One of the scariest things about the Coronavirus is that anyone could have it. Not only are there people who are asymptomatic, but the actual symptoms are relatively ambiguous. It’s not like you immediately begin getting spots on your arms and face, like plague victims of The Lunar Chronicles by Marissa Meyers (future blog post).
The last day I attended school was Friday the 13th, March, 2020. After that, teaching went virtual. The only way I saw my students was through videos, either a live video format like Zoom or Google Hangouts, or my favorite assessment platform, Flipgrid.
As I was watching the Flipgrid videos that my students were uploading, I caught myself cringing whenever a kid coughed. Coughing is one of the more obvious signs that a person has contracted Coronavirus. During meetings with students and coworkers I tried not to cough or clear my throat, so that I didn’t sow the thought of my having Coronavirus. The absolute worst was when I went to the grocery store. How many times did I leave the store crying, instead of succumbing to the tickle in my throat? I didn’t want other patrons to think I was a walking virus time bomb.
I tried to work at reminding myself that everyone coughs, but a base feeling occurred whenever I heard one. It stemmed from self-preservation. Even on the other side of miles of Wifi, I wanted to suggest the cougher put her mask on! The other thought was, Should I ask about the cough? Perhaps, this person DOES have the virus. If she did, what would my inquiry do to help? What if this person HAS the virus, would like to talk about it, but doesn’t know how to bring it up?
During the single Democratic Presidential Primary debate between Bernie Sanders and Joe Biden, the very first sentence from Joe Biden’s lips contained a cough. I couldn’t believe it! In my mind, I know that the hot lights, the pressure, there are a million stimulants that would cause someone to cough, but not right out of the gate! As it turned out, Joe Biden did an amazing job holding his own during the rest of the show.
The cough, though… I couldn’t get over it. This reinforced the thought of all three presidential candidates’ elderly situations presenting serious fragility in the face of Coronavirus.
Now, I know that just because you cough, doesn’t mean that you have Coronavirus. Humans have been clearing their throats for millions of years. It is natural.The Coronavirus has hijacked coughing.
You know what is even more natural than coughing? Communicating. Talking with friends is what it is to be human. It sets us apart from animals. There are topics, however, that conjure uncomfortable feelings. When someone suggests that something you said or did was wrong or hurt their feelings: That is hard to hear.
There is a virus that has infected America for a long time, and it is called racism. Much like the Coronavirus, racism is sometimes hard to see. In fact, it can even lie dormant for years, only to rear its ugly head when instigated. For some people racism is a malignant tumor that spreads and eats away at the person’s soul. Other people can have a benign tumor of racism that appears harmless, but could become cancerous. To be called racist is to be diagnosed diseased and dangerous (Chapter 16 of “So you want to talk about race?” by Ijeoma Oluo).
There is no doubt that racism is responsible for unimaginable harm in America. This virus has infected nearly every inch of our soil. To assume the title of racist makes one responsible for this harm. This is very uncomfortable. I felt very uncomfortable reading portions of Ijeoma Oluo’s book. It will be uncomfortable for many to Talk About Race. When I bring up race in conversation, it seems like I just started a coughing fit.
Talking might be the most common and comfortable way to communicate, but the topic of race feels toxic at times. As a white male, I don’t think that I am the most appropriate spokesperson for beginning a race conversation, but I don’t want to just stand there while the whole country is coughing up a lung.
Therefore, I am inviting educators, Americans, and people everywhere to swallow down that uncomfortable feeling and open up about race. I have posted a few tweets using the hashtag #TalkAboutRaceEdu in order to start the conversation. I am using the book, “So you want to talk about race?” by Ijeoma Oluo as a guide. I listened to the audiobook and loved Oluo’s honesty and humor. She is blunt at times and tells it as it is. Now, I am rereading the text and presenting some questions. I hope that you will join the conversation.
Who knows? Perhaps through Talking About Race we will develop a vaccine that will eventually curb racism. One can only hope.
Final note: When you witness someone coughing up racist remarks, use caution. They may have been unwittingly infected, and need treatment. You aren’t a doctor. Wear a mask. Stay 6 feet apart. Wash hands. It is also possible that the cougher thinks that racism is a hoax. Know that it isn’t. Good luck, and stay safe.
Bud compares ideas to seeds in “Bud, Not Buddy” (Curtis, 1999, p. 90). The same seed of thought that can inspire awe, entertain, and provide refuge could also be the thing that you smash yourself upon. It could be so all-consuming that it even hurts your relationships with others.
Cassie Beasley (2019) begins the sequel to “Circus Mirandus” with an idea. Her idea swims throughout the story, growing bigger and brighter, while always eluding the reader. Finally, it literally escapes; You actually want it to be realized, but the seed refuses to be planted. It has plenty of water, but no soil. (If you read “The Bootlace Magician,” you will know exactly what I am getting at!)
