What do I do?

I began this week of Black Lives Matter thoughts by saying that the music industry’s #TheShowMustBePaused mission had prompted my (as their statement had requested) honest, reflective and productive inner conversation—with myself, on my own responsibilities when it came to the Black lives in my country.  Race in this country is not a Black problem. It is not even an exclusively American problem. It is mine, and here are a few things that I need to remember.

I need to speak up.  Keeping silent is the same thing as voicing agreement.  I need to bear witness to inequity.

Use my privilege. If events of recent weeks have taught white people one thing, it’s that Black skin is a target where paler skin may not be. There’s often not even a need for the white bystander to be confrontational, merely to be there, and present, and visible, and polite, with persistent and courteous questions such as: Pardon me, sir, but isn’t that sort of racist?  How is it not racism?  Is there something I can help with?  Isn’t there a fairer way we could do this?  And so on…

Give. I need to donate money, but also time.  To the NAACP for their decades of brave work and National Bail Out for those who can’t pay their bail, and the ACLU for all manner of human rights, and the Southern Poverty Law Center for voter registration.  Maybe I should consult the Time Magazine list of things to do? I And if I need a book, perhaps from a Black-owned bookshop?

Vote. This November will be incredibly important when it comes to the future of race relations in our country—when it comes to the future of pretty much everything in our country, for that matter. November is key. I will donate, and I will pry loose some hours to do my part in shifting matters.

I will be aware. It’s time to expand my boundaries.  I’ll start by checking out the books by Crime Writers of Color, signing up for their newsletter, and following them on Facebook.

This week started with #TheShowMustBePaused urging the country to “take a beat for an honest, reflective and productive conversation about what actions we need to collectively take to support the Black community.”  So in the comments, how do you see us going forward as a nation, and what are you doing as a person?

#SayTheirNames

Black lives lost are swept up in the busy-ness of life: a sad shake of the head, a purse of the lips (“He should have known better than to pull out his phone/ run at night/ hit a cop/ drive there/ live…”) before the name fades. But the entire planet now knows the name George Floyd, whose “counterfeit $20 bill” death beneath a white knee may have triggered, at last, the world’s revulsion against that knee. Then mere days later Rayshard Brooks, instead of being told to walk home and sober up, ended up shot. As Breonna Taylor, instead of being handed a search warrant, was invaded and shot.  As Ahmaud Arbery was shot for being out for a jog. As Freddie Gray was slammed to death five years ago, in a police van. As Walter Scott was shot in a park over a broken tail light, also in 2015. As Eric Garner was choked to death for selling individual cigarettes in 2014. As Trayvon Martin was shot for being a teenager in a hoodie in 2012. As in 1955, Emmett Till, another teenager, was brutally lynched for speaking to a white girl.  As in 1895, Emmett Divers was taken from his jail cell—

In 1619, “Antonio” and “Isabella” “Tucker” arrived in what would become the United States. Their actual names, those they were given at birth in what is now Angola, are lost in time.  Antonio and Isabella may have been kidnapped and enslaved, or their presence may have been more voluntary—their status as “indentured servants” during that era makes the distinction less than clear. Certainly their son, William, was born a free man, and not every Black person in those early days was enslaved—some were landowners, and even owned slaves themselves, as plantations grew and intensive labor was needed.

The “Tuckers” were not lynched or shot: that response to perceived Black transgressions grew up after their time, when laws and institutions reinforced the cruelty of the slave economy—when the sugar/rum/slave trading triangle became a direct back-and-forth between Africa and the New World.

This is an animated history of the slave trade. Every dot represents an entire shipload of men and women ripped from their homes.  That endless stream of dots into the Caribbean bears testimony to the short lives of those working on sugar plantations. The dots hitting America’s coastline carried men and women from whom George and Breonna, Freddie and Eric, Trayvon and Emmett and all the other victims, named and nameless, descended.

And as I say the names Antonio, Isabella, and William, I have to wonder how early this country might have chosen a different path to walk down.

Black Lives: a marker of progress for white lives?

I haven’t said much about the state of our world since the May 25 death of George Floyd (other than the introductory remarks in my last newsletter, here.)  In part, I felt that #BlackoutTuesday and its basis, #TheShowMustBePaused, were meant to focus the world’s attention on Black voices, to encourage everyone to “take a beat for an honest, reflective and productive conversation about what actions we need to collectively take to support the Black community.”  On top of that, I could see that the very last thing any of my exhausted Black friends needed was another plaintive and heartfelt apology for the incredible abuses inflicted on them by people who look like me.

So while the world was blowing up, I did my job, launched my book, watched the news, listened to people. I wept and raged and shook my head in disbelief-that-is-no-longer-disbelieving.  I watched in awe as people like the angry and eloquent Kimberly Jones spoke her heart:

She’s way more generous than I am. If I’d been around during the French Revolution, I’d have swept through Versailles with a torch.

For the past four weeks I’ve watched, and listened, and tried for that honest and productive reflection. Because, as Jelani Cobb writes in his New Yorker article about Juneteenth:

There’s a paradox inherent in the fact that emancipation is celebrated primarily among African-Americans, and that the celebration is rooted in a perception of slavery as something that happened to black people, rather than something that the country committed. The paradox rests on the presumption that the arrival of freedom should be greeted with gratitude, instead of with self-reflection about what allowed it to be deprived in the first place. Emancipation is a marker of progress for white Americans, not black ones.

