Last week I started Isabel Wilkerson's Caste. Last night while sitting on the rooftop, I made the decision to stop reading it. At least for now. I am fan of Wilkerson's writing. It is so in part because she is a great wordsmith, but also because we share a surname. For the first 18 years of my life, the state of Alabama had assigned me my mother's maiden name, despite the fact that the US Air Force legally handed me my family name of Washington. Its odd. For years I carried a name that even my mom no longer carried. The world can be weird like this. The weirdness bleeds over into the reasons why I decide to put down Caste. There is a passage in which she describes a lynching in Omaha, NE, where I got my most recent and final degree. I recall walking through the streets of Omaha, feeling curiously enchanted. I'd considered taking a teaching job there. It felt neutral. Wilkerson's recounting of the brutal murder of a Black man made Omaha anything but neutral. As a matter of fact, none of the grounds we stroll daily are neutral. As I sat surveying the Hudson, with eye's blurry from the impending tears, I wondered how many atrocities occurred in place I now call home? In Alabama, my birth home, the markers of the past horrors were still visible; in some area venerated. It is not lost on me that the very place that I used to go to cash my check was also the site of a slave market. There is a placard there to remind the world - but only if you pay attention to it. I wasn't paying attention to the markers in Omaha. I'd decidely, whether consciously or unconsciously, turned a blind eye to the past. We'd laid a veneer atop the misery of the past, and suddenly its stating to wear thin, and show.
The book became heavy in a way that I wasn't ready for.
Prior to opening Caste, I'd just finished "The Yellow House" by Sarah Broom; a book recommended via a tweet by Kiese Laymon, whose writing is wildly Black and wildly Southerner. I didn't expect much but its by far the most honest telling of a person's life I've read in a while. I fell in love with the book and the writer herself. I felt like we'd been friends for forever. This is due in part to her simple mastery of language, but also because we are born one day apart. End of year 1979. I am a day older. There is that weirdness again. What I came to appreciate about this book is that the author wasn't just sharing information - useful subject matter, a recollection of history, an idea - she was was sharing herself.
Alone of the rooftop, looking at the Hudson, now with a full fledged tear sliding down my face, I had to admit that I miss connecting with people. The last hug I received was from a friend, leaving NYC to move to Alabama. We knew that hugging went against all social distancing logic, but it felt both satisfying and sad to hug my friend who now I would only get to see on a limited basis. As an introvert, the idea of missing people seems off. Its almost as if I am admitting a weakness, that yes, I too need people. I am, too, human. Maybe it was this longing for human connection that made Caste unappetizing right now. I didn't need to hear about the one of many ways we aren't doing our best a humans. I needed to feel someone's writing; to let their words be an offering of their rawest self.
I've found that I have been longing to overshare lately. I shared the elevator with one of my neighbors, a British transplant. We speak in passing, mostly him commenting on my dogs, and reassuring me that their barking is threatening. He's always smiling. Charming even. On this evening, he shares that he's not ready for the winter. Drastic weather patterns aren't familiar to him. I tell him, that they aren't to me either but the door opens before I have a chance to explain that I am from the Deep South and that I could empathize. I hesitated to end our conversation but it would've felt strange holding him up. For the rest of the evening I regretted not holding him up. I wanted to know more about what brought him here,why he stays even when the U.S.'s response to the pandemic has been deadly, or more simply, his name. See that's the thing about life before this pandemic. We've all lived in this building with no urge to commune. Lately we've all been a bit more friendly and garrulous. Maybe we are all trying to fill an emotional crack in our foundation?
Yesterday on my walk, a cleared the sidewalk to let an elderly lady pass. She spoke to me with exaggerated movements, but here words I couldn't hear over the music blaring in my ears. I wanted to hear her, her smile so wide and he energy so bright. I removed me earbuds and she repeated "Some of us are short of memory, but thank you for wearing your mask." She made me smile. I felt as if I had a much needed moment of connection. Lately, I smile, wave, and verbally greet most people that I pass on my walks. People are no longer a nuisance. They feel necessary. The weirdness of feeling something other than my usual introverted inward pull.
Today I am reading Zadie Smith's Intimations. I am hoping that she shares more than her mastery of words. I am hoping that in some weird way, she'll share parts of herself, and I can fill in some of the cracks that now exist.
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