musings

Colorful Language

/ J. Thorp / 2 Comments

Blogger’s Note: My friend, children’s author Jacqui Robbins (yes, the Jacqui Robbins, and don’t act so surprised!) posted this little gem, which got me thinking about when my own kids began to notice differences in people.

Let me say up front: racism is a real problem in the world. As a result, we have complex reactions to race — we notice differences between people quite naturally, and then (especially as adults) we sometimes overcompensate for our reactions. We react so strongly at times that we can confuse our children by overthinking it. This is how I remember one early incident.

Several years ago, Jodi and I took the older boys to a high-school basketball game. Brendan and Gabe were preschoolers, and we were seated in the crowded home bleachers. The visiting team was from a nearby city, and had players “of multiple ethnicities” on the floor. All one of the starters on the home team, the Warriors, were white — and when that one minority player hit a nice jump shot early in the game, the crowd cheered wildly.

“Who made a basket?” asked Brendan.

“Number five,” I said. “Do you see him?”

Brendan went down the steps a ways to get a better look at the scrambling players. “You mean the brown one?” he called back.

The crowd around us matched the makeup of the starting five: Mostly white, except one family seated across the aisle from us. Jodi and I glanced at them in sudden embarrassment. They didn’t seem to have heard.

“There he is,” I said, pointing. “Number five!”

Brendan craned his neck, then looked back at me. “The brown one!” he said. “That’s what I said!”

“I wanna see th’ brown one!” yelled Gabe.

“Listen,” I rasped as Jodi glanced across the aisle. “His name is Charlie. You guys can cheer for him by name. Cheer for Charlie.”

They did, and after a while, the family across the aisle noticed and smiled proudly. And I started to think: The boys didn’t mean anything by it; they’re just kids, pointing out the most obvious distinguishing characteristic. I laughed at myself. To think that I was worried about a color…

The cheer squad chanted, “Here we go, Warriors, here we go!”

“Let’s go, Warriors!” I shouted, and Bren repeated, “Let’s go, Warriors!”

“Who is ‘Warriors’?” asked Gabe.

“That’s the team we want to win,” said Bren. “The ones in white.”

The other team was pressing hard. “Let’s go, Warriors!” yelled Brendan.

“Yeah,” said Gabe. “Let’s go, whites!”

We All Have a Role to Play

/ J. Thorp / 2 Comments

I was a 105-lb. third-string safety on our freshman football squad in high school — scrawny, slow, with a size-8 head that made me cast a shadow like a keyhole. I got to rotate in and out with two other skinny little guys at the end of lopsided games. I didn’t play much.

Last game of the season, we were playing our hated rivals, Reed City. They had a great freshman squad, and by the end of the first half, we were down 60-0. At half time, coach told the starters, “Well, guys, we’re gonna give the rest of the boys some playing time.” We went back out, and me and the other little guys started our three-man rotation at safety, switching out every few plays.

I was on the sidelines when a stocky third-stringer who was in at noseguard, came off the field looking shell-shocked. “Coach!” he panted. “You gotta get me out of there! I’m getting killed!”

I didn’t think about being 105 pounds of pencil lead. I said, “Coach, I’ll go in at noseguard!”

Coach shrugged. “Alright, Thorp! Stay low and plug a hole!”

I crouched at the line in front of a second-string linebacker half again bigger than me. “Thorp!” he yelled. “What are you doing?!”

Too late to answer. On the snap, I scrambled forward on all fours, looked up, and saw a black jersey and the ball. I jumped on it.

My first sack — heck, my first tackle of the year! They had to check the roster to announce my name. The backups gave up just 12 points in the second half. (Admittedly, Reed City sat its starters, too…) I played defensive line the rest of my high school career. Never started, but I never forgot, either…

Stay low and plug a hole. Words to live by.

Homer, or Three Things to Love About The Odyssey

/ J. Thorp / 4 Comments

Blogger’s Note: Two long summers (and two even longer winters) ago, I agreed to my friend Jacqui’s challenge to read 15 Classics in 15 Weeks. I’ve wandered far and been adrift much longer than 15 weeks, but I have persisted — a bit like Greek hero Odysseus.

As darkness fell, the ancient tale well-told, he
Closed the book and to his chambers retired.
Beneath a warming mantle he pondered long
In his mind how best to share his far-flung
Thoughts with his godly companions who would
Soon join him online, until at last the bright-eyed
Goddess shed sweet slumber upon his sacred brow.
And there he slept throughout the ambrosial night.

