The difference between reading Books and Plays

In my first iteration as a college student, I had trouble choosing between English and Theatre as a major.  (We theatre geeks spell the subject with the British "re" instead of "er".  It shows our snobbish devotion to British plays.) During every semester, almost every week, I'd wrestle with the issue: was my primary devotion to the stage or to books?  It turns out I lack the temperament necessary for a theatrical life.  I like regular hours, daylight, and sleeping at home instead of a green room.  What I do like is reading plays.

In their dormant form, plays look the like every other book; reading them takes a slightly different set of skills.  With the publication of  Rowling/Tiffany/Thorne play, Harry Potter and the Cursed Child, those differences have become apparent to a wider audience. Just remember, novels and plays are different ways of seeing a story.

In a novel, the author controls the story world and lyrically shows the reader what he/she needs to see. The description may be confined to a few, sparse details (like Hemmingway's) or may roll into long, lush paragraphs. These parts are where the narrator's voice soars before dropping back to the dialogue of the book.  Dialogue is dynamic device but only one part of the story.

Smash cut to reading plays where Dialogue is King.  Dialogue is the structure everything in the play hangs on, from the first moment to final curtain. (The only exceptions are musicals since music halves that work with the words.) When dialogue is well-written, you can hear it in your brain, pauses and all, as if an actor was already speaking it.  There is no narrative voice.  It's the job of the actors and crew to create the atmosphere a novelist outlines with that voice and their only aids are the dialogue and a few stage directions.  

Stage directions can throw novice readers of plays because they look a little like description.  But instead of filling out your perspective of the story while moving the plot slowly along, these are directives from the playwright to the cast and crew, not written for a reader's enjoyment.  Look at Platform 9 3/4 as an example.

Rowling takes more than a page in Sorcerer's Stone to describe the famous railway platform and, like Diagon Alley, it's an overwhelming site for the senses.  Smoke is billowing from the engine to the platform, owls are hooting, cats are everywhere, large trunks are stacked up in piles and the entire place is covered in wizards.  Young ones are already on the train, waving from the windows to their families.  Families or friends make up knots of people on the platform, and everyone is chattering in a hundred different conversations.  Now compare all that with the stage direction for the same place:

Which is covered in thick white steam pouring from the HOGWARTS EXPRESS.  And which is also busy - but instead of people in sharp suits going about their day - it's wizards and witches in robes mostly trying to work out how to say good-bye to their beloved progeny.

Harry Potter & the Cursed Child, Act One, Scene Two

The novel's description sounds like a tour, the play's stage direction tells the stage manager what the set needs to look like and the actors how to play the scene. By the way, stage directions have become more detailed through the years.  Shakespeare's directions are limited to things like, "King Enters"; "Queen Exits"; "They fight" and "Hamlet dies."  The modern and contemporary playwrights sometimes write stage directions with extensive detail but the purpose of both is the same: to get the actors to perform the piece as the playwright envisions it.  Directions aren't printed to entertain the audience; they're there to instruct the players.

This doesn't mean reading plays isn't fun.  Plays can be wonderful things to read and, I must admit, the climax of  HP & the Cursed Child  evoked a visceral reaction from me, just like JKR's series did years ago.  The story keeps her great themes of love and sacrifice, and it doesn't shy away from what scares you.  Instead, it uncovers what frightens you most, and lets it stride free into the audience. That's more immediacy than I might be able to handle.

So, if you want, take a crack at a play.  Choose a good one, if this is the first play you've read.  It will be a slightly different journey than reading a book but both vehicles try to tell you a story. The difference is perspective.  When you read a novel, you get just a touch of emotional distance since you see it from the author's eye-view. When you watch a movie, you see it from your seat.  When you read a play, you're part of the performance; a performance acted out in your head.

