is that those who believed whites were superior couldn’t actually be persuaded by evidence then any more than they are now. And, as now, the scales are far from equal to begin with.

The story is mostly told from the point of view of Octavian, a young African American living in Boston. His mother was enslaved when age 13, and pregnant with Octavian. The two of them are purchased by Mr. Gitney, the head of said College of Lucidity, and he raises Octavian with a classical and musical education. Gitney is fairly benevolent, and appears to want Octavian to succeed and prove the equality of the races.

However, things change when the English lord who has been funding the society dies. His heir comes to see if the society is worth funding, falls for Octavian’s mom, and tries to convince her to become his concubine. When she refuses, he attempts to rape her, and things go bad from there. The College is then thrown on the mercies of a new group of patrons, led by the villainous Mr. Sharpe, who represents the slaveholding wealthy of the South who wish to see Octavian fail.

Later in the book, at the outbreak of hostilities, Mr. Gitney holds a “pox party,” where the participants intentionally infect themselves with smallpox, in the hope that under ideal conditions, they will get milder, non-fatal doses. Unfortunately, some die anyway, including Octavian’s mom. He then escapes, and joins the American army briefly, before being recaptured. The book ends on a cliffhanger, which I assume will be resolved in the second book.

As this summary indicates, the subject matter itself is difficult. The fact of slavery is a blot on our nation, and on humankind in general. The racism inherent in the American institution is also a fact, and there is no sugar coating it. The author is pretty darn blunt about it, letting the various white characters say things that are horrifying to our modern ears, but which were very much in keeping with the times. This is pretty effective, since the story is mostly from Octavian’s point of view, and we have to hear all this racist poison as he would experience it. It truly is an offense against his humanity. He is considered chattel, and subhuman, and the white characters are flabbergasted that he can’t see things that way. (Hey, this sounds a LOT like many white people today!)

My kids really responded to this book, and are eager to read (or listen to) the next one. They are thoughtful and empathetic, and appreciate books like this that speak of history from the perspective of those wronged. While it may be a bit intense for younger kids, I highly recommend it for kids old enough to understand violence and oppression.

***

Note on Pox Parties:

These still exist, you know. Particularly for Chicken Pox. I am, as regular readers know, a big proponent of vaccination. I suffered through a bad case (although not life-threatening) of Chicken Pox when I was 12, and am thankful my kids won’t have to go through that.

The Pox Party in this book is rather interesting. To a degree, the College had a good point: survival rates would be better for people in a controlled environment, with what supportive care the medicine of the time could provide, warmth, food, and water. Certainly better than getting it at, say, Valley Forge in starvation conditions. But still, quite dangerous, and far from ideal. In 1775, this was the best they had, though. Smallpox is really contagious, and was going around at the time. Prevention wasn’t an option, and the spectre hung over all who hadn’t already survived it and become immune.

It was 21 years later, in 1796, that Edward Jenner proved the first successful vaccine - and by the time I was born, Smallpox was eradicated as a result. Here’s hoping we do the same for Polio and Measles and Rubella and…

Sourcery by Terry Pratchett

Source of book: My brother owns the audiobook.

Ah yes, another trip, another Terry Pratchett book. This is #3 in the Rincewind series. For those keeping track (or who want to read my thoughts on other Pratchett books), here is the complete list of books we have experienced:

Rincewind:

The Colour of Magic

The Light Fantastic

Tiffany Aching:

The Wee Free Men

A Hat Full of Sky

Wintersmith

I Shall Wear Midnight

Watch:

Guards! Guards! (Stupid abridged edition, which is an abomination.)

Non-Discworld:

The Carpet People

Dodger

Dragons at Crumbling Castle

Good Omens (with Neil Gaiman)

***

 Some of the most 1980s and Fantasy art possible.