Claudia “From the Mixed Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler” (Konigsburg, 2007, p. 1), originally published in 1967 and winner of the ’68 Newbery Award, had an elegant idea to escape her prepubescent plight of indifferent unappreciation by running away to the most plush place she could think of.
I had an idea.
Escape through escape. Stuck at home, we are all feeling the pull, the desire, the need to escape our physical isolation.
One of the best ways to at least feel like you are getting away is by getting lost in a good book. And, what better way to lose one’s self than by identifying so much with a character or scenario that you feel like you are participating in the story?
I have three books for you. I am calling them Escape Novels. Two of them are Newbery Award winners, and the third has won multiple other awards. This idea of escaping through reading about escaping is geared toward middle school-age kids, but I am loving rereading these texts, myself, and I am far from ten or eleven!
“Bud, Not Buddy” by Christopher Paul Curtis (1999)
“From the Mixed Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler” by E. L. Konigsburg (2007)
“Refugee” by Alan Gratz (2019)
I chose “Bud, Not Buddy” (Curtis, 1999), winner of the 2000 Newbery Award, for its historical picture of a time the country hoped to escape, The Great Depression. The text shares some scary similarities to what America is experiencing right now. Millions of Americans have lost their jobs. Layoffs are lengthening. Continued closure of companies threatens. And, racial disparity is being ignored (Kaur, 2020).
Chapter 6 finds Bud, a 10 year old parentless black boy, in line to get breakfast from a mission (Curtis, 1999, p. 49). The line of African Americans was quiet, until it was faced with faces and words smacking of white privilege. The first image of the following slideshow displays this horror. The slideshow is a great tool for gaining background knowledge about the Great Depression.
It showed a gigantic picture of a family of four rich white people sitting in a car driving somewhere. You could tell it was a family ’cause they all looked exactly alike. The only difference amongst them was that the daddy had a big head and a hat and the momma had the same head with a woman’s hat and the girl had two big yellow pigtails coming out from above her ears. They all had big shiny teeth and big shiny eyes and big shiny cheeks and gig shiny smiles. Shucks, you’d need to squint your eyes if that shiny family drove anywhere near you.
You could tell they were rich ’cause the car looked like it had room for eight or nine more people in it and ’cause they had movie star clothes on. The woman was wearing a coat with a hunk of fur around the neck and the man was wearing a suit and a ties and the kids looked like they were wearing ten-dollar apiece jackets.
Through using the first person point of view Christopher Paul Curtis helps white kids know a new perspective. When Bud witnesses Lefty Lewis get out of his car for the first time, he tells of his putting on a “black hat like the kind the police or some army men wear. But all the cops I’d ever seen were white, so I knew this guy must be a soldier” (Curtis, 1999, p. 98). Curtis doesn’t shy from the topic of race throughout this book. Here you have an African American boy assuming a man to be a soldier because of the type of hat he was wearing. Was it possible he could have been a police officer?
As it turns out, No. Not only is that concept completely naive, but dangerously biased. I like to try to keep as even a playing field in my mind as possible, but it only takes two seconds of research to find out about the Black Legion, a white supremacist group that was credited for killing at least 50 people in 1936! Curtis keeps his book kid-safe, but 1936 was a scary time for black people in Michigan. When Lefty Lewis finds Bud walking on the side of the road between Flint and Owosso, Michigan at 2:30 in the morning, Curtis (1999) has him explain to Bud,
Bud-Not-Buddy, you don’t know how lucky you are I came through here, some of these Owosso folks used to have a sign hanging along here that said, and I’m going to clean up the language for you, it said, “To Our Negro Friends Who Are Passing Through, Kindly Don’t Let the Sun Set on Your Rear End in Owosso!” (p. 105)
I am a 45 year old white male, having grown up in New England; How ignorant and stupid do I feel, learning that this Black Legion group famously killed Charles Poole, the leader of the Works Progress Administration, the very group that Lefty Lewis was helping in “Bud, Not Buddy?” (Curtis, 1999, p. 138). Chapter 12 has Lefty Lewis keeping his cool, when being pulled over by the police. Unbeknownst to Bud, Lewis has a box of fliers advertising a meeting of railroad workers in his car. These papers are exactly what the police officer was looking for!
As a side-side note, here; I am just now, having read this book many times, figuring out that this box of fliers is most certainly the very same box that had been in the back seat of Lewis’s car the night before, and had written on the side of it, “URGENT: CONTAINS HUMAN BLOOD” (Curtis, 1999, p. 106). This message had caused Bud to lose his mind, when he read it! Lewis had explained to Bud that he was delivering the blood to a hospital. I’d always figured Curtis had Lewis multitasking; Picking up a copying order, while dropping off medical supplies. His transfusion of blood wasn’t to one person or one hospital. He was transferring a message, help to all working people during the Great Depression!
