Book review: When People Were Things, by Lisa Waller Rogers

If I could give six stars to this remarkable text, I would. The author has written an engaging, thorough, and minutely researched chronicle of the fight to grant emancipation to the enslaved population in mid nineteenth century America. Full of quoted primary source material in the form of letters, newspaper articles, diaries, and other authentic pieces of history, yet the writing never wavers, is never disparate, and is always coherent, careful, and logically set down in a chronology that reads like fiction but is underscored with truth straight from the pages written by actual participants in the struggle. Gripping and marvelously detailed, the characters become as alive and vibrant as close friends and neighbors, yet authenticity is woven through every narrative, every description, indeed every detail of the story. In this, we can see the lives of everyday people, politicians, journalists, publishers, writers, and others who were affected by the enforced servitude of millions, both Black and white, and how they either rose to the occasion, or absolutely did not, with sometimes complicated and astonishing results. The voices and faces of the enslaved themselves weave in and out among the text, providing important details that have been buried in old newspapers, court cases, and family records, bringing these forgotten individuals to life. And unfortunately, as the book progresses, those who argued against, and even violently fought against emancipation paint a picture that is eerily similar to racist actions and arguments heard today - proving the systemic problem of our democracy still pervades our politics. It’s all too clear that we still haven’t learned these lessons.

Thanks to NetGalley and Barrel Cactus Press for the opportunity to read an advance copy in exchange for an honest review.

Originally posted at NetGalley

Book Review: Burn Down Master’s House, by Clay Cane

From 2005 to early 2014 I lived part-time, sometimes full-time, at the Borough Plantation in Stateburg, South Carolina, two doors up the hill from the home inhabited by the black man who owned nearly the most humans as property in the state of South Carolina, William Ellison and his family. This is one of the black slaveholders upon whom the character of Nathaniel William is based in Burn Down Master’s House. He is someone about whom I heard much.

The position of “Overseer” was still a thing at the Borough, although the job description was markedly different. My late husband, an archaeologist and historian, worked in that capacity and his duties not only included cataloging anything of historical significance found on the 5,000 acre historic site/tree farm/hunt club, but taking care of the grounds, planting gardens for the deer, serving as hunt master, scheduling tree harvests and controlled burns, ensuring the main house, 23 outbuildings, an Olympic-sized swimming pool, and additional homes on the property were maintained and weatherized according to seasonal needs, giving tours, and hiring and managing the various craftspeople and laborers to help with necessary work.

Descendants of enslaved persons were employed there and held in high regard by everyone; whenever they spoke, everyone stopped to listen to what they had to say. Stories and fond memories of Aunt Renda, who was a cook in the early to mid-twentieth century and who lived with her family, including her sister, in the beautiful two-story, four bedroom home known as “Aunt Renda’s” that lies directly adjacent to the main house were often related by the descendants and members of the Anderson family who still lived there and in the neighborhood. Sometimes there were no words - only silent looks, the puff of an indrawn breath, the tight fingers that you would grasp with both hands to try and communicate empathy and some form of apology. As one of the family says, “History is messy. It twists and turns. There are so many questions with no easy answers.”

The Borough is at least as much a monument to the enslaved as it is the home of the family who has lived there since the late 18th century. The Anderson women are consummate curators and record keepers, and many original furnishings and ancient belongings as well as ledgers, trunks, filing cabinets, and letter boxes fill the rooms of several of the buildings: the Library, the doctor’s office (where the first successful surgery to treat cancer of the jaw was performed on an enslaved man); the main home, the “Chicken Coop” which is actually the office but housed poultry in the 19th to early 20th century, the wash-house, the detached kitchen. There are photographs, paintings, journals, memories carefully written down, unfortunately sometimes years after the fact.

Some of these records include documents relating to William Ellison, their former neighbor. He is remembered as “good at the cotton gin but not too nice of a man,” one of those semi-polite euphemisms common in southern speech. His name is spoken in hushed tones. The descendants of enslaved folk do not mention him at all: even though the cemetery where the man and his family are buried lies beside his house at the corner of the entrance to Garners Ferry Road and is a well-known landmark, many people will simply point out the road itself and pretend not to notice the cemetery. They still call his home “Governor Miller’s Home,” or simply “Grainger’s Place,” as the artist Grainger McCoy and his wife live there now and have for many years.

And about that cemetery: its very existence is odd. Members of the Church of Holy Cross, where Ellison attended and is located directly across the road from the Borough’s southern entrance, are both black and white to this day and many, many of them are buried in the church cemetery, which wraps the building on both sides.

But not Ellison, or his family. They had their own burial grounds, down the hill and in the woods. It’s an anomaly, without a reason - questions with no easy answers, indeed.

The life stories upon which this book is based upon likewise highlight many, many questions, but the author’s words are a remarkable effort to answer a lot of them. Mr Cane dives deep into the records of history and brings up songs, breath, love, light, and laughter - along with the terror, the heartbreak, the suffering, and resilience of those who were the property of other human beings. He uses the word “souls” to refer to them, which breathes life into their portrayals. You cannot read the stories in these pages and not hear and see and feel some of the things that they experienced. There is raw emotion, cruel pain, gripping hunger, bleak exhaustion, triumphant joy.