First, a comment on the title. No, this isn’t an example of the English tendency to add extraneous “u”s to various words. (Although I suspect Pratchett might have been inspired by it…) Rather, it is all about a distinction in the Diskworld universe between mere Magic, which is a power used by wizards and witches - a finite power in the universe, and “Sourcery,” which is an ability to draw new Magic into the universe - essentially a creative power. Hence “Sourcery.” One is a source, so to speak, of magic and power, rather than a practitioner of it.

This then ties in with the mystical powers of the number eight. (I presume this is a play on the Jewish tradition of seven as having mystical powers.) So anyway, an eighth son has magical powers, so he will become a Wizard. However, the eighth son of an eighth son is a Wizard squared: a Sourcerer. Because these are, shall we say, a threat to the survival of the universe and so forth, Wizards are strictly forbidden to procreate. Hence vows of chastity. (It is probably not a coincidence that in the Discworld universe, Wizards are often similar to priests, and that is not really much of a compliment.)

In this book, Ipslore the Red is a wizard who has defied the rules and married. As a result, he was banished from Unseen University, and exiled. Swearing revenge, he successfully cheats Death by pouring his essence into his metal (horrors!) staff, which he then gives to his infant eighth son, Coin. Death insists on a loophole (“The Lawyers of Fate demand a loophole in every prophecy.”), so Ipslore allows that Death can have him once Coin throws away his staff. Something no Wizard ever does voluntarily.

Fast forward a few years, and Coin, trained by his Staff/Father, comes to Unseen University, and takes over, revealing a vast power of Sourcery, and a determination to make Wizards rule the Discworld. This looks far too much like totalitarianism and cruelty, to say the least.

Standing against this threat are an unlikely bunch of adventurers. First is the Archchancellor’s Hat, the sign of office for the chief of the Wizards. After centuries of close contact with the greatest Wizards, it has become sentient and powerful in its own right. It hires (exactly how we are not told) the greatest thief in the discworld, Conina, a daughter of Cohen the Barbarian (see The Light Fantastic for more on him - one of Pratchett’s most hilarious characters) to steal it, so that it cannot fall into Coin’s hands. Conina escapes with the hat, but needs a Wizard to work with the hat. She enters a bar, and finds, of all people, the hapless Rincewind, the Discworld’s most incompetent Wizard. (If his magic skills were rated on a 1-10 scale, his would be a negative number, as the books point out.) Rincewind does have two key skills, however. First is his knowledge of languages, which serves him well in communicating with other cultures. Second is his remarkable ability (which is quite similar to cowardice) at staying alive. His instinct for danger (and determination to run away) has kept him alive despite all odds.

These three set out for a vaguely Islamic island on the edge of the Discworld so the Hat can find a mind worthy of his powers. At this point, the book becomes a bit of a parody of The Arabian Nights - Pratchett has WAY too much fun with the various tropes. (My kids remind me of Pratchett’s quote about this: “Some people draw from myths. I scribble all over them.” My favorite is the result of Conina being added to the seraglio. It turns out that what they do there is, um, tell stories. (Scheherazade would approve…) The Seriph is also - mostly - a poet. The kingdom is run by the very stereotypical Vizier, who the Hat selects as its human brain.

It is while here that the final member of the resistance is added. Rincewind is thrown into a snake pit. The snake isn’t particularly scary (I see perhaps a reference to the old cobra in The Jungle Books), but the other occupant turns out to be a certain Nijel the Destroyer.

Pratchett is fantastic at turning fantasy tropes on their heads, and in the Rincewind books, he has (so far) used no fewer than FOUR different versions. First is Hrun, in The Colour of Magic. Hrun is the all-brawn-no-brains hero, who falls victim (more or less) to a designing female willing to take her clothes off. Next up is Cohen the Barbarian in The Light Fantastic, who is the rare hero skilled enough to make it to old age, when he can still kick butt...as long as his sciatica doesn’t act up. In this book, you get Conina, who really just wants to be a hairdresser, but her genes make her pretty bad at that profession, and really, really good at killing people. As Rincewind puts it:

“Not much call for a barbarian hairdresser, I expect,' said Rincewind. 'I mean, no-one wants a shampoo-and-beheading.”