Surviving a late Southern Summer

No one does the end of summer quite like the South.  The prairie states may be wilting under the furnace-blast of the sun, California may actually be on fire, (It seems to burn up every year) but for the last word in late summer misery, look below the Mason-Dixon line.  Here, the outdoors is a cauldron of heat and humidity sufficient to make snakes seek the comfort of air conditioning and lacquer the porch with mold.  It's impossible to sleep when the air-conditioning fails, and HVAC repairmen are worth their weight in gold (a rate reflected in their bills). But the thing is, Southerners don't complain about the heat.  In an interesting way, they relish it. It's one of the things that makes this place so distinctive and it certainly fuels our art.  The endless, draining summers stew the atmosphere  of Southern literature so tragedies and harsh truths emerge.  Before August ends, pick up at one or two more tales about the South and enjoy the benefits of an omnipresent, overwhelming Summer.

Always In August was one of my mother's books and the title says it all.  There's the usual " 'ole Southern family" with the "ole family place" (a house that has its own name) a nice-but-overwhelmed woman who's trying to keep her family together and  a mad, bad, beautiful one who's a slave to her own passions.  The cover says it's reminiscent of Rebecca and I suppose it is, if you can image the first Mrs. DeWinter returning to Manderly from exile instead of from the grave. The story is as dated as a Perry Como record but  it captures the lush, steamy, world of the low-country (the author, Ann Head, was a long-time resident of Beaufort, South Carolina) and the oppressive feelings the heat of summer generates. Ever since this book I've believed (like the narrator) that disasters go hand-in-hand with August.

When Other Voices Other Rooms introduced Truman Capote to the world, a a
lot of the world ran for the hills.  Yes, it's well-written and as Southern as shrimp-and-grits, but because it was the story of a rather effeminate boy written by an openly gay man, it was considered controversial material when it was published.  What OVOR is, is Southern Gothic to the nth degree.  The setting is a tired, little town, isolated from the rest of the world. The decadent, closed-in atmosphere of the place steams right up off of the pages and some of the characters are down-right strange.  The feeling of secrets and the possibility of meeting something grotesque or violent seems to permeate the book, like the August heat.  Lyrical prose, compelling intrigue and little bit strange: what else would you expect from Truman Capote?

I doubt if many people feel bad for Winston Groom but I have some sympathy for the man.  Ever since his fourth book, Forrest Gump, was adapted into a film, people forget he's written anything else.  Now I like Forrest as much as the next reader (the novel reminds me of Voltaire's Candide) but if I had to pick a favorite, it would be As Summers Die.

ASD is set in the fictional port city of Bienville, a dead ringer for Mobile, and the central character is Willie Croft, the kind of street lawyer John Grisham celebrates. As a child of working class parents, Willie understands who holds the power in his small southern town and it isn't him.  Power is wielded by the well-settled, well-monied families and these folks don't like to share.  When one of the poorest, least-powerful people around comes to Willie for advice, our street lawyer finds himself in a no-holds-barred fight that could change the future for everyone.   ASD begins and ends in the autumn but the big fight happens (of course) in August, when heat, humidity and tensions run high.  Some of the outdoor scenes are so evocative, I find myself slapping imaginary bugs away while I speed through the pages.  This story always makes me want to run to the coast.

By all means, go ahead and celebrate the upcoming change of season, if you want. Pull out your plaids and buy new school supplies.  Every season has great things to offer.  But before you take off the shorts and start raking the leaves, enjoy what you have right now.  It's August, it's hot and it's extreme.  Kick back with a cool drink and a Southern story.  It's one of the things we do best.

Confronting My Inner Aunt Petunia

Petunia as played by Fiona Shaw

I do not like to keep house. While other girls grabbed 4H badges for their sewing and cooking skills, I got Ds in Home Economics. When I realized my husband wasn't looking for a wife with a Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval, I was overjoyed.  But after 30 years of loathing laundry and hiding the dirty dishes, I've developed something worse than a bout of HouseFrau tidiness.  I have a latent streak of Aunt Petunia.

For anyone who's spent the last 20 years under a rock, Aunt Petunia is a minor villain in the Harry Potter series. She's an unpleasant woman who devotes a lot of energy to forcing her narrow worldview down everyone's throat.  She scrubs her house so thoroughly, all sense of "home" is rubbed right out.