The stories such as are in this book are some of the most important we need to read today in this sad, broken America. Burn Down Master’s House is a terrifying read, but so necessary to be told. It is vital that the truth not be forgotten or brushed aside, and these truths are told in the only way possible: by a descendant. The descendants own the stories. We need to listen. And learn. And validate by recognizing their importance.

My family tree is more of a vine; every branch goes back to colonial Virginia and England, cousins marrying cousins. Today if you’re a white American with nothing else in the DNA you’re by definition inbred. White supremacy is therefore pretty incestuous. Even so, I am the descendant of over 25 people who owned other human beings, and also the descendant of people who fought against the very idea of that ownership. But those stories have all been told, many, many times over. The world doesn’t need more of those stories. We need to know the stories of the souls who resisted, who fled, who died fighting in whatever way they knew. These people deserve restitution and recognition. They, and their descendants, deserve justice.

Their stories matter. Their lives mattered.

The writing in this book is clear, very descriptive, and powerful. Clay Cane is an excellent writer, and the ancestors’ stories are well told. Their experiences are safe in his hands: authentically related, skillfully crafted, meticulously woven into a narrative that does not let the reader go, does not allow the reader to look away or ignore what is being stated. Their voices whisper in your ears, their feet pound a ready earth, their tools - poison, hammer, bellows, fire - blaze forth out of history to surround you in the heat of tragedy, where you must look them in the eye, and recognize their presence.

Thanks to NetGalley, the publisher, and the author for the chance to read this important book in exchange for an honest review. A grateful, thoughtful five stars, humbly written. Thank you.

Book Review: North Country, by Matt Bondurant

Phenomenal read. Matt Bondurant (full disclosure - a wide swath of my family tree lies in Franklin County and includes Bondurants, so he's likely a third or fourth cousin) has taken the torch flung by Ron Rash, Lee Smith, and Charles Frazier, and carried it aloft into the literary stratosphere.

There is a way to write gritty, human-centered prose without the grit and gore overtaking the message, so the reader feels the character's experience without the story becoming lost. It's a delicate balance that can elude even the most accomplished writers. Bondurant brings the reader directly into the tale without losing focus, without the distraction of overly descriptive passages that can derail a carefully constructed momentum. And yet, you feel the cold, slicing wind off the Lake and the enveloping, suffocating shock of frigid water, the subliminal thrill of anticipation, the yearning disturbance of complicated sexual desires; the dearth of hope in the miasma of poverty that strangles some of the neighborhoods near the local prison, and the livid disgust of some of the people who have to live there.

Each chapter limns the world of the small, cold border town of North Chazy from the perspective of one or more of its residents in a way that we know is leading toward something horrifying, and yet we live with each of these people in a way that feels real and authentic and causes the reader to lay bets on who will survive, and who will be indelibly changed by the experience - for good or ill. I especially appreciated the ability of the author to give his characters resilience in the form of empathy or knowledge where one doesn't expect it - as in Phil's self-discovery about his relationship with his baby daughter Juliet, as with the strongman Kaiser's almost obsessive affinity for science, with the sorority women's sisterhood that watches for other women in danger and their neatly orchestrated plan for lifting them gently out of it.

Honestly grateful for the opportunity to read this incredible story, thanks to Netgalley and the publisher in exchange for a review. Five-plus stars, and the hope that Matt Bondurant will keep writing, keep storytelling, keep traveling the route of the human mind and its history, and bring those things to light and life on the page.

Book review: Splendid Liberators

My god, what a history, sorely needed at a time like this.
In carefully, explicitly documented detail, the author lays out the horrifying, inexorable journey the American government took to Imperialist conquest of people who were seen by a white-centric public as lesser, undeserving of equitable freedoms or self-determination and stripping human dignity and life itself from tens of thousands of people. All in the name of “saving “ them from Spanish colonialism, the US blasted its way across Cuba, Puerto Rico, and the Philippines in a blood-spattered cloud of corruption and hubris. This history is still not well taught in American schools, but it is a history well known to those whose countries were permanently altered by it.
Like Suzy Hanson’s Pulitzer-finalist “Notes on a Foreign Country,” Jackson’s “Splendid Liberators” reveals with exquisite clarity why the United States is rightfully hated by much of the world. We need to know and understand this history. Without these stories, we Americans will continue to wither in ignorance on the vine of history, and deservedly so. The sickening truth is part of us, and illustrates our deep, carnal debt to those we have conquered in the name of democracy, but in truth were merely living flesh to feed our capitalist hunger, justified by an ethnocentric eugenicist ideology that stripped the humanity from those whose lands we lusted after, whose natural resources and strategic locations we coveted. Nothing more.
Thanks to NetGalley and the publisher Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, for a free copy of the pre-release text in exchange for an honest review. I will be purchasing copies of this book for several friends and family members, because it is that important.

Book Review: Custodians of Wonder

I enjoyed reading about the author’s fascinating studies of rare methods, practices, and customs all around the world. The author spends several days or longer with each location or group, fully immersed in the culture. He eats, sleeps, and when invited, attempts to practice some cultural customs of these local practitioners of special craftsmanship. Authenticity and respect for the people involved in preserving these lifeways seemed to be the main goals of the author, aside from clear and simple descriptions of the methods, equipment, and results he observed.