After reading about “Bud, Not Buddy” (Curtis, 1999), one might feel like Claudia “From the Mixed Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler” (Konigsburg, 2007) is a spoiled white brat. She isn’t. Before I get into explaining that statement, let me end my discussion of “Bud, Not Buddy.” Christopher Paul Curtis performs magic throughout this tale of a young parentless black boy growing up in the most depressing era, territory, and scenario in America’s history. It is said that people can’t be sad when dancing, and that is one of the reasons jazz music was so popular during the Depression. “Bud, Not Buddy” doesn’t just tell of jazz musicians; It’s prose and story IS jazz literature.
The steady swinging rhythm of Bud checking the contents of his suitcase…
A sax solo of Deza Malone’s dimpled kiss…
The brassy crackling of a fire consuming Hooverville…
Lefty Lewis fooling with the electric guitar…
All the while the hope of old Herman E. Calloway’s parentage thumbs the spinal cord of the blues bass line throughout the whole story.
The reader is left with the sweet sadness of the jazz tune never played but heard everywhere, “My Eyes Don’t Cry No More” (p. 159).
The character Bud has something important in common with Claudia, though. Both kids are attempting to escape their past, and in doing so they are finding themselves. Through this stay at home experience there have been times I wonder how my daughter Scarlet will look back at this time of her childhood. Claudia was unhappy with how she was treated at home. It is hard to imagine Bud being treated any worse than having a pencil shoved up his nose, confined to sleep in a haunted, hornet-infested shed, and parentless. It is true that Claudia did not have it nearly as bad as Bud, but in her world, she was being mistreated (Konigsburg, 2007, p. 2).
While her peers had full time maids, she was required to make, not only her own bed, but help take care of her baby brother. What was she growing up to become? During the Coronavirus pandemic, everyone is keeping themselves and others safe by not going outside. What are we preserving ourselves for? What will we do with ourselves when we are allowed out and can freely socialize with one another? Who will we be? The country seems to be bubbling with a frustration of being locked up to rot. Claudia wasn’t going to let herself be turned into a passive tool of her parents; Someone to help raise her three younger brothers and keep dust from accumulating on the marble mantle of her Greenwich, Connecticut home.
More than Claudia running away from her life, she made one for herself. I chose this book in my trio of Escape Novels because it represents the unknown of what will become of all of us. America is rich. Americans, however, are as powerless as the Kincaid children, Claudia and Jamie. In the same way that Claudia decided to stay in the most elegant place she could think of, I am suggesting that readers choose the best books to get lost in. Perhaps we will find ourselves through running down the halls of the Metropolitan Museum of Art with Claudia and Jamie. When Elaine Lobl Konigsburg was writing “From the Mixed Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler” (2007) in 1966, she was a stay-at-home mom of three kids, whom she left at the Met for the art to babysit, while she took art lessons in the city (Tolentino, 2007). Was Konigsburg running to something, from something, just running to run, or running the show? Thirty years later, she was to become the only person to ever receive a Newbery Award and Newbery Honor within the same year!
What are you making of yourself during this stay-at-home experience?
I never ran away from home. I never even entertained the idea, outside of a fifteen minute bought of insanity. I did, however, thoroughly enjoy reading about Claudia’s adventure when I was eleven or twelve. Some lessons that I gleaned from the tale then and appreciate now are the idea of self-sufficiency and independence that the kids learn. Claudia’s persistent determination and need for accomplishment in finding out the truth behind the creator of Angel. Lastly, but not finally, I must mention the planning. Claudia’s thorough thoughtfulness should be practiced by all.
Some people can escape into their planning. They can plan to never execute. The planning becomes the action. No event ever takes place; Just the planning. Perhaps Claudia had read Bud’s instruction manual, Rules & Things for Having a Funner Life and Making a Better Liar Out of Yourself, for she seems to have mastered Rule 328: “When You Make Up Your Mind to Do Something, Hurry Up and Do It, If You Wait You Might Talk Yourself Out of What You Wanted in the First Place” (Curtis, 1999, p. 27).
The third Escape Novel I chose was “Refugee” by Alan Gratz (2017). I already wrote about this in a review of the novel. This book made my list of Escape Novels because the characters of the book are trapped in so many ways. Reading about their situations and empathizing with their plights will free young minds of the biases that entrap so many xenophobic, racist adults. The reader of “Refugee” experiences the same thing Bud did when he was trying to figure out whether he belonged in the cardboard city of Flint, Michigan’s Hooverville (Curtis, 1999, p. 67). Bud looked around the place and saw all different kinds of people. He saw various body shapes, both sexes, and all ages.
They were all the colors you could think of, black, white and brown, but the fire made everyone look like they were different shades of orange. There were dark orange folks sitting next to medium orange folks sitting nest to light orange folks.
“All these people,” the mouth organ man said, “are just like you, they’re tired, hungry and a little bit nervous about tomorrow. This here is the right place for y’all to be ’cause we’re all in the same boat. And you boys are nearer to home than you’ll ever get.”