In my own defense, I'm not a complete Aunt Petunia. I adore my sister and nephews; I think they're some of the greatest people ever made.  I believe in tolerance and diversity.  But I've joined Petunia's obsession and quest to keep some surfaces squeaky-clean.

Oh God, is that a scratch?

At one time, oven surfaces heated things and tables held cooler ones. Spills were regrettable, removable things. A clean surface was acceptable. In those days, I attributed Petunia's cleaning mania to a compulsion for order or fear of wizarding germs. Now, I own glass-topped furniture and I'm beginning to reconsider.

Glass surfaces must be more than clean; to look good, they must shine. Streaks make a glass surface looks mucky. Scorch marks look even worse.  So I spend lots of time and energy these days cleaning and re-cleaning the glass. I deploy an arsenal of products in the task, as well as non-scratching cloth, and a pack of razor blades to scrape away scorch marks. Nevertheless, they never stay clean.  Glass shows every mark and dust particle and I'm starting to lose my patience. I rarely cook because it might leave marks. I wipe down surfaces before bed every night.  Cat paw prints are now grounds for temporary banishment.  In other words, I'm behaving like Aunt Petunia

No one can keep this table clean!

Well, recognizable characters are essential to a good story. That recognition makes the story seem real. And there's no guarantee we'll always identify with the hero. Sometimes, we resemble someone else. Seeing ourselves in a character we dislike may tell us what we need
to change. As long as it's restricted to a cleaning issue, I can accept being a little like Aunt Petunia. All Wizard-nephews and house-elves are welcome in my home.  Just keep their hands off the glass!

The Awesome Power of Early Friendships and Late Summer Storms

I hate what's happened to the word "awesome".  For the last 10 years, reality shows and commentators abused this adjective until they reduced it to an on-air cliche.  It's not fair and it's not right.

"Did you see so-and-so's new Jeep?"

"Yeah, it's awesome."

"Sidney's so awesome doing her little tap dance.  You should see her kick up her legs!"

It doesn't matter whether we're discussing the Olympics, sugarless pudding or Donald Trump, everything is described as awesome when most of the time...it isn't.  And that cheapens the word for those who wield such power that we gaze at them with a respect bordering on reverence.  The power that can end or alter the course of your life, like early friendships and late summer storms.  Either of these is an agent of incredible force; combined, the effect is explosive.

That is one of the ideas behind Anne Rivers Siddon's novel, Outer Banks.  On the surface, it's a reunion of four middle-aged women who went to college together as girls but, it's also a hymn to the power of our very first friendships. The older women all carry a patina of  achievement, loss, and experience but in each other, they also see the adolescent girls they were years ago. In case you haven't heard, adolescent friendships can retain a lot of power.

Grown-up friends know the adults we became but friends from childhood also know who we could have been. They saw our potential before time and circumstance limited our choices. While we were incredibly vulnerable, they probably found out our biggest fears. The power of that knowledge can intensify with time giving old friends unique strength they can use with kindness or cruelty.

Summer storms are like that too, gaining energy from the heat of southern waters and storing it as they journey north. Sometimes, trapped energy and moisture increase over time until they hit an area of already-unstable weather.  The result is a hurricane, a storm system containing a hideous destructive force. 

So why don't we run from our childhood friends, like they were all tropical cyclones named Andrew, Camille or Katrina?  Yes, they knew us during vulnerable times but just as certainly, we knew them as well and (mostly) we've learned to trust each others' discretion over the years.  We know life-experience strengthened and humbled them, just as it strengthened and humbled us.  And, as we lose those who loved us as babies, first friends become the custodians of our past.  Finally, because they are friends, they use their influence, not to lay us low, but rescue us from despair. They loved us then, they love us still: first friends are truly awesome.

A Room Where the Soul can Live.

Every since 1929, female writers all over the world have been chanting a sentence of Virginia Woolf's like it was  a mantra.  Agree or disagree, ever she-scribbler knows the quote: 

In order for a woman to write fiction she must have two things, certainly: a room of her own (with key and lock) and enough money to support herself.