Thanks to NetGalley and St Martin’s Press for the advance review copy in exchange for an honest review.

Book Review: Framed, by John Grisham & Jim McCloskey

Oh, this book.

I am so glad to see Mr Grisham turn his writerly talents to this desperately important issue. Coupled with the lived experience of Mr McCloskey, these stories, alternately told by each author, spring from the page directly into the heart of the reader. The criminal justice system has always been a travesty, and it isn’t getting better. The efforts of the folk who work for Mr McCloskey’s organization, Centurion, the Innocence Project, the Innocence Network, and others perform a highly-needed service in the cause of justice in America. The stories in this book represent a tiny fraction of the number of wrongly-convicted souls victimized by the sometimes egregious and outrageous errors made by those who would seek to rack up numbers of convictions, and seem to care much less for addressing and stopping actual wrongdoing.

It has been said that many times prosecutors and law enforcement officers focus less on finding the right answers, in favor of focusing on those cases they believe, rightly or wrongly, are able to secure a conviction. After all, if they actually addressed all criminal behavior and succeeded in wiping out crime, they would work themselves out of a job. Many times those enlisted by an unthinking public with the duty to right wrongs weirdly and inexplicably overlook obvious perpetrators, ignore leads, and even accuse those telling the truth of lying about the facts of a crime. In some cases citizens who come forward to offer assistance as eyewitnesses end up jailed and convicted of the very crimes they witnessed, because of the too-ready willingness by law enforcement to believe their own invented stories about a crime, that very often belie ready evidence and cold hard facts about a case, but instead conform to their own racist, sexist, and classist prejudices that blind them to truth.

The cases described in ‘Framed’ are important examples of the flaws in the criminal justice system. We should pursue reforms that tru,y reflect our purported reliance on innocent until proven guilty’. This would, of course, completely upend and overhaul the training and norms that are followed by law enforcement now. But until these reforms occur, we will continue to be threatened by the ravages of an unjust and dangerous mentality that places convictions above justice. And we cannot say we are ‘the land of the free’ so long as we look away and allow the unjust criminal justice process to continue.

Book Review: Nature’s God: The Heretical Origins of the American Republic by Matthew Stewart

One of the most important books out there for readers who actually want to understand how and why the US was founded on the principles of separation between church and state. America was never meant to be a “Christian” nation - a fact that has been obscured with outright lies with increasing fervor over the past forty years.

Magnificently researched and well-written, I consider this required reading for any person who purports to be a student of US history, or who simply wants to know the truth. It’s interesting and engaging, with relevant personal stories of the writers and arbiters of our nation's foundational documents and those who inspired them, which make it easier to understand their motivations and the times in which they lived. Stewart shows clearly how Epicurus, Spinoza, Bruno, and other much earlier philosophers led the way into the radical new beliefs that guided these men, with all their faults and foibles, to work together to found a nation built on principles that even they could not live up to - but they hoped that in the future the path they lay, by reason and not superstition, would be walked by those who could.

A couple of pages, to illustrate how important and relevant it is, especially now. Especially today.

Book Review: Riding Shotgun, by Rita Mae Brown

Interesting emotional romp thru the centuries. The ending was a bit of a let down, but otherwise the story is very good.

The reason I say the ending was a bit disappointing is because it feels as if the author expended all of her energy writing the book until the last 50 pages or so, and then rushed through to get it finished. Where for most of the book we get exquisite detail about situations that range from fox hunting to traveling through time, with well-developed characters a reader can truly want to get to know, and deliciously detailed descriptions of places and events, toward the end after a major, life-changing turn of events is starting to be reconciled, the story becomes little more than a quick by-rote narration of events, including some that are chaotic and emotionally damaging. Gone is the depth of feeling coupled with careful thought and analysis, in favor of a hair-raising churning through a family and friendship-wrecking series of experiences, galloping to an ultimately unsatisfying ending - all at once too brief and almost painful. It would have been better if the author perhaps took a break, thoroughly re-read the book to the point of the return from the multi-century foxhunt, and then carefully continued toward bringing the book to a satisfying close. If the point is, as it seems to be, for the main character to apply lessons learned from history, the same care and attention should have been paid to this portion of the book as was clearly taken in the first two-thirds.
The main character, a middle-aged woman named Pryor (which is a historical name in her family), but for some unknown reason goes by the nickname "Cig," is believable and interesting. She's widowed, self-contained, strong, and raising two teenagers with more than a little aplomb. But she's not perfect - far from it - but her flaws are not unmanageable, nor do they detract from her likability. The ensemble cast of characters is varied and authentic, and the plot for the most part flows smoothly and is easy to follow. Even when the story becomes a bit implausible, it is still very well written and therefore believable, which is the point, I believe.
The conflict that becomes the heart of the story between two sisters is very real, and Cig has long believed there is a truth that her sister Grace is hiding about what happened. In the end, the truth surprises everyone, and I'm not sure it's fully realized or acknowledged. There's a lot of crying and screaming and fit-throwing, which may or may not be cathartic. There are promises made, but whether they are fulfilled is anyone's guess. Some of that truth remains elusive, I think. There could have been more to this story, in that way, as well as others.
The historical characters were endearing and not stereotypical. The scenes during this time were very well done - you can feel the snow on your cheeks, the cold, the sunny breeze on a warm day. There are no laments about the clothing, thank goodness (a personal pet peeve). Cig sees a lot in this time to appreciate and is respectful of the differences, so she learns and adapts very well. I really love this part of the book. You can really see her starting to grow, especially as she feels herself being drawn to the people she meets, some perhaps a bit more than others. She is really good at giving people their due, and is able to develop true friendships, bonding with not only her family members but with several others.
Unfortunately the author attempts to bind the historical story with the modern one in an ultimately dissatisfying way.

