Barbara Beckwith

I couldn’t put it down: Hartford’s memoir is largely about his four years as a white CORE “foot soldier” in the Black Freedom movement in Alabama and Mississippi. He describes beatings and death threats but makes clear the far greater and life-long risks facing Black people who protested. marched, tried to register to vote, or simply opened their home to him. He describes how many county sheriff’s got paid for every arrest, court document, prison transfer – plus a share of criminal and traffic fines – which sounds like Ferguson (Dept of Justice found the city’s coffers depended on unjustified, ever escalating fines). Being part of organizing that resulted in 20% of voting age Crenshaw County citizens attempting to register and 101 of the 462 managing to do so, is impressive. He conveys the CORE culture (“no praise, compliments, affirmations, acknowledgements, and “touchy feel” human relations simply weren’t part of our task-oriented organizational culture”). His memoir is infused with both humor and realism: it ends with “no social struggle EVER succeeds as much as the participant want or hope, but doing the best you can in the situation you face is how progress is made, however slow and frustrating that may be.” His perspective: “My part was small but it was a part nonetheless in a story that would, and does, echo down the generations.”

Bringing up Boys Not to Be “Men”

I’m sharing my still relevant 1980s article in Sojourner: The Women’s Journal, although I’m now aware that I interviewed only white women, leaving out important voices.

“Ha ha, I’m a boy,” Molly Lovelock is sure her son Timothy cried out on the day of his birth.

It can feel ironic for your child to be a boy, if you are also a feminist. Especially if it took ten years, as it took Lovelock, to decide to have children “because I had to get over the idea that I might have a boy.”

She did decide and he was a boy.

What is it like, being a feminist and the mother of a son? To spend half your energy fighting male dominated institutions and the other half nurturing a man-to be? “Can you be sure he won’t grow up to be a macho male? […]

Apology to my Husband re: his racial justice activism

In the final session of the White People Challenging Racism workshop I co-lead, I shared my appreciation for a couple who attended together and could support each other in carrying out the action plans they co-created and committed to.

To heighten my appreciation, I added: “I’ve been co-leading this workshop since 2001 and I can’t even get my husband to take it!” My flourish got a good laugh. But I’d embarrassed myself, knowing that I’d dissed my husband simply for effect. So I sent the participants a mea culpa, since the truth is that my husband, Jon, has been a racial justice activist in every sphere of his life for many years.

His racism awareness dates back to the 1960s, when he worked as a researcher at Paris’ Pasteur Institute. At the time, he also hung around Paris cafes and jazz clubs. By developing friendships with expatriate African American writers and musicians, he came to understand their political concerns. When we returned to the U.S., especially after the 1968 assassinations of Martin Luther King Jr. and Malcolm X, Jon became engaged in issues of racial discrimination.

As a molecular biologist (PhD, not medical doctor) at Harvard Medical School, he fought with others to increase black admissions to Harvard Medical School. Later, when his department head opposed the recruitment drive, declaring that African Americans were unqualified and “a danger to patients,” Jon and other faculty members successfully pressured the dean to replace the man. Dr. Harold Amos then became the med school’s first African American department chair. […]

Welcome to my blog, which I use as a website, not for daily blog entries, which are not my style. I prefer conversation in person or via the printed word. Everyday Racism: Questions & Quandaries, my third collection of personal essays pondering everyday racism (including my own) is now in print. The racial justice publisher Crandall, Dostie and Douglass Books will distribute it starting this fall. Check out www.cddbooks.com for their full list of books including my two earlier booklets in what has turned into a What Was I Thinking? series. Or contact me at (BeckwithB@aol.com).

The characters in Sue Katz’ Lillian’s Last Affair and Other Stories, may be 65+ in age, but after reading these six stories (www.suekatz.com), you’ll never again assume that you know what a “little old lady” is thinking or doing. These fictional characters face challenges anyone may encounter, from gold-digging lotharios to neighbors who block shared hallways, plus challenges that mostly come with age: ingrown toenails, chemo, widowhood, arthritis, Meals on Wheels, and grandchildren you’re expected to devote yourself to, but which one character sees “small people trying to climb up and colonize her.” Katz’s characters are also always aware of class: from how easy it can be for a rich woman to divorce a boring husband, to sympathy for the tough job of a driver given a lousy van to transport seniors. These women aren’t simple-minded: as one says, “Life never gives you a chance to feel one pure emotion at a time.” One character’s annoyance at her partner’s habits vies with distaste or her own petty irritation. They may say “please” but think fuck you” when those in power patronize or ignore them. They value honesty (“there was plenty of chatter, mind you, just no candor”) and are not above engaging in power games. They also often encounter unexpected lust: one gets “shivery and hot” at a mere pat on the hand. Being from a generation that rarely talk about experiences involving their “privates,” they can be surprised by who and what turns them on. The six stories manage to cover a variety of sexual proclivities, and the sexual scenes are wonderfully elliptical (“he zeroed straight to the most sensitive crevices”) Sue Katz, as a seniors dance and exercise teacher, knows what seniors are capable of, and lets it all hang out in these six delicious stories.