(Truth be told, I'll bet a lot of male writers echo the sentiment but apply it to themselves.  Privacy and financial security are woefully lacking these days for those who craft belle-lettres.)

As for me, I created that room in my imagination around the time I was 12.  I was reading an exercise in a self-help book my mom had borrowed (It was the 70's and the adult world was awash in self-help books) that suggested the reader construct an imaginary place equipped with everything needed to be that person's spiritual and physical retreat.  It was the reader's famous "happy place" and, once constructed by the mind, it could be accessed whenever needed.  Well, of course I started imagining mine.

What did it look like?  It was a spot for someone addicted to reading and writing. Books by the hundreds, books by the ton, books reaching from floor to ceiling lived there.  It also had soft light and an old-fashioned chair where I could snuggle down with a comfortable cup and a volume. The need for a cup meant a table must also be handy.  I went on and on, adding bits to the imaginary room. Was a fireplace required?  No but a desk suitable for writing long-length works was and a globe would not be amiss.  Would shelves hold anything besides books?  I wasn't sure.  It had to have the flavor of tradition with an emphasis on comfort instead of formality.  Of course, I was mentally constructing an archetypal English library, sans tobacco smoke.  But I was happy there.

Of course, I grew up and my husband and I found a house with a tiny spare room.  For years it was simply "the dirty room"  but some changes have been made.

Now it's the library, the guest room and my "Room of One's Own" but when I looked at it earlier this week I realized it's something more: it's the realization of the "Happy Place" I created as a child.

There's the reading lamp and the small, handy table. No globe but a telescope lives here instead.  And the shelves are crammed with so many books they threaten to sink the foundation but there's more than books on that back wall.  Can you see the black figure centered on the top shelf?  That's a replica of The Black Bird, The Maltese Falcon, "The-stuff-dreams-are-made-of" figure dreamed up by Dashiell Hammett and John Huston.  (Hammett created the story but Huston wrote that line, so both of them deserve credit.)  What a whale of a tale that is.  The falcon presides over that wall  of books as well as Wind in the Willow figures, Harry Potter wands, Woody and Buzz Lightyear and Opus from Bloom County.  They all share space with family photos and far too many stuffed Bears. It's not everything in the world I want, but everything here makes me happy.  

Of course the wing chair anchors the room, like its picture now anchors this blog. It's old-fashioned and comfortable and the most peaceful spot in the house.  Somewhere on the road to finding my "Room of One's Own." I created the room my soul has lived in most of my life. If I'm lucky, I'll still be enjoying this place when I reach 100.

So welcome to my room furnished with an eye for comfort and a love of Story.  If you need to, take a mental vacation here.  Reservations are being accepted now.

Books to re-balance the World

My sister, the educator, was grousing this week about an interesting blog post (sorry to say, not one of mine) on the question of whether Middle Grade and Young Adult books have gotten too "dark" for their target audience.   The post's author made an eloquent argument to justify the current "serious" themes but Sis's response was "There has to be a happy [book], every now and then.

Well, that surprised me because my sister dear has never shied away from kids' books with dramatic stories and tragic elements.  She's the one who turned me on to Harry Potter and The Graveyard Book (great stories that both start out with murders) and as a teenager, she devoured every Judy Blume YA story-with-a-taboo as soon as it came out.  So I had to ask: "What's the problem?  You like dark."

"Of course I do" she said.  "But every story pushed at kids right now right now is all about dark issues.  It's dystopias and addiction and depression and death.  Every once in a while, people need to laugh too, you know?"

"Well, yeah" I replied. "But didn't the books you loved best as a kid usually bring on the tears?" (I wasn't ready to concede.)  "I mean people love Charlotte's Web and it's terribly sad, although some passages are funny.  And readers learn valuable lessons in that book."

"That's the problem," she said.  "Kid books hyped today are filled with doom and gloom but they're praised  because they teach 'valuable lessons'. (I could almost hear her hooking finger quotes through the phone.)  "Kids need to have fun with books as well as life lessons.  I remember lying on our Grandmother's bed, reading Alvin Fernald, Superweasel, and laughing my head off at the story. At the time I thought to myself how much I was enjoying that story and I wanted to read more just like it." She sighed. "Books need to have balance."

