Racism, a School Assignment

My only excuse for not posting in a few days is four summer school classes taking up an inordinate amount of time. It’s been interesting though to note that two of my classes are dealing with racism at the same time. I don’t believe in coincidence as a rule, so this kind of thing makes me think that there’s something I need to stop and consider, so please excuse the divergent path from the ordinary theme of this blog.

First of all, despite growing up in a very “WASPish” town, I don’t consider myself as overtly racist. Before moving to “WASPville”, I had the benefit of attending a private school in my early years that consisted of 70% Black, 25% Latino, 3% White and 2% Asian; this is not an official stat, just an approximation from looking over my class photos, of course. The funny thing is, the reason my parents sent me and my sister to this school was for us to not be mixed with any minorities. Apparently, mom and dad didn’t bother to actually see who actually attended. So, for first though fourth grades, I had a rainbow of friends I played with and learned about. These very formative years taught me that skin color has little to do with the person within.

This leads me to these assignments about Racism. I’m an older, white woman sitting in classrooms of mostly 18-20somethings who are ethnically very similar to my early private school. Once again, I’m the ethnic minority in the classroom. The difference this time is the years I have over these folks. For instance, I remember when Martin Luther King was assassinated, they only know of it in sound bites.

One of my classes is discussing the “falsification” of history and culture of people groups and it seems that this learning in sound bites is part of the problem. We as students learn what we need to know to pass the class and go on to the next one. We rarely stop to consider beyond what we are studying for the test. This is unfortunate because educational systems, family members and the media can’t fill in the blanks of our heritage. And if we don’t know our own heritage, how can we inform others and dispel fears they may have of us or those like us. On the other hand, is this really a problem? Some of my younger classmates don’t think so, they don’t seem to mind the chasms formed between each other with a “if they don’t mind, I don’t” attitude. I, for one, do mind. Maybe it’s because I’m older and have some experience under my belt, but I care that people have to worry about personal safety in certain areas of the city, worry that their children are in the right or the wrong school, or worry that their skin color will keep them from employment. The terrible fact is that, here, in 2009, racism still exists.

Not too long ago, I went to a local donut shop for a large order for my office and chatted with one of the clerks while I waited. I heard a man walk into the shop, but I didn’t look up at him, I just stepped aside so he could see the display while I continued my conversation. A lady then walked in. She instantly huddled up behind me which made me look at her. She was a middle-aged white woman staring in apparent horror at the man who had previously entered. He was a nice looking black man who seemed to me to be perfectly respectable in every way. I must have had a funny look on my face when I looked at the woman behind me because he started to chat with me in a “Hello, how are you” sort of way, which I responded in kind. He then got a twinkle in his eye and took a step toward the trembling woman cowering behind me. I thought she was going to faint; her face turned white and she bolted out the door. After her hasty exit, the man and I started laughing at the absurdity of the situation.

After the man left I thought how bad it was that people still have to deal with prejudice. I then thought about my own actions at the counter. When I stepped aside, my intention was only courtesy so he could view the display. But someone who has to deal with racial bias every day probably, at least initially, put me in the same box as that silly woman who came into the shop in terror. I resolved to not let that happen again. When in similar situations, I now verbalize what I’m doing, “Good Morning, I guess you’d like to see the display” and then step aside. I certainly don’t want to contribute to the spiritual pollution that feeds from racism and bigotry.

This week is the 40^th anniversary of Man’s landing on the Moon. It was a great achievement indeed, but wouldn’t it be an even greater achievement if we could learn to celebrate difference instead of fear it, to take every opportunity to learn about each other and to dispel racial stereotypes. Now is still the time to replace them with Martin Luther King’s ideals in his famous “I Have a Dream” speech:

“Now is the time to make real the promises of democracy. Now is the time to rise from the dark and desolate valley of segregation to the sunlit path of racial justice. Now is the time to lift our nation from the quicksands of racial injustice to the solid rock of brotherhood. Now is the time to make justice a reality for all of God’s children.”

Next month on August 28, will be the 46^th anniversary of Rev. King’s impassioned speech. Now is still the time.

My First Writing Contest

For experience, I submitted one of my short stories to a writing contest yesterday. I was (and still am) nervous about the prospect, but my writing guru encouraged me to go for it.

First was painstakingly going over the rules and regulations. I certainly didn’t want to deter from what is required since the slightest infraction could cause an unread dismissal.

