On April 14, 1935, a cold front blew a massive wall of dust south through Kansas, Oklahoma, and Texas. The churning blackness towered hundreds of feet above the barren plain. It raced at fifty or sixty miles per hour. A journalist trying to outrun the storm drove with his car door open to see the edge of the road. In an article the next day, he coined the term “Dust Bowl.”
The Black Sunday storm was the worst of several in the Dust Bowl decade, caused by overgrazing and overcropping that left nothing to hold the soil. Millions left the region as farming became impossible. The experiences of people uprooted by the Dust Bowl inspired countless novels for adults, from Grapes of Wrath (John Steinbeck, 1939) to West with Giraffes (Lynda Rutledge, 2021). Reading Blue Willow (Doris Gates, 1940) was a significant influence in my childhood. It tells of migrant farm workers in California: Dust Bowl refugees Janey Larkin and her parents from Texas, and Janey’s friend Lupe Romero from Mexico. Written by a librarian who worked with migrant children in Fresno, the book drew criticism from some who disapproved of stark realism in stories for children. Unaware of any controversy, I was utterly fascinated and engaged. Like books set long ago or far away, Blue Willow fed my lifelong curiosity about lives very different from my own. It introduced me to children in my own country, in more or less my own time, with lives every bit as unfamiliar. I’d seen Appalachian poverty and outmigration to industrial cities like Akron or Baltimore, but migrant farm labor was a whole new world to me. The Dust Bowl added another piece to the puzzles I’ve been assembling ever since. Image: The Black Sunday dust storm approaching Spearman, Texas on 04/14/1935. The National Archives.
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Representatives and direct Taxes shall be apportioned among the several States which may be included within this Union, according to their respective Numbers, which shall be determined by adding to the whole Number of free Persons, including those bound to Service for a Term of Years, and excluding Indians not taxed, three fifths of all other Persons.
- United States Constitution, Article 1, Section 2 “All other Persons” meant slaves. Three-fifths of a person! The Framers built racism into our very Constitution by declaring anyone who is enslaved to be less than fully human! As we often hear, the very idea is demeaning. It may seem counter-intuitive that proponents of slavery wanted to count enslaved and free persons equally, while anti-slavery delegates would rather have reduced three-fifths to zero. The negotiators of the Three-Fifths Compromise weren’t as interested in the very idea as in practical results. Including the whole number of slaves would increase the voting power of slave states in Congress and in presidential elections. Omitting them altogether would weaken it. Condoning slavery at all was of course racist and demeaning, as were some comments made during the debate. That said, if you were voting in 1787 but with your present values, what fraction of a person would you have voted to count someone who was enslaved? Image: Junius Brutus Stearns, Washington as Statesman at the Constitutional Convention, 1856. Virginia Museum of Fine Arts. One day long, long ago, when I was a summer camp counselor for a cabin of junior-high-aged girls, my campers short-sheeted my bed. This classic practical joke involves making a bed with one sheet doubled back so the occupant can’t straighten her legs. When I climbed under the covers and got trapped in the sheet, I burst out laughing. I’d once been a camper myself.
One reason their trick was fun for us all was that the girls knew me well enough to know I’d enjoy it. One person’s friendly tease is another person’s harassment. “Can’t you take a joke?” is right up there with “You’re in denial” on my list of obnoxious things to say; to disagree just proves the speaker’s point. “Just kidding” claims a free pass for anything, however offensive. It frames pushback as humorless literalism. Nothing against healthy laughter, friends. But unhealthy laughter is becoming more dangerous as traditional norms of civility break down. Actual beliefs or intentions masquerade as jokes. Mockery is dehumanizing. April 1 is a day for innocent fun. Words and deeds that aren’t innocent don’t become so by calling them jokes. Image: George Vasey, The Philosophy of Laughter and Smiling (1875). Vasey considered roaring with laughter a vice of the depraved, dissipated, and criminal. Happy New Year! In medieval Europe, the Christian era (and each year within it) began the day the Angel Gabriel told Mary she would become pregnant: March 25, Lady Day, exactly nine months before Christmas. Split between two years, March counted as the first month on the Julian calendar then in use. That made September, October, November, and December months seven through ten, or septem, octo, novem, and decem in Latin.