Well, that got me, because she's right.  Stories are written to re-balance the world, at least for the writer.  They're read for entertainment and other reasons. Yes, some stories can have more dark than light (A Separate Peace comes to mind) while others run the other way (does anyone else remember Homer Price and the Amazing Doughnut Machine?  See this for the illustration.) but even adult novels counter-balance sadness with humor.  A tale of unrelieved happiness is sapless pap and no more engaging than one of ceaseless woe.

Dolly Parton said the secret to pleasing an audience was, "Make 'em laugh, make 'em cry, scare the hell out of 'em and go home".  That's what good authors achieve.  While their stories seek to create personal balance, readers need to feel laughter, tears, fear, and contentment by the time the book is done. As we close the last page, we know within ourselves the story has balanced our worlds as well.

Respect for the Introvert, Please!

America is known as a nation of extroverts.  Surrounded by older countries with cultures based on reserve and tradition, we celebrate our exuberant, gregarious, national character and do our best to perpetuate the image.  But, amidst the ballyhoo and high-fiving, we have to ask ourselves: are we really all extroverts?  If we're not, why are we pretending to be?

The answers, according to Susan Cain, the author of Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World that Can't Stop Talking, may surprise you.  The fact is, approximately half of this country's population have introvert personalities.  These are the people who prefer the company of a few friends to a crowd of people, who aren't anxious to dominate every conversation, who thrive on solitude and silence.  Unfortunately, those needs are often ignored by a culture who values the socially adept, team-player and distrusts the standoffish loner. Ms. Cain makes the argument that not only does this half of society deserve more respect, but that these quiet people may be the stronger, more creative individuals in our population and, on balance, the best leaders.

What makes one person the life of the party with the next is a little withdrawn?  Science isn't sure but the pattern seems to set in early.  Studies done on infants measured how each child responded when introduced to new things in its environment.  Some barely reacted at all to the unfamiliar objects while others waved their arms and yelled.  The low-reactors tended to develop into relaxed, forthright personalities while the high-reactors became more sensitive, thoughtful children who were more easily overwhelmed by stimuli. The high-reactors became introverts and often shamed because they aren't part of the group.

Now the thing about introverts is, they like to go off in a corner and consider things.  They're keen puzzle and problem-solvers. Introverts become our great artists and thinkers, engineers, researchers, visionaries and statesmen.  Because they don't like the limelight, few introverts take leadership positions but those that do encounter a greater rate of success because they are willing to listen to their subordinates and focus on making their team (instead of them) a success.  So why don't we listen to the quiet ones.

One exercise Ms. Cain mention showed the more aggressive speaker can actually change a listener's perception.  A group of people undergoing MRIs were answering questions correctly until an actor in the group deliberately started shouting the wrong answers.  Those that agreed with the incorrect answers had brain activity that showed their perception of the problem changed.  The few that held on to correct answers had different patterns and a change in the amygdala that showed resisting the crowd created a level of fear.  A study like this explains how a company - or country - can fall into a course of action that, in hindsight, is obviously wrong.  The louder, more aggressive speaker convinces many their initial conclusions are wrong and the remainder are afraid to speak up.  

This is the danger of "the Culture of Personality", when we gravitate to leaders and role models based on their appeal to our emotions.  These are charismatic, gregarious, extroverted people with oratorical skills to sway the masses but that doesn't mean they have the necessary character or skills to improve our world. Instead, we should respect our introverts, give them the freedom to be who they are and listen when one of them has something to say.  The wrapping on their gifts may be less flashy but the treasures they bring are worth more.

If you are interested in more information about this topic, you can hear the author's TED talk at https://www.ted.com/talks/susan_cain_the_power_of_introverts?language=en#t-757382

Does Anyone Else Re-Read Their Books?

One of my dear friends and fellow book-nuts holds a round-robin post each week.  Every Wednesday on her group page, the question appears: What are You Reading Right Now?   Everyone responds and it's a good spot to exchange book news and compare thoughts but I don't know how to tell them the truth: for each new book I've read, I've re-read at least 4 or 5 more.  My question is: does that make me a nut?