The problem is not with Black America, but with the side of the street I live on.  In going forward, some of the actions I have decided on are behind the scenes, and will remain there.  Seems to me that a person who needs credit for acts of decency is part of the problem.

Other things I decided on are longer term, and you’ll hear about them when they come around.  Change only works if it lives past the present.

And then there’s the more immediate act—namely this week of posts here on Mutterings. (And no: if you’re tired of Black Lives Matter, if your head will explode with one more thing to feel guilty about, if life is already making your eyes weep and your ulcer flare, you don’t have to read me this week.)

I write fiction. My audience is incredibly mixed, in age and ethnic heritage and political beliefs. As a storyteller, this is how things work. It always astonishes me to come across a reader who holds vastly different beliefs from mine, but it is absolutely not my job to vet my listeners. The story is the story, and any subversive messaging I sneak in has to be low-key enough to overlook at first glance—not because I’m ashamed of it or want to lose a sale, but because nothing kills fiction faster than the smell of the soap-box. If you’re preaching, it’s not a story, it’s a sermon.

(Though I have a strong, knee-jerk reaction to being told what to do. People who email me saying they won’t buy my book because of something I said or didn’t say, or that I really mustn’t write that kind of book again, always get my second reply—the polite one, after I’ve deleted the first one.  If my politics offend you that much, no one is making you buy my book.)

Laura: I’m dead chuffed that Yorkshire Tea hasn’t supported BLM.

Yorkshire Tea: Please don’t buy our tea again.

All of which means that on the one hand, I am a writer of fiction whose political and sociological opinions should be of less concern to the general world than my choice of dishwashing soap. On the other hand, I do have strong opinions, and I am a citizen of the world.

So the time has come to say, yes: Black lives matter.

White and blue and brown lives matter, too, of course they do—but in this country, Black lives have long carried an extraordinary burden, and at this moment, we might—we just might, if we all respond, have a chance to take that burden off the backs of our Black friends and neighbors.  Or off their necks. And maybe redeem ourselves a little in the eyes of the future.

Black lives matter.

That’s the theme over the next five days here on Mutterings. I’ll be talking about Black writers, about saying the names of victims, about the idea of “defunding” the police, and some thoughts on where I’m going.

And I’m leaving the comments open, although anyone who loses the thread of rational conversation will be blocked.

The sign of Really Having Made It:

The sign of Well Not Quite So Great:

Nobody got the right answer. Ah well, it was only $400, but clearly there were no mystery fans on Jeopardy tonight.

I am in constant awe of the endless creativity, and perpetual optimism, of the human race.  As a case in point, this amusing missive that dropped into my inbox a short time ago:

Hope you do not mind my language sentence structure, since i’m from Philippines. I infected your device with a malware and im in possession of all of your personal info from your computer system.
It previously was installed on a mature web page after which you’ve picked the video,  it, my software instantly gain access to your system.
And then, your webcamera documented you flying solo, also i documented a vid that you’ve seen.
Soon after a little while additionally, it picked up every one of your device contact list. If you happen to want me to get rid of your everything i possess – send me 410 euros in bit-coin its a crypto. Its my account number : 1PE16MrNtyzKMhntxa… [etc etc]
Now you have 22hrs. to make a decision As soon as i will get the transaction i am going to eliminate this video and every thing entirely. Otherwise, you should remember this footage is going to be submitted to all your contacts.

To receive an email like this that begins by apologizing for any language deficiencies is a nice touch. And sensible as well, to forestall my taking an editorial pencil to his prose:  Soon after a little while additionally alone would require a firm lesson in the benefits of brevity.  Although, perhaps those from Philippines—not Nigeria, not the Philippines—are raised to be generous with their time-referencing conjunctive adverbs?

But then we come to the heart of the matter, and the true mystery here: which mature web page have I inadvertently stumbled upon? Leaving aside the mundane searches for movie times and corn chowder recipes, a glance at my browser history does show: Criminal Statutes of Limitations; Latent Fingerprint Cards; the effects of temperature on DNA; images of dreadlocks; security gates; and synonyms for the word derisive. Which of those might be too mature for delicate eyes?

As for Flying solo, I believe I understand the coy reference here, but the author of this missive is clearly unaware of our lamentable download speeds, out here in the hills.

And when we reach at last the payment required, I admit myself baffled. 410 bitcoin euros?  Alas, I had not realized that those two currencies were synonymous!  In desperation, I turn to Google, which informs me that indeed, they are not: a single Bitcoin is the equivalent of no fewer than 2,960.61 Euros.  So, perhaps the kind gent is giving me the option?  Either to send €1,213,849—or if I prefer, €410? Oh, what a conundrum!

Finally, inquiring minds want to know, why 22 hours, and not 24, or 36?

So very many questions, from one innocent note out of the ether.

I will admit to a niggling sense of disappointment, and a hope that the sender does not mind my language value structure when I say: the quality of blackmail letters has taken a downward turn, in recent years.

So for the next 20+ hours, I will sit and wait with bated breath, for my solo flight to be distributed to all my contact list. And if you’re one of them, kindly let me know how I do on it.