What a Night

This evening, my girl, L, and I went to see "The Help" at the local theater.  I had been looking forward to seeing the movie ever since devouring the book this past summer.  It was a fantastic film, despite some changes, and I am determined to read the book again A.S.A.P. 

We laughed and cried.  I had some tissue in my pocked, but it wasn't nearly enough to cover the tears, so I simply let them roll down my face before using my jacket sleeve to mop them up.  My girl was sniffling right beside me.

We left the theater around 9:15 and were traveling down the mostly dark Mission Avenue, when we passed a dead Labrador in the middle of the street.  We were instantly saddened again, and decided to pull around to see if it had any identification.  With my little flashlight in hand, we made our way over to the dog, who had a broken neck and was a bloody mess.  Already emotionally fragile from the film, outraged at whoever just left  the dog in the road after killing it was compounded by the heedless drivers who drove past us without slowing.  We were both almost hit.  Multiple times.  I have to say, we didn't use our pretty language as we told them to SLOW DOWN!  L got the collar off, but there were no id tags.  She placed it on a nearby mailbox and as we contemplated what to do, two more cars pulled over.  Turns out, these folks had also been to see the film and had pulled over after seeing a dead white dog on the side of the road.  Two dead dogs.  L ran over.  Same story.  Collar but no tags.  A few more cars pulled over, and even though there were multiple people in the street, with blinking emergency lights and flashlights, the cars just kept barrelling by.  The dog in the middle of the street was miraculously not hit again, right in front of us. 

A teenage girl came running down the driveway and asked what had happened.  I told her there were two dead dogs.  She said they were hers, that they had been out looking for them.  Oh, heartache.  She was crying and I was crying, hugging her.  Her dad came running out and he was very distraught as well. 

One of the bystanders offered to help him move the dogs, but he pulled the black one by himself to the side.  He went and got his truck and the two men picked up both dogs and set them inside.  The girl said she had to go home to tell her sister.  The dad was crying very hard by the time his task was completed, hugged us both and thanked us numerous times.  Seems he and his family had just moved to this house, which explained why the dogs didn't have tags yet.

The whole night was surreal.  I am emotionally drained.  It's almost midnight and I have chores to do, lunches to make, and need to be at work with my son by 7:30 a.m., but I am wired.  I shot off a letter to the editor of my local newspaper, imploring my fellow townspeople to be considerate of people in their times of need.  My heart hurts for the family that just lost their animals.  I was very happy to come home to my own two waggy-tailed pups.  Goodnight and thanks for listening.

These Times, They are A-Changin . . . for the Better . . .

             I love when books I am reading magically intersect each other. 

Both The Memory Keeper's Daughter (by Kim Edwards) and The Help (by Kathryn Stockett) deal with separation and inequality in the American '60's. 

"The Memory Keeper" refers to Dr. David Henry, a doctor, who is forced to attend to his pregnant wife's delivery when a snowstorm prohibits his way to the hospital.  His son, Paul, is perfectly healthy, but his daughter, Pheobe, has Down syndrome.  Stunned by this reality, David is forced to recollect his own sister, who died at age 12 from a heart problem, breaking the spirit of their mother.  To save his wife the grief of a retarded child, he asks the attending nurse to take the baby to a nearby home for the mentally disabled. When his wife, Norah, awakens, he tells her that the baby has died. 

The nurse's name is Caroline, and after seeing the facility, decides she cannot leave the newborn there.  She takes the baby home instead.  When she sees the infant's death announcement in the newspaper, she decides to raise Phoebe as her own and moves to Pittsburgh. 

Raising a child with Down syndrome in the 60's is no easy feat.  After rushing a the child to the emergency room when a bee sting proves almost fatal, the attending nurse asks Caroline if she is sure she wants to save her. 

In The Help, close-mindedness is rampant on an even larger scale.  While it is perfectly acceptable for a black woman to be employed in a white person's home, cooking for them and raising their children on a day-to-day basis, it is considered unhealthy for them to use the same toilet as the white family.  They must not use the same silver or glassware.  They are expected to use the back door.

But not everyone is content to let these inequalities go without question.  Eugenia Phelan, commonly known as "Skeeter" for her tall, skinny frame, is home from college without a wedding ring on her hand and a fierce desire to write.  She lands a job answering domestic questions for the local paper.  Being a rich socialite, she has no idea how to address such issues as sink stains and bitter coffee.  She decides to ask someone who would know.  Aibileen is the maid of her best friend, Hilly.  Aibileen grudgingly gives her the answers and when she shares that her son, who has recently died, was interested in writing a book about being black in Jackson, Mississippi, Skeeter decides to take a great risk and run with the idea.  She secretly interviews maids about their lives and what it is like to work for the white ladies of the town.  Some of the stories are decent, but a lot of them are not.  Risking their lives, one by one, the maids offer their stories and Skeeter types them up, hoping to impress a New York editor with her book idea. 

Both of these books caused me to shake my head and feel an aching heart at what so many people have gone through because of being different.  While 2011 is far from a Utopian society, I am very grateful that I can have a house full of mixed-race friends and not think anything about it.  When I was a child, I was uncomfortable being around people with mental disabilities.  Having a family member who is affected, as well as working in the public, has helped me to grow up and out of these prejudices.

In The Memory Keeper's Daughter, I had to wait over 300 pages for Norah to discover that the daughter that she has never stopped grieving for was not dead after all.  It was worth the wait.  The prose are beautiful and the character development over a span of 25 years is wonderful and insightful.

The Help is by far the best book I have read this summer.  When I posted on Facebook how much I loved it, a friend mentioned that when her mother started reading it to her grandmother, the grandmother became angry; citing, "we never treated our help that way!".  Hopefully not.  I know there are a lot of decent people who understand that all are created equal.  Unfortunately, I also see the opposite on a daily basis. 

Pick up either or both of these books.  They are worth your time.  Thanks for listening.