A slight miscalculation of leap years gradually threw that calendar out of sync with nature and the sun. By 1582, it was ten days off. That year Pope Gregory reset the calendar to scrap the ten extra days, start the year on Jan. 1, and fine-tune the leap year formula. Human nature and politics haven’t changed much. Then as now, anything my rival or enemy proposes, I must reject. While Roman Catholic countries promptly adopted the Gregorian calendar, Protestant nations decried it as popish. Britain and its colonies kept the archaic one until 1752. March 25 remained the legal first day of the year, while some began to greet the new year informally in January. Imagine historians interpreting English sources from the 1600s. Was a letter dated March 10, 1668, written before or after one dated November of that year? The ten- or later eleven-day difference between England and most of the Continent muddied diplomatic correspondence. Imagine George Washington revising his date of birth from Feb. 11, 1731, under Britain’s old calendar to Feb. 22, 1732, under the new one. He celebrated both birthdays to the end of his life. Image: Johannes Von Gmunden, calendar, 1496. I’m home from vacation and down with a cold. The laundry is washed and the mail sorted. Now I want to do nothing but read and sleep until the sniffles dry up.
Do you ever wonder how hard to push yourself? Grit involves the self-discipline to persevere now for future success. Delayed gratification is about putting off a pleasure now for the sake of a larger reward later. Skip that cake if you’ve started a diet. On the other hand, consider the workaholic business executive saving up toward a peaceful retirement of fishing and hiking. Why not fish and hike more now and retire with adequate but modest savings? Surely it depends on the person, the situation, and the day. Too much stress is bad for blood pressure and the heart. Too little stress gets nothing done. I try to think “choose to” instead of “have to.” I’m happier with clean clothes and a clear desk, but I choose to wash dishes by hand rather than replace the broken dishwasher until I have more energy. How do you decide how hard to push? Cool ocean breeze. Sun warm on the face. Roar of crashing waves. Pacific Beach in San Diego is a feast for the senses even when I close my eyes.
Last time I visited this city, I loved the stimulation of exploring a different tourist site each day. This time my travel companion and I rarely ventured more than a block from the beach. Watching her frolic in the sand as she did long ago, growing up by Lake Michigan, I realized vacations aren’t just about novelty. They’re also about ways new discovery intertwines with the deep comfort of the familiar. To revisit happy childhood memories warms the spirit. To start and end a vacation day with rituals from home sets a framework for the excitement in between. To re-enter an eatery I first tried yesterday begins to feel like home today when the server welcomes me back. I’m learning to appreciate both the adventure and the comfort, and the ways each enriches the other. English gives lefties a bad name. The word sinister (evil) comes from Latin meaning “on the left side.” Gauche (awkward, tactless) is from French for “left.” The word left itself appears to derive from an Old English form meaning “weak or foolish.” It’s unkind to give a left-handed compliment, complain that a dancer has two left feet, or denounce an idea as out of left field.
As for left’s opposite, the Old English root riht meant just, good, or correct. Adroit (clever, skillful) comes from Old French for able, handsome, skilled in combat, or on the right-hand side. Latin dexter (on the right-hand side) gives us dexterity and dexterous, synonymous with adroit. Left-handers no longer get burned for witchcraft, but our words insult them at every turn. They are not alone. Paddy wagons carted drunk and disorderly Irish off to jail. To be gypped was to be swindled by a Rom or “Gypsy.” Hysteria (Greek for “uterus”) was an affliction of women. American Indians lost their homeland to white settlers circling the wagons and holding down the fort. World War I veterans might bristle at the use of basket case for stressed-out folks who never lost limbs in battle. Which of these linguistic connections have faded into history, and which still carry insult or offense? It’s a matter of respect to avoid terms that feed discrimination or negative stereotypes, as experienced by the people affected. Until left-handed people complain of sinister and gauche as derogatory to them, I’ll probably go on using both. Image: Prehistoric wall painting in Cueva de las Manos (Cave of the Hands), Argentina. One advantage of cleaning house only occasionally is my housemates’ appreciation when it’s clean. If it were always pristine, no one would notice.