Having Fritz - or his historical double - show up at the very, very end of the last two pages was about as piquant and frustrating as a mouthful of cold coffee. That touch, imho, was pure effrontery on the part of the author. A better writer would have either omitted that bit completely - I mean, we do find out what had happened to that character so there was no mystery there - or brought the character in gradually, just like the historical friendship that had blossomed originally, and quite naturally, into something more. But teasing the reader with a sudden appearance right at the very end? Gross.

Violence is depicted realistically in the book, especially in historical context, where the author shines with not only making it believable, but applicable to the plot and characters. Sadly, the depictions of violence seem either dated, gratuitous, or just wrong in the modern-day (1999) portion.
The title of the book, "Riding Shotgun," is quite dated, trite, and really doesn't apply to anything that happens in the book other than one or two references to "riding shotgun through history" - and what does that even mean? Especially in the context of this book. The main character travels back in time on horseback, where there is no "riding shotgun." It's an inept analogy at best. Books have been re-titled and this one needs to be.
I honestly wonder if the author might revisit the story and write the ending differently, too. If so, the entire book would make a fabulous movie. As a writer, I'm tempted to pen a bit of transformative fiction myself here. As it is, the last quarter of the book brought it down from an otherwise five stars to four. Still a very good read, as I said, but the story that could have been written - like the truth that Cig seeks - is still out there.

Content Warnings:
Moderate: Domestic abuse, Emotional abuse, and Physical abuse
Minor: Emotional abuse
There is minor emotional abuse that I attribute mainly to plot devices that are extremely dated now. However, toward the end, there is a violent physical altercation between two members of the Hunt Club, a married couple that is extremely disruptive, dangerous, and ends up involving others.

>The aggressor is punched in the face by a teenager, which halts the fight, and the teenager is then lauded for his "quick thinking."

No one remarks on the fact that this altercation is essentially an attempted murder right in front of everyone. No assistance or health care is even offered to the injured person, who bears heavy marks and is clearly injured; they all just get on their horses and begin the event after the fight is stopped. As I said, this part is very dated and unsatisfactory all around.

The Legend of Billie Jean's Heartfelt Brilliance: A Retrospective

I found this gem that can be watched for free on the YouTubes: The Legend of Billie Jean

Now, if you haven't watched this movie recently, or heaven forbid you never heard of this movie, run, don't walk, and WATCH IT RIGHT NOW.

This movie has aged incredibly well. In the day, I don't think certain people took it seriously. But if you were a traumatized young woman, and there were a lot more of us than perhaps people realize - Billie Jean was like a bolt of lightning. She shone like a gilded arrow soaring straight into the heart of the patriarchy. And we loved her for it.

The first five minutes of the movie are like a cold water bath in lost memory: the skinny clothes, the easy acceptance of poverty, the sweat, the feel of the wind in your hair on the back of a speeding open two-wheeled vehicle. I'd forgotten none of us wore bras. I'd forgotten we used to run around half-naked because there was no such thing as central air-conditioning. I'd forgotten how much of life we spent outside. (Would you have stayed inside those brown-paneled, dimly-lit, cigarette-smoke-filled, claustrophobic rooms? Me neither.) I also forgot just how inundated we were with sexual harassment that crossed physical boundaries, and how little equipped we were as young women and girls to deal with it. But it's there, right there, in all its obtuse ugliness.

This movie was one of the most realistic depictions of what life was like for people like me who grew up in the South in the 1970s in cinema - right up there with Virgin Suicides. Some people missed that. I read somewhere that "girls wouldn't have cut their hair like that just to be like her. That's unrealistic and made the movie seem [more trite etc etc]." Of course this was written by a male. And tell that to the thousands of people who watched the movie and then went straight into their bathrooms and cut off their own locks. Like I did. I hadn't had short hair for nearly a decade at that point, but something about BJ's shorn head called out to my recently bereaved soul: I had given a baby up for adoption, and almost no one knew how much I still grieved, nearly two years after the fact. Cutting my hair defiantly in the mirror did lead me to a beautician's chair to clean up the mess I'd made but the gesture meant something. Not for nothing did people in past centuries shave their heads when something awful happened. There's something purifying about this act, a ritual casting out of inner demons, a denial to the world that "everything's all right."

Sometimes everything is absolutely not all right, and this is one way to get people to pay attention and look a bit closer. Sometimes it's the only way to signal things are not all right. Sometimes we don't have words. Sometimes we just feel compelled to do something physically to ourselves, and we may not even know why, but it's a call we absolutely must answer. It's more than a "new look;" we're ready to step into a new identity, and take on the world.