A lot of people seem to espouse the "seen this, done that" philosophy.  Each new day is a different challenge to accept; every vacation explores a different horizon. One very nice man I know dislikes seeing a movie more than once.  For him, one viewing is sufficient and a lot more people seem to read books that way than watch movies.  Does my re-reading mean that I'm slow?

On one level, I suppose the answer is "yes" but (ironically) it's because I'm a fast reader.  Put a well-paced, interesting book my hands and I'll rip through the story like a tornado. I'll pick up the plot and pursue it, scanning the pages faster and faster on a breakneck trip to the end.  I've been reading that way for so long, I don't think that pattern will break but on the first read I miss things. The fact is, writers spend a great deal of time, working out the balance of each paragraph and sentence and speed reading doesn't give you the opportunity to savor the art that goes into each story.  That kind of knowledge and appreciation only comes, in my case, through repetition.  Some books, like To Kill a Mockingbird, yield fresh insights if you read it at different ages.  At one age, it's an indictment of institutionalized racism.  On another, it's a child's eye view of an eccentric Southern world.  Read it in a third age and you'll see a love song to small-town life, with a clear-eyed view of its virtues and sins.  All of those stories are there, but I didn't see them at the same time.  It took repeated re-readings.

The truth is I enjoy re-reading some books; it's like visiting a long beloved friend after a long absence.  One I have known the longest is The Wind in the Willows, Kenneth Grahame's classic tale.  As a child, I adored the adventures of Toad, that silly ADHD animal, and skipped non-Toad chapters to keep up with his story. (If any character in English Literature would benefit from Ritalin, it would be Toad)  Now, Water Rat's Integrity and Mole's sweetness that capture my heart.  At any rate, when I reopen those pages, it's not to return to my childhood. It's to experience a story again that clarified my perspective or enriched my soul.

So, I'll continue to re-read, even as I search for new stories. Luckily, good books are like good friends; there's always room in my heart to add new ones. It's like the Girl Scouts song says:

Make new friends but keep the Old;

One is Silver and the Other's Gold

May your bookshelves are laden with treasure.

Seeing Life Through Pinhole Glasses

Christopher doesn't mind touching dead things.  Christopher doesn't like being touched.  Christopher thinks metaphors are stupid but he understands and adores prime numbers.  Often the world is too loud and bright for this fifteen year old boy's comfort and people he meets are in it extremely confusing.  As far as Christopher is concerned, all of life would be better if it were predictable, like a mystery story.

As such, Christopher John Francis Boone takes center stage as narrator and autistic hero of The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time.  Recognition of this development disorder has been growing for the last two decades and the Centers for Disease Control believes that roughly one percent of the world's population is a member of this group (U. S. statistics suggest that number is low).  That means at least 74 million people are participating in life right now without the verbal and non-verbal communication skills the rest of us use without effort.  Minus the ability to recognize or understand the nuanced feelings of others, these people go through life often aware they don't quite fit in with  "regular people" but unable to bridge the gap between themselves and the rest of the world. The condition becomes a filter they gaze through, seeing somethings clearly but missing part of the world, like someone looking at life through Pinhole Glasses. 

Christopher's perceptions are limited by his disorder and by a lack of information.  His mother disappeared awhile ago but his father doesn't want to talk about it.  Mr. Shears's name can't be mentioned but Christopher isn't told why beyond the statement, "That man is evil."  Then someone kills the neighbor's dog and Christopher has a mystery he cannot ignore.  He decides to use the methods of his hero, Sherlock Holmes, to find out what happened to the dog.  What results is a lesson in unearthing the odd corners of the human heart.

While Christopher is mystified by the actions and reactions of the people that surround him, his creator, Mark Haddon, is not.  Mr. Haddon allows Christopher to tell the story so that the love, frustration and sadness of the non-autistic characters shine through, even though Christopher doesn't see the clues.  Haddon's skill simultaneously shows us the world Christopher sees with its  attendant terrors, triumphs and confusion without condescension or judgment of his hero.  Although he may seem impaired by our standards, Christopher views himself as a complete, competent soul who responds reasonably to strange situations.  By the end, you may think he is right.

