High Five

I’ve heard friends comment lately that they find themselves scared in the face of the barrage of attacks on freedom of speech and on the very existence of women’s names and women’s contributions in many branches of our government—but I thought I was immune. Those of us who have fought many battles know this is not the first or the only attack on women—which is what it is at its root—and we are accustomed to forging ahead.

Monday, when I arrived at the Louisville airport after a daylong trip from Santa Fe, I learned something I didn’t expect.

I was wearing my favorite pink shirt, gift of my beloved daughter-in-law Jessie, which bears the logo I READ BANNED BOOKS. Suddenly I felt anxious. This is Kentucky after all and there have been many accounts in the last four months of abusive criticisms launched against protestors—even, I imagined, a protest as mild as my wearing this slogan.

I put down my anxiety but I had to notice its occurence.

I drove to Kroger to supply myself with groceries for the first part of my three week visit. This Kroger is enormous; probably they all are. The aisle of dry cereals alone is enough to dazzle. I’ve never read or heard an explanation for why we U.S.ers (I don’t use Americans) need so many choices for any item we propose to eat. I find I generally stick to the same fairly limited selection of brands, and I imagine others do too. Do we really yearn for infinite variety?

My shopping cart was half full when I rolled it past a tall, handsome African American wearing a blue suit. He certainly was not a store employee but he didn’t seem to be shopping either (no cart). He glanced at me, then said, “So you read banned books?”

I  had no idea what to expect. His tone was neutral. “I do,” I said.

“What is your favorite banned book?” he asked.

“Huckleberry Finn.”

At that he held up his right hand and we exchanged a high-five. “We’re in the same league,” I said, rolling away.

I found this exchange deeply reassuring. Since the criticism of Twain’s novel always focuses on its “racism” without acknowledging that there is no way to “whiten” the behavoir and language of the period—and no need tiresomely to attempt to elevate the slave Jim, the most complex character in the novel, by making him talk like a white man—this handsome stranger’s response reassured me that at least some of us are capable of recognizing a masterpiece and setting it in its context.

We are fighting. We are not backing down. And we are finding supporters where we least expect them.

In Politics, Kentucky Louisville