Brava, lady. You go.

A reviewer took issue with Billie Jean's response to the 14-year old Putter's beginning of her period. The writer clearly completely misunderstood Billie Jean's advice to "lie down and take it easy" as "fear"?! Nothing of the kind. Unlike many depictions of this event in cinema both before and since that reflects the negativity about it more common in the real world, Billie Jean celebrated Putter's getting her period. "That's wonderful!" she crowed, and promptly took Putter to the dock for a ceremonial (and practical) bath, wrapping her tenderly in a big towel. When she said, "Lie down and take it easy," it was a way of saying, "Job well done! You've earned some well-deserved rest after that crazy thing we all just went through that you handled amazingly well." There was not a trace of fear in any of their responses. To think otherwise shows how little that reviewer was paying attention.

Paying attention is exactly what Billie Jean was doing. The things that happened to her and to her brother caused her to stop, pause, and consider carefully a most human and reasonable response. She shrugged off the violence that had been done to her own person (and god did that feel familiar); she just wanted the people who were responsible for wrecking her brother's scooter to pay for the repairs. It was that simple. She didn't ask them for respect, or admission of guilt. She just wanted her brother to have his scooter back in working order. But in so doing, she forced people to look at themselves and consider their actions. To recognize they had done wrong. And unfortunately, when some people do that, they lash out at the messenger: in this case, Billie Jean and her friends who supported her.

Sound familiar?

Some people have learned nothing in the nearly 40 (!) years since this movie was released. That damn film was ahead of its time; its themes of social justice, anarchic movements, and anti-capitalism seemed pragmatic and real at the time. After all, "Fair is fair!" And the fuckers eventually got what was coming to them. It's almost eerie how the youth as depicted in this movie instantly got the message that Billie Jean was sending. Surely these were lessons the world was learning. Right? Right?! ... Then again the whole damn 80s were a tease that things would be better and life was going to make more sense in the coming years. But not all of us were evolving. Not everyone wanted fairness and freedom and happiness. We underestimated the sheer tenacity and meanness of the patriarchy, unfortunately.

At the end of the movie, Billie Jean and her brother are taking off for long-talked-of Vermont. Christian Slater's character notices a red snowmobile that quite obviously reminds him of his lost Honda Elite, and he stops to admire it, proving that in spite of their troubles, his interest in fast and shiny things hasn't been destroyed. Billie Jean has her eyes on the road. She seems to hope things are going to be all right, but there's a wariness, a hard-won wisdom that she wears like a veil. She's beautiful and strong and represents all things good. But she's alone, except for a younger person she'll have to watch over and keep out of trouble. She's every single-mother and older-sister out there. One wonders where Lloyd is, what their parting was like. One hopes Putter and Ophelia are okay. But we don't know. All we can do is hope.

Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose. (attributed to Jean-Baptiste Alphonse 1808–1890 French novelist and editor)

References:
Remembering Legend of Billie Jean: The First Great Female Superhero Movie
28 Things We Learned from the Legend of Billie Jean Commentary
44 Facts About the Movie The Legend of Billie Jean
Cult Classic Legend of Billie Jean Still Relevant Today
Wikipedia entry "The Legend of Billie Jean"

Book Review: Necessary Trouble: Growing Up at Midcentury by Drew Gilpin Faust

Necessary Trouble: Growing Up at Midcentury by Drew Gilpin Faust
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Parts of this book seemed like a mirror to my own past, even though I am at least ten years younger than the author. However, I did grow up in Virginia and the attitudes and experiences she describes are so familiar that I could hear them in my head as I read the words. Her writing could have been just as applicable to my older cousins, who also participated in some of the civil rights volunteer work as Dr. Faust. I looked up to them as if they held all the wisdom of how to navigate the rapidly changing world.
But, alas, of course they did not.
To her credit, the author was very often in the right place at the right time to be a part of some history-making events, such as the 1965 march from Selma to Montgomery, and Dr. King's commencement address to the Bryn Mawr Class of 1966. She convincingly portrays her own engagement with civil rights and anti-war efforts in language that is authentic and compassionate. I do try to hear the voices of baby boomers who may be the exceptions rather than the rule because as a whole, this generation largely abandoned those early dreams for capitalist-inspired ones.
And though the author clearly has her faults, I am grateful to be able to read her story in the context of the times it describes as events unfolded. The writing is crisp and self-aware, even self-critical at times. Through it all this is a story of a young woman coming of age in an era of unquestionable privilege, who slowly realizes that it is her call to do what she can to do better. She fearlessly travels with a student group behind the Iron Curtain to wage peace and converse with real individuals living in completely foreign situations. She takes what she learns and applies it, even realizing that college may not be her best option for ultimately fighting for social justice and peace, but she does it anyway because it is expected, and she does sprinkle those at-the-time radical ideas throughout her college papers and essays.
I like this young near-radical Drew Gilpin. Seen through the lens of years, Dr. Faust does a remarkable job of making her real and relatable. I'd just like to know what comes next, how she navigated the years after graduation, as she assumed her career as a historian and author. Perhaps she'll humor us with that story soon.

Thanks to NetGalley and Farrar, Straus and Giroux for offering the free review copy in exchange for an honest review.

View all my reviews

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Post by Matt Martin.