Next comes the agonizing process of choosing which child to send to slaughter. Giving up a story to my writing group is one thing, the “tough love” they dish out is okay because I know everyone well and we all try to encourage each other. But to hand one over to perfect strangers is very different. They don’t know me. They don’t know how sensitive I am. They don’t know how much I work at crafting the right phrase or selecting just the right word… or do they?

After much consideration and mulling, one of my early stories was selected. Actually, it was on the short-list because it’s a favorite of mine, but I thought one of my later ones would be more polished and “professional.”  However, my writing guru said it is one of my strongest stories and is also one of her favorites, so off it went to the digital literary gallows.

It’s from my Strangers You Know collection, stories of simple everyday people telling about what happened when their lives turned around. The one sent is about a jazz musician who went to Korea as a soldier. He came back home physically wounded and emotionally heart broken. But after his return, he discovers what really matters in life.

It’s a solid story and I hope it does well, I’ll be sure to post it when it’s all over.

Wish me luck…

Let’s start at the very beginning, a very good place to start…

Well, I have the bones for chapters one and two. I’ve decided to go with a bit of fairy history. I want to incorporate what is already “out there” in regards to how Banshees and other fairies were created, but my research came up with very little. The only story I found is that the first baby’s first laugh turned into the first fairies. It’s a charming idea and I’ll definitely use it, but it’s not quite enough, is it?

The good thing about not having a well-known history is that I can completely create it on my own. The bad thing is that I’m going to have to completely create it on my own. **sigh**

Here’s the path I’m taking at present…

Rion Addergoole is known to his friends and family as pleasant, but odd. He is an alchemist before anyone knows of alchemy and spends his time doing experiments with different items he finds around him. You see, he just can’t believe that what he sees in the world is all there is. He senses that there is something greater, or at least something else than what he experiences with his physical self. His experiments are his attempts at figuring out this other world he detects only with his mind and his heart.

As what sometimes happens when experimenting and opening yourself to the unfamiliar, a strange thing occurs. A bubble appears above his workspace. It’s not a bubble of water or fire, but of both. Stranger still, he sees another world through this bubble.

This other world he sees is filled with strange plants and trees; animals that defy description roam about. He is surprised by an especially unusual lizard, very large with wings and who breathes fire. Looking further he notices small people, not like people he’s ever seen before; they are humanoid, but tiny, sparkly, and obviously very magical. Much to his amazement, they also fly!

Rion is entranced by this other world and figures out how to enter it. Once through the bubble, he finds that the figures aren’t tiny at all, the new place he’s entered is of a far larger scale than the earth he left behind. The tiny figures are equal to him and are very curious about this stranger who fell from the trees.

Well, that’s all I’ll reveal of the synopsis today. It obviously still needs to be fleshed out quite a bit.

The Original Short Story…

As promised, here’s what started the idea of a full-length novel. I would welcome comments along this journey, but please be kind… I’m sensitive…

Song of the Banshee

“You will with the Banshee chat, and find her good at heart” –W.B. Yeats

MaiEveen was your average spirit, Banshee by trade. She thoroughly enjoys her work and finds the folktales about her kind amusing, but misleading. A Banshee doesn’t just herald a death; actually, a Banshee’s primary job is to lead the family she’s assigned toward happiness. She is actually a very happy spirit and loves to join in her family’s joys and celebrations. She feels rewarded when she helps ease pain or sorrow, only feeling sorrow herself when the Celtic Goddess Morrigan presents her with a red letter, the Caoineadh.

In Irish folklore, Banshees take the form of a beautiful young woman, a dowager, or an old hag. In reality, Banshees can take on any form necessary to do their job: a stranger with a quick smile and kind greeting, a flower that has broken though a crack in a concrete slab or even a cool breeze to refresh a warm summer afternoon. They can and will do anything to help their charges find peace in life and afterlife.

MaiEveen’s family is now named Kavanagh. Unknown to them, they are directly descended from one of the oldest Celtic families straight from the ancient Milesian Clan. She is very proud to have this important assignment, although it had been anything but easy. This branch of the family is located in a distant land called Los Angeles, which is far from the Kavanagh’s clan home on the shore of Lough Neagh,  not only in geography but also in the basic philosophy of life.