And then there is Nijel. (Yes, that is the correct spelling - I looked it up.) He is a Barbarian In Training. And by training, I mean “he has read the self-help book ghost written under Cohen’s name that tells about how to be a barbarian.” Said book, by the way, seems to resemble a Dungeons and Dragons manual more than anything useful. Nijel is also skinny in the extreme, has few if any actual martial skills, and uses “Erm, excuse me…” as his battle cry.

So, can Rincewind, the Seriph, Conina, Nijel, and the Hat save the universe? Of course! At least, with some help from The Luggage (who gets drunk when Conina rejects its romantic advances), The Librarian, and a couple of Wizards who see the danger in Sourcery. However, the book does end on a cliffhanger (although not as literally as The Colour of Magic) with Rincewind stranded in the Dungeon Dimensions (kind of the Discworld version of the Underworld.)

As usual, Pratchett is hilarious, thoughtful, and creative in his writing. The Rincewind series isn’t as philosophical as his later works (the Tiffany Aching books are practically a kids’ level course in ethics), but is so very humorous. These three books are pretty early in Pratchett’s career, and they are clearly aimed at doing for the fantasy genre what P. G. Wodehouse did to the British upper classes.

I also have to mention a scene in the book that reminds me of a later one in Good Omens. The Four Horsemen of the Apocralypse™ (Yes, that term too is intentional…) are riding to end the world (of course!), when they stop for refreshment at a bar. And all except for Death get drunk. The heroes, minus Rincewind (who is using a magic carpet), decide to steal their horses. Which ends up thwarting the End.

“It's going to look pretty good, then, isn't it," said War testily, "the One Horseman and Three Pedestrians of the Apocalypse.”

It is always fun in Good Omens trying to figure out which parts Pratchett wrote and which parts Neil Gaiman wrote. One of Pratchett’s must have been the humorous portrayal of the Four Horsemen…

There are so many fantastic quotes in the book. Here are some of my favorites.

“The truth isn't easily pinned to a page. In the bathtub of history the truth is harder to hold than the soap and much more difficult to find.”

Both amusing and all too true…

From Rincewind, who I very much sympathize and identify with, not being much of a hero myself:

“I don’t know what to do,” he said. “No harm in that. I’ve never known what to do,” said Rincewind with hollow cheerfulness. “Been completely at a loss my whole life.” He hesitated. “I think it’s called being human, or something.”

And also this:

“I’m not going to ride on a magic carpet!” he hissed. “I’m afraid of grounds!” “You mean heights,” said Conina. “And stop being silly.” “I know what I mean! It’s the grounds that kill you!”

And one final one. Because poor Rincewind is a lousy Wizard. But he still IS a Wizard, and, in the scheme of things, a surprisingly important one. Furthermore, he is far braver than he thinks he is.

“There was something else I was trying to say,’ said Rincewind, letting go of the hand. He looked blank for a moment, and then added, ‘Oh, yes. It’s vital to remember who you really are. It’s very important. It isn’t a good idea to rely on other people or things to do it for you, you see. They always get it wrong.”

I have to end with some quotes about Death. Because, well, if I have to explain, you wouldn’t understand.

“Despite rumor, Death isn't cruel--merely terribly, terribly good at his job.”

Indeed. And this one, which I must absolutely concur with. It makes me suspect that Pratchett was a cat person, and that makes me happy.

“I meant," said Ipslore bitterly, "what is there in this world that truly makes living worthwhile?"

Death thought about it.

“CATS,” he said eventually. “CATS ARE NICE.”

Anyway, yet another delightful installment of Terry Pratchett’s genius. With all of the Discworld novels, I recommend starting at the beginning of a series. See this chart for the necessary information. But I also recommend reading his other books, which are delightful too.