I’ve been watching a lecture series on particle physics for non-physicists. Segments involve relativity, which I struggle to grasp beyond the Newtonian basics. Relative to my house I’m sitting still at the computer, but relative to the sun I’m hurtling through space. My head is the same height relative to my feet, whether I stand on a creek bed or a mountaintop. Compared to other people’s suffering, my troubles are trivial. Can relativistic thinking ease my anxiety or grief? Not always. My peace shouldn’t depend on someone else’s pain. Sorrow isn’t a competition. Thinking I shouldn’t hurt, just because others hurt more, adds shame for feeling what I feel. Worse yet, telling people “Count your blessings” or “Others have it worse” trivializes their emotions. Yet in stressful times, when I acknowledge the stress and do what needs doing, one type of comparison keeps me going: then and now. I recall a long-ago time of feeling utterly helpless and alone. The point is not that I’ve been through worse, but that I’ve come through worse. I survived in the past; I can survive again. I’ll be all right, relatively speaking. Image: Cube of theoretical physics, drawn by CMG Lee. The refrigerator died. All the perishables that hadn’t already perished moved onto the wintry porch. The furnace went on the fritz. All our lap rugs and a space heater came into the living room. With fridge failing to cool and furnace failing to heat, I wished we could average the two for perfect comfort.
Even in the midst of trials and tribulations, I know the difference between crises of the present and those that matter in the long run. In my experience, a graph of personal troubles would not resemble a straight line or a bell-shaped curve so much as a two-humped camel. One hump includes missed flights, malfunctioning appliances, and troublesome calendar conflicts. They drive me to tears and then fade into memory. The other hump includes losses and traumas that change a life forever. They sink into the bones and may resurface years later, out of the blue. “How are you?” is a more complicated question than it sounds. For me, how I’m doing operates on two levels that don’t always match. The mood of the moment overlies a separate baseline for the year or the season. In a season of grief, I have sometimes—not always—laughed at a good romantic comedy. In a tranquil time of life like the present, losing the use of a refrigerator and a furnace in the same week stresses me out. No point fighting it. We feel what we feel. Below the stress, though, I try to remember that this too shall pass. Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp,
Or what's a heaven for? - Robert Browning, “Andrea del Sarto” Or a woman’s reach. What Barbie left me mulling has less to do with feminism or patriarchy than whether expectations of perfection boost or squash self-esteem. As a schoolgirl I brought home the happy news that I could be anything I wanted. My spoilsport father said it wasn’t true. Alas, he was right. Spectacular achievements take not only grit but some innate skill and some degree of luck. Not everyone who aspires to be an astronaut, a U.S. president, or an Olympic athlete will become one, no matter how hard she strives. Will she feel like a failure, as I did after an unsuccessful job search, or will role-playing with those Barbies inspire a healthy interest in science, politics, or sports? Some say perfection is excellence taken even further. I’d suggest the opposite. Perfectionism promotes limits. Don’t try new things you may do poorly. Stay within the safety of the known. Pursuit of excellence, on the other hand, opens a world of possibilities. Some will work out; others won’t. You win some; you lose some. Adventure. Explore. Ask questions. Admit your mistakes. You may not reach Mars or the Olympics, but you may discover places you never dreamed of—and have fun along the way. Photo: My grandmother’s, my mother’s, and my best dolls represented neither babies nor fashion models but girls a little older than ourselves. |
AuthorI'm a historian who writes novels and literary nonfiction. My home base is Madison, Wisconsin. Archives
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