And when the early-born, rosy-finger dawn smiled
Sweetly upon him, warming him awake with golden
Light, he rose and girded himself in cotton trousers,
Blue and well-riveted, and a shirt, tee in form, all
One bright green. Upon his contrary-minded legs
He made his way, duck-like, to the cold-floored
Hall in which great feasts were held. No servants
Found therein, he shed a well-hid tear at cruel
Misfortune, then with skilled fingers fumbled not
The filters nor the beans, but sought to brew
Strong coffee, and he did. The bitter black elixir
Fast consumed, he brightened, and his newly-wakened
Mind sent wingéd words from fingertip to keyboard.
The much-distracted Thorp, so slow to read, thought
Well, and quickly wrote and shared these words:

With no further ado, Three Things to Love About The Odyssey:

  • Manly Men Showing Emotion. These ancient Greek heroes were a heart-on-their-sleeves (or togas) lot, weeping, kissing, raging, and pleading with the gods. Bloody, violent, aggressive; romantic, generous, gentle. What’s not to love?
  • Oft-Hyphenated Modifiers and Superlatives. Godly Odysseus, whose father was like a god to the people, and whose own son was in form like the immortals, rises each day at the first appearance of the early-born, rosy-fingered dawn, straps fine sandals to his shining feet, grabs his double-edged sword of pitiless bronze, and … well, you get the idea.
  • Well Versed in Verse. The particular translation I picked up at the used book store is The Odyssey of Homer: A New Verse Translation by Albert Cook (W.W. Norton and Company, Inc., New York, 1967). I was looking for a verse translation, which seem to be difficult to come by. A bookstore clerk once asked why. I said because it was written as poetry. (Might as well have said, “It’s the ancient Geek in me.”) Anyway, what caught my eye was not only the fact that this was a verse translation, but the notes on the back say, “[Cook’s translation] is distinguished by its adherence to one simple principle: to reflect faithfully what Homer’s Greek says. To achieve this end, Mr. Cook has produced a translation that follows the original line for line — even to the preservation of important key phrases at the beginnings of the lines.” It’s true there is much repetition of phrases and descriptions, but it they almost read as sight words in the end; the reading moves swiftly and calls to mind that this was an oral work first and foremost. Well done.

Next up? Joyce’s Ulysses was on tap, but now I’m not sure. I’ll surprise you — hopefully in less than 11 months.

Has This Ever Happened to You?

/ J. Thorp / 3 Comments

Ever see someone a block or so away and say to yourself, “Wow, that looks just like so-and-so.” and then move a bit closer and think, “Maybe it is so-and-so!” and get kind of excited to see this person? And then get closer and say, “Oh. Maybe not.” and then get really close and think, “Eesh! Nope, not so-and-so. Not at all!” and feel bad for ever thinking that person could have been so-and-so? And then feel even worse because of the strong visceral reaction to this stranger you mistakenly thought you knew, when there wasn’t anything at all wrong with them except that they weren’t. so-and-so. at. all.*

Never happened to you?

Oh. Well, I thought I saw you this morning. Maybe I just miss you.

*Like, decades older, frumpy and disheveled. Which so-and-so clearly isn’t.

The Dark Humour

/ J. Thorp / 4 Comments

[Blogger’s Note: This is kind of a dark post. Really did see the two crows today, and heard a story like the latter one once. But where exactly this came from, I don’t know…]

Midwinter morning. Atop a threadbare shrub along a littered suburban artery, two young crows jaw above the din. I speak no Crow, only English, and my windows are rolled against the cold, but I imagine their daring: the double-dog, the triple, the triple-dog, the dark humour hot in the veins of each, the guffaws and squawk of chicken! They cheat death daily, these two, walking the yellow lines for bits of salted flesh. It passes the time.

The light goes green; on cue, they darken my windshield, chasing each other with unexpected agility, rolling and climbing alongside the oncoming delivery van, sweeping past truck and traffic to frolic like fighter planes before a rumbling Ford moving too fast for conditions along the service road. They bank and ascend to a high bare branch, laughing breathlessly.

They eat death for dinner, these two. From a far tree two houses over, their mother calls. They flap slowly away.

I think of them now, in the long night. I think of a summer day, and two black-clad bikers crossing the plains, winding through the hills and narrow canyon roads, wind in their hair and devil-may-care, the sun warm on their leathers, the dark humour hot in their veins. They eat danger for breakfast, these two. They take turns riding the yellow lines with their feet on their pegs, boot toes turned outward to the oncoming cars, egging each other closer, closer. They play this game for long miles and hours. It passes the time.

The end was not monotonous. High in the mountains on a narrow switchback, the winner’s toe caught a fender at fifty. His leg turned to jelly. With unexpected velocity he took to the air, rolling and climbing, darkening the windshield of the car behind the one he clipped. He bounced from glass to pavement, pavement to rocky shoulder. Leather did little; flesh did less. Bone met stone and gave way.

The paramedics came and went. The volunteer posse cleaned up as best they could. The dark humour stained the pavement even after the crows paid their respects. From far away, the cries of a mother.