Poetry Monday: The Author to Her Book

The Author to Her Book

Source: Clements Library Chronicles

Anne Bradstreet

	THOU ill-formed offspring of my feeble brain,
	Who after birth didst by my side remain
	Till snatched from thence by friends less wise than true
	Who thee abroad exposed to public view,
	Made thee, in rags, halting, to the press to trudge,
	Where errors were not lessened, all may judge,
	At thy return my blushing was not small,
	My rambling brat—in print—should mother call.
	I cast thee by as one unfit for light,
	Thy visage was so irksome in my sight;
	Yet being mine own, at length affection would
	Thy blemishes amend, if so I could.
	I washed thy face, but more defects I saw,
	And rubbing off a spot still made a flaw.
	I stretched thy joints to make thee even feet,
	Yet still thou run’st more hobbling than is meet.
	In better dress to trim thee was my mind,
	But naught save homespun cloth i’ th’ house I find.
	In this array ’mongst vulgars mayst thou roam,
	In critics’ hands beware thou dost not come,
	And take thy way where yet thou art not known.
	If for thy father asked, say thou hadst none;
	And for thy mother, she, alas, is poor,
	Which caused her thus to send thee out of door.

Source:
Colonial Prose and Poetry
Edited by William P. Trent and Benjamin W. Wells
The 57 writers in these three volumes spanning more than a century and a half represent the literary and cultural trends in Colonial North America—from the confrontation with the American Indians to Puritan life to opposition to slavery. 
NEW YORK: THOMAS Y. CROWELL & Co., 1901 
NEW YORK: BARTLEBY.COM, 2010

In the earlier period men lived earnestly if not largely, they thought highly if not broadly, they felt nobly if not always with magnanimity.—Preface  Trent and Wells

Poetry Monday: Paracelsus

by Robert Browning, 1835



I

TRUTH is within ourselves; it takes no rise
From outward things, whate’er you may believe.
There is an inmost centre in us all,
Where truth abides in fullness; and around,
Wall upon wall, the gross flesh hems it in,
This perfect, clear perception—which is truth.
A baffling and perverting carnal mesh
Binds it, and makes all error: and, to KNOW,
Rather consists in opening out a way
Whence the imprisoned splendour may escape,
Than in effecting entry for a light
Supposed to be without.

II

I knew, I felt, (perception unexpressed,
Uncomprehended by our narrow thought,
But somehow felt and known in every shift
And change in the spirit,—nay, in every pore
Of the body, even,)—what God is, what we are
What life is—how God tastes an infinite joy
In infinite ways—one everlasting bliss,
From whom all being emanates, all power
Proceeds; in whom is life for evermore,
Yet whom existence in its lowest form
Includes; where dwells enjoyment there is he:
With still a flying point of bliss remote,
A happiness in store afar, a sphere
Of distant glory in full view; thus climbs
Pleasure its heights for ever and for ever.
The centre-fire heaves underneath the earth,
And the earth changes like a human face;
The molten ore bursts up among the rocks,
Winds into the stone’s heart, outbranches bright
In hidden mines, spots barren river-beds,
Crumbles into fine sand where sunbeams bask—
God joys therein! The wroth sea’s waves are edged
With foam, white as the bitten lip of hate,
When, in the solitary waste, strange groups
Of young volcanos come up, cyclops-like,
Staring together with their eyes on flame—
God tastes a pleasure in their uncouth pride.
Then all is still; earth is a wintry clod:
But spring-wind, like a dancing psaltress, passes
Over its breast to waken it, rare verdure
Buds tenderly upon rough banks, between
The withered tree-roots and the cracks of frost,
Like a smile striving with a wrinkled face;
The grass grows bright, the boughs are swoln with blooms
Like chrysalids impatient for the air,
The shining dorrs are busy, beetles run
Along the furrows, ants make their ade;
Above, birds fly in merry flocks, the lark
Soars up and up, shivering for very joy;
Afar the ocean sleeps; white fishing-gulls
Flit where the strand is purple with its tribe
Of nested limpets; savage creatures seek
Their loves in wood and plain—and God renews
His ancient rapture. Thus He dwells in all,
From life’s minute beginnings, up at last
To man—the consummation of this scheme
Of being, the completion of this sphere
Of life: whose attributes had here and there
Been scattered o’er the visible world before,
Asking to be combined, dim fragments meant
To be united in some wondrous whole,
Imperfect qualities throughout creation,
Suggesting some one creature yet to make,
Some point where all those scattered rays should meet
Convergent in the faculties of man. 

How Far We've Come, To Fall So Far

There is simply no excuse for the fact that well into middle age, with advanced degrees, a respectable middle-class income, and a credit history over 20 years long, that my husband and I are still patently unable to purchase a house, and each month we struggle to meet the bills for basic needs such as food, fuel, shelter, clothing, and education.

