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Thinking about a person who had an impact on my life. |
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I've been reading a series of essays by Audre Lorde the past couple of months, from her book Sister Outsider. A really good essay may be only a few pages long, but it packs so much meaning that it requires a while to mentally digest. I've been limiting myself to one every few days. In between, I savor. Lorde speaks as one who is so on the outside of acceptability that she sees the prejudices of others in crystal clarity. When I was on the inside, accepted as one of the normal people, I thought I understood the mechanisms of prejudice, and I thought I could relate to writers like Lorde. But you simply can't feel the weight of it until you're in a similar position. I suppose this is true for any condition, including physical or mental disabilities, economic hardship, or any other difference that places one on a lower stratum in the power pyramid - the one where the pinnacle is held by those who are white, male, college educated, married, with 2.3 kids and a dog. (I'm not ranting about fairness or justice - many people have done that before, just observing the world and how it works from a different place. For most people the wonder is why anyone would give all that up!) Audre Lorde describes herself in many of her essays as black, woman, lesbian, feminist, mother, in a lifelong interracial relationship, and then goes on to speak about how each of those things have affected her life. She is a gifted poet, and in her later years, a reluctant writer, and in spite of having worked hard to become a college professor, spent her life and her art defining the insidious ways that prejudice hurts people, and what they can or should do about it. She speaks not only of oppression by those in the majority and in charge, but even more eloquently about how those who are in oppressed groups fight among themselves. Her membership in so many outsider groups gives her a very unique perspective. As I was reading some of the essays, I began thinking of someone I knew briefly about 10 years ago - one of those chance things like ships passing in the night. I had just finished teaching a night class for adults in computer literacy for a semester at the local high school. We used Apple II computers and learned basic principles of operating system management, spreadsheet, word processor, and database applications. My students were mostly middle aged, mostly women, and about half and half black and white. To a person, they were all thrilled to be learning how to use these newfangled computers. They were among the most grateful and eager students I have ever been honored to teach. A little while after the semester ended, I got a call out of the blue from a woman who had heard I knew about computers, and she needed some help with hers. She was desperate for help and would be willing to pay. Nobody else, including the Computerland store where she bought the machine, had been willing to make a house call. She gave me her address, and we agreed on a time to meet on a Saturday. I had to get out a map to find the street since it was in a part of town that I didn't frequent. Specifically, it was in a poor, black neighborhood, not too far from the mostly black college. I found the street after a couple of attempts, a poorly kept affair; curb-less, just drainage ditches on the sides. I drove slowly, looking for house numbers when there were any to be seen. I pulled over at a little frame house surrounded by a chain link fence, with iron bars on every window. The shades were all drawn, and there was no car or dog, or any other sign of someone living there. A bit apprehensive, I opened the gate and walked up to the door and knocked. The door opened finally, and a smallish, trim, bespectacled woman looked me over quickly, then beckoned me in. I must be the computer expert, since there wouldn't be any reason for a white person to be in the neighborhood except by invitation. Although pleasant, she also seemed a little uncomfortable, having allowed a stranger into her sanctuary. Dressed in a simple kimono, she led me back into a dimly lit room where I spied her computer, in a small pool of light - her work space. It was a Macintosh 512, like the one I had used for several years. As I sat down, I asked her to describe the problems she was having, and she began telling me something of herself for context. She was a writer, and like so many others, had given up the typewriter for a word processor, since editing was so much easier. The problem was, MacWrite was probably never intended to be used for writing a complete novel! The program was crashing routinely, and if not for saving multiple copies on floppy disks, her work would have been lost. As I worked with the document, which in those days would have been considered quite large, I read snatches of the novel that would eventually become Family, by J. California Cooper. At first I was confused by the grammar, but as I read, it was apparent that she was writing her story in dialect, to better convey the feel of the people and time. I fixed several things in the setup of her software and told her to consider breaking her book up into chapters, one document for each, since the word processor was straining with all the frequent saves and edits on such a large piece. When I was done, she thanked me for my trouble and offered me $20. I could see that she believed in paying what she owed, and rather than insult her, I accepted the money. We talked a little more about her writing, and as I made to leave, she gave me a book of short stories called A Piece of Mine, which she inscribed "Love and Peace", signed and dated 10/93. When I was looking through the book some days later, I saw that the dedication page included a particular somewhat uncommon first name, and it occurred to me that this may be the same person who was my 11th grade high-school English teacher, one of the finest teachers I ever had. Her passion for helping all her students learn was amazing, considering she was a black woman thrust into a formerly all-white high school just the previous year as integration was court-mandated. In spite of the awkwardness of the situation, she was determined to teach reading and writing to us all. And she did so magnificently. I told M about my meeting with this most interesting woman, and since she attended church with my old English teacher (the Catholic church had also desegregated in our little town), she asked if they were acquainted. They were. A month or two down the line, I got another desperate call. The computer was misbehaving, and she needed help again. Once more, I made my way to her little fortress, and this time, we spent more time talking, both of us more relaxed than at our first meeting. When we were done, she once again offered to pay me, but this time I refused. Instead, I told her that meeting someone so rare and special was payment enough. She studied my eyes for sincerity, then gave me another book of short stories called Some Soul to Keep, and inscribed this one "Love and Wisdom." I may have made another house-call or two; I can no longer recall, but I still remember her quite clearly. Writing was her passion, and she was filled with so much warmth and love. Her stories are vignettes of ordinary people living ordinary lives in a culture that is barely represented in American literature. I expect them to be an important window into a bygone era some day, probably after we're both passed. I don't know why reading Audre Lorde made me think about J. California Cooper. I suppose that although they are both black women writers, a rare enough thing to have in common, it was more that their approach to life seemed so different. The one saw injustice in her world and was determined to fight to make it better, and the other saw her world the way it was, and made the best of it, finding the issues of the heart that all humans share, regardless of their station. Which approach is better? I don't really know. We each do whatever we are compelled to do.
9/12/03 |
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Last Update 4/3/04 |