The people of Lough Neagh are happy and friendly. They talk slowly and walk even slower. Theirs is a quiet, ordered life which is the polar opposite from the urban sprawl of Southern California. This City of the Angels is fast, loose and seemingly on the verge of a social meltdown due to the increasing use of recreational drugs and casual sex and violence. MaiEveen has her hands full trying to keep her family happy and at peace in this chaotic culture.

Edmond and Carolann Kavanagh pride themselves in having a modern family. Edmond is an attorney who has finally gotten his name on the door. He is rarely at home, dividing most of his time between the courthouse and a local motel with his newest paralegal, Missy Treacher.

Carolann refers to herself as a domestic goddess, a term she once heard on television that made her laugh. She would definitely be surprised to find out that several of her ancestors were actual fairies and one of them made the marks to become a fairy goddess, but that’s a story for another time.

The Kavanaghs have two children; John-Paul is sixteen years and Kathlyn, fourteen.  Carolann said that Katie doesn’t have to look for a party, parties find her, which gives her mother increasing anxiety. Despite Katie’s young age, she donns ripped jeans, a spaghetti strap top and high heels whenever she goes out, looking at least five years older. John-Paul is the opposite; he is kind, quiet and thoughtful. Of him, Carolann has no real concern, calling him her “Zen-child.” Although Katie constantly gives her mother reason to worry, MaiEveen sees disturbing signs with young John-Paul.

On one particular autumn afternoon, Carolann tried to gain an insight to her painfully adolescent son.

“How’s school today?”

“Okay.”

“Didn’t you have a meeting about the homecoming dance this morning?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, how did it go?”

“Okay” said John-Paul as he ambled up the stairs to his room.

“Nice talking to you, let’s do it again real soon, okay?” Carolann heard only a Humumph come from the top of the stairs.

MaiEveen caused a commercial that Carolann particularly liked to break into her “afternoon stories”, it was that old ad with a group of teenagers on a hill singing about wanting to teach the world to sing with Coca-Cola. “I bet those kids talk to their mothers” Carolann mused. “Well, at least he isn’t into drugs or sex.”

Oddly enough, even though he isn’t actually into drugs and sex, John-Paul thought an awful lot about it. All of his friends boast about the scores they hit and the girls they have. “What’s wrong with me”, he wondered. “Nothing is wrong with you, you’re just sixteen”, MaiEveen tried to say through a bird chirping happily on his window ledge. He ignored it. He plugs in his ipod and let The Killers drown out the noise of that damn bird. He stretches out on his unmade bed and wonders where his life is going. “Nowhere” he answers himself sullenly, “Who would even notice if I disappeared. I’m just wasting the air I breathe.” He then falls into a miserable sleep.

John-Paul can’t see what MaiEveen can. A dark spirit had entered his bedroom, drawn by his teenage despair, feeding on it. It changes into a human form as a beautiful young woman. MaiEveen knows exactly what this demon is. It’s what used to be called a Demon Bride, a spirit that is both mezmerizingly beautiful and horrifically evil who seduces an agonizing mortal and gives a kiss that steals his soul. Haunted by his fatal mistake, he turns into a lunatic and dies a long, humiliating death.

“Well, I’ll have none of that” said MaiEveen to the creature. As she tries to block the monster as it bends down to kiss the willing boy, the worst thing possible happens. The Caoineadh, a red letter, gently, but purposefully, floats down from the ceiling. Goddess Morrigan has called John-Paul to the good people. It’s MaiEveen’s order to let it all happen and afterward escort John-Paul to his final destination.

“Noooo!” cries MaiEveen.

“Noooo!” she cries even louder, so loud that Carolann notices the sound.

“Noooo!” louder still.

“What is that?” asks Katie at cheerleading practice.

“Noooo!” cries a distraught MaiEveen. Edmond looks up from his client, a gangster named Spike from South Central.

“Do you hear that?”

“What?”

“That sound, like the whistle of a distant train. Do you hear it?” asks Edmond of the gangster.

“I don’t know man, but whatever you got, you got to share it.”

Again, like an echo, traveling away into the distance, “Noooo!”

Hello world!

Woo-Hoo! I’m up and running!

I’ve written several short stories and one keeps nudging me to tell the full story.

I’ll post the short story and then take you on the ride as I expand it into the full-length novel it wants to be. I’ll include the highs and lows, cruises and stumbling blocks, and my venture into the submissions and hopefully published celebrations!

Here we go!