Consider this: My parents, who were young professionals with no credit background to speak of and a two-year old, on October 16, 1963 purchased the home that my mother still lives in. At the time they were both teaching school, with advanced degrees and a respectable middle class income. This home was about five years old and cost $17,000.00 (slightly less than the average price of a new home in the US at the time as recorded by the US Census), and was paid off at the tidy sum of $103.00 per month, principal and interest, well before the time of my father's death in 1988. The property is valued at around $125,000 today; it is a 2/3-acre lot with a 4 BR/1.5 bath home in excellent condition and still located in a respectable neighborhood. My mother also has excellent health insurance and pension benefits and will never have to worry about how she will pay for basic needs such as food, shelter, clothing, eyeglasses, and medical care. She never has and she never will. She's a classic example of someone who worked hard, paid her bills and was able to put something away each month for the future. She pays cash for a brand new vehicle about once every eight years or so because she has an abhorrence of paying interest that can not be deducted from one's tax bill. She has lived a tidy, respectable life, and has earned her comfortable retirement.

The Bureau of Labor Statistics has this handy-dandy little table that details teachers' salaries for the period 1959-2006, with comparable 2006 constant dollars that make it simple to see these salaries' equivalents in 2006 dollars. You will see, for instance, that though my parents jointly earned about $12,000 (my mother taught elementary and my father taught high school), the equivalent salary in 2006 dollars was about $80,000. This was because the cost of housing, fuel, automobiles, education, groceries, clothing, etc. - i.e., the cost of living - was considerably lower then than today.

It's quite shocking, in fact, to look over the chart and see how the value of middle-class salaries fell into the toilet during the ensuing years.

To be perfectly sure we're comparing apples to apples, my mother & father paid about $900 annually for taxes, insurance, and social security, making their effective joint disposable income about $11,100 (including obligations of 3.625% for FICA/SSec, 22.6% less exemptions & deductions for federal taxes, and 2% for Virginia state income tax). Their employers actually contributed to Virginia's retirement system and paid for their health insurance. Employees did not have to contribute at all until shortly before my mother retired in the 1990s. A pension and health insurance were considered part of one's compensation package - those were the days! However, during this period, all of the amounts deducted for FICA and Social Security came from an employee's paycheck; employers did not contribute to those programs at that time. There is a nice table at the Social Security administration's website that details federally mandated deductions for taxes and FICA starting in 1937. Historic federal tax rates are here, and you can peruse the actual 1040 and 1040a forms and instructions used to file back in 1963 at the IRS website. Historical state tax rates are contained within tables in this report.

So - let's compare: my husband and I just happen to jointly earn about $80,000 annually as professionals working in the non-profit and government sectors, from which about $20,000 is deducted in order to pay for medical insurance, withdrawals for retirement and deferred compensation of which our employers pay minuscule matches of less than 15%, and taxes, effectively making our joint disposable income in the neighborhood of $60,000. (Bankrate has a nice calculator to help you determine if adjusting payroll deductions might be a good idea in case you'd like to compare your own).

The problem begins to become apparent.

Take a look at my parents' joint disposable income of $11,100.00 in 1963 transferred to today's dollars in this handy-dandy little table:

[Note: Current data from this source is only available till 2012.] In 2012, the relative worth of $11,100.00 US from 1963 is:

$83,200.00 using the Consumer Price Index

$64,300.00 using the GDP deflator

$93,500.00 using the value of consumer bundle

$90,500.00 using the unskilled wage

$106,000.00 using the Production Worker Compensation

$170,000.00 using the nominal GDP per capita

$282,000.00 using the relative share of GDP

Put another way, if you want to compare the value of $11,100.00 worth of disposable income in 1963 with what it's worth in 2012 the relative:
...historic standard of living value of that income or wealth is $83,200.00
...contemporary standard of living value of that income or wealth is $93,500.00
...economic status value of that income or wealth is $170,000.00
...economic power value of that income or wealth is $282,000.00
By any measure, our parents were wealthier by far than we can even hope to be, given today's economic realities. Thank you, banks, insurance companies, corporate welfare queens, and politicians. You've made it such a pleasure to be living and working today, working just as hard but making a fraction of what our parents did. Good show.

See also US Census Historical Income Tables

Measuring Worth

1963 Enterprise Statistics

Taxfoundation.org

Bankrate.com

SSA.GOV

IRS.GOV

University of North Texas Library

~

What Goes Around... i.e., Karma is a Bitch

Bob McDonnell Throws his Wife Under the Bus at Politico

I guess it's possible that the ex-Governor has the hubris (or the mad hope) that he can manage to defeat the charges in spite of the mountain of evidence. But I am sad for the woman beside him, because yet again we have an example of the fact that men who try to control women through legislation designed to keep them fighting for the right to be free and equal tend to treat their significant others rather badly through neglect, public embarrassment, or worse.

Like so many others of his ilk, while in office Gov. McDonnell made no effort to hide his lack of respect for women's rights to adequate health care, to be safe in their own homes, and to be paid fairly for their work. It probably didn't even occur to him that these are real issues compared to the types of issues that interested him. It probably didn't even occur to him to think of his family and the consequences for them if their mother went to prison for awhile.

I wonder why that is.

Let this be a lesson to all of us. If he treats women poorly as a general rule, don't think for one second he will make an exception for you when the cards are on the table.

The Trans-Pacific Partnership, aka TPP: NAFTA on Steroids

NAFTA is one of the worst decisions we've ever made as a country. It basically killed US manufacturing, it allowed Big Ag to destroy Mexican agriculture and line its pockets with the spoils of economic collapse that in turn allowed Big Ag to become even bigger and badder, and we can NOT repeat this mistake. We simply can not afford to do so.