For those of us who know or love anyone on the autism spectrum, The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time is a godsend but it's so much more than that.  Anyone who has ever been mystified by the actions of others or been faced with a situation difficult to handle can empathize with Christopher.  It's also good for anyone who has had to forgive actions they do not understand.  In other words, we've all lived in Christopher's world and his story is for all of us.

Where Memory Resides With History

Thanks for the Memories

A friend from college visited me earlier this summer. She's a great gal and it's always terrific to see her but before she arrived, I wondered where I should take her during our visit. We have the usual amenities within easy driving distance but why bring her to some spot like another near her home?  In the end, we went to the Birmingham Civil Rights Institute, a museum and memorial to the Civil Rights Struggle in Birmingham, Alabama. It was the right thing to do. Birmingham's history with the Movement may not be what the city wants to be known for but it's our calling card in the pages of history. Hiding from the past never helps.

Because of Birmingham's infamous role in that struggle, explaining positive aspects of this place to the casual outsider can be difficult.  (Well, some of my Caucasian friends have admitted this is hard; I haven't got the nerve or bad manners to find out if my African-American friends here face the same issues.)  In the face of bombed churches and fire-hoses, how can anyone describe warm-hearted people and neighborhoods without sounding like a fool or a racist?  How can the domestic joys of tree-lined streets, southern cuisine and music be reconciled with murdered children and systematic oppression?  How do you balance the good in a place that has held so much evil?

Diane McWhorter set out to do something like this in her prize-winning book, Carry Me Home.  As a white child of the South she admittedly grew up "on the wrong side of the revolution" and her recollection of Birmingham's melt-down was similar to my memory of living in Texas when President Kennedy was shot. Distanced by youth and luck from the epicenter, only the  faintest reverberations of nation-shaking events initially touched either one of us. Repercussions from the 16th Street Church bombing threatened to affect her high school musical. The President's murder  upset my mother and preempted my Saturday Morning Cartoons.

Ms. McWhorter eventually realized her family might have closer ties to "Bombingham" than she originally supposed and part of Carry Me Home traces the twin strata of racism and social caste that ran through the power structure of 1960's Birmingham and how those two methods of exclusion supported each other.  The wealthiest power brokers of Birmingham limited their public resistance to integration by complaining about "outside agitators" while ignoring the circumstances that drove the agitation and privately supporting/manipulating the civil authorities that turned peaceful demonstrations into full-scale riots.  These business leaders turned a blind eye to the violent actions of their local government and law enforcement much as those in governmental authority chose not to see the clandestine relationship between some of their members and the Klan. The end of legalized segregation in Birmingham wasn't just a political victory for a coalition of under-funded, often competitive leaders.  It was a David-and-Goliath struggle where David couldn't stop fighting until Goliath realized he was wrong.

That realization came more slowly to some than others and there are still days when I despair of the future but something my husband said once comforts me.  In the middle of the Rodney King riots he reminded me that Birmingham faced some ugly truths about itself in the middle of the 20th century. It wasn't an easy or a pleasant task but, as as a result, the town lost its blinders and began the long, slow, turn towards tolerance.  He went on to say that more peaceful cities often assumed they didn't have Birmingham's issues and ignored the pockets of hate still  festering within their own borders. Only a tragedy on their own doorstep would expose the latent evil and rip away their personal blinders.  In the aftermath of a tidal wave of hate-based murders, the only good thing I can hope for is that other communities are starting to recognize the problems and divisions they contain.

No atonement will bring back the dead or repair the families blasted by loss but I believe humanity tends to correct its mistakes, once it sees what they are. We saw that in the respectful, kind way all the staff and visitors treated each other at the Civil Rights Institute that day. That's why places like the BCRI and books like Ms. McWhorter's are important. Not only do they honor the lost, they teach us how to create a better future instead of repeating the sins of the past.