We were warned, and we ignored it. Do you remember Ross Perot's "great sucking sound" speech? He was right, and we should have listened. We did not, and as a result we murdered the domestic textile and manufacturing industries and nearly killed the auto industry, which was only saved by a last-ditch effort and lots of government bailout money (your tax dollars).

We must not ignore the warnings about the President's new trade initiative. They are accurate and the threat is real. We won't have an economy if this horrible idea becomes law. Mr Obama, you are one of my favorite world leaders, and an otherwise excellent President, but Please Do Not Repeat Mr Clinton's Horrible Mistake.

Trade Expert: Why TPP — “NAFTA on Steroids” — Must Be Stopped (via Moyers & Company)

The post-NAFTA era has been marked by growing inequality, declining job security and new leverage for corporations to attack government regulations enacted in the public interest. But it wasn’t supposed to be that way. Back in 1986, when the leaders…

---

Why Two Spaces After a Period Isn't Wrong

(or, The Lies Typographers Tell About History)

The above link is to an excellent, very well-researched and thorough treatise on the subject that I highly recommend. Since it's rather lengthy I won't elaborate, just get over there and read it - if you are a writer, editor, publisher, or otherwise earn your bread in the industry, you really need to get your facts straight no matter which camp you decide to belong to.

You're quite welcome. 

[Image credit: crucialbiitch at deviantart]

Murder and Forgiveness

For now we see in a mirror dimly, 
but then we will see face to face [1Cor 13.12]
[Image credit: publicphoto.org]

It has been a little over nineteen years since two sweet innocents sank into the bottom of a man-made lake in South Carolina, sent there by the woman who carried them in her womb. Susan Smith's story changed us all, mothers and fathers and families alike. None of us were unaffected, and yet, looking back, it is perhaps time we saw the lake as a mirror, and recognize our own reflection within it.

As a society, although individually we may strive toward good, we are none of us innocents. We should acknowledge, as Beverly Russell did, that there is a seed of capability to do great evil within us all. We owe this woman forgiveness, and until we do this we can not move on toward reconciliation, and we will not be able to realize our great responsibility to our children to ensure they grow up in a safe, loving world, full of possibilities.

When the word first came out that this mother had done the unthinkable, I remember being in the grocery store with my then 7-year old daughter and my son who was about the age of the youngest Smith child. Strangers who passed by my shopping cart reached out toward him, fastened safely in his little seat, to touch his head and to grasp my hand, wrapped protectively around him. "Take care of that child," some would whisper. "I can tell you are a good mama," others would say. I saw friends of mine from church, also young mothers, and we reached instinctively toward one another, asking, "How are you? Do you need anything? Is everything all right? You know you can call me," our eyes searching deeply within each other's, trying desperately to re-validate the safety net of community that had been rended and torn by the news.

We all knew that sometimes we are only a breath of time away from losing it ourselves, and we needed to know that we could stop it from happening if we could only remember we are there for each other, to help shoulder the load.

Before Susan Smith's trial and the facts and analysis that would come out of it showing she was a desperate, troubled individual with a past that some of us could not fathom or relate to - we young mothers knew. Only the grace of something greater than ourselves up to that point had saved some of us from recklessly destroying our greatest and most precious gifts, that of our children and ourselves. For some horrible reason, that grace had failed a young mother, allowing her to send her children, her flesh, her blood, to a watery tomb. And I think that our shock and horror allowed us to separate ourselves after a time from this recognition, in order to move on and to be better parents.

This had to happen. But it is time now to take the next step, and forgive her for her actions. To recognize as a society that we had some hand in this undertaking, and to heal and to move forward toward ensuring that infanticide does not have to happen, that we recognize the warning signs and stop this evil, desperate act from taking place ever again.

***

We know better now, how ill and wretched this young woman was. We know, and we must recognize, that she was manifesting the symptoms of the classic murderer of her own children. At that time only trained specialists knew and were capable of seeing in; indeed it is what helped them to guide Susan Smith into confessing her great horrible deed.

Driving alone at dusk [Image credit: publicphoto.org]

But we all should know now. It's been nearly twenty years. Surely we can recognize that she was at the apogee of human error and selfish grasping for attention, love, and acceptance for who she was and what she was at the time: a lonely, depressed woman whose inner child grieved for the father she had lost, and who could not, for whatever reason, accept that now she was a mother, with limited options.

It's sad, but true. As her life gained complexity, her future seemed to dim, and the possibilities voiced in the letter written by the lover who rejected her probably seemed like a carrot too far from reach. She lashed out, angrily, at what seemed to have slipped away while she was busy attending to her greatest accomplishment: motherhood. She was confused, and oh so empty, and her fear allowed her to believe that emptiness was permanent.

We have all felt like this, at some time or another. Fortunately, most of us have resources and loved ones who help us see the folly of that belief, and can show us the good and lovely opportunities and choices for good in our lives, so that the fear and loneliness and rejection do not last.

Susan Smith did not.

Why?

Why, when she looked around, did she only see a situation that further estranged her from her best self? Why did she want to end her life, and that of her children? And what, if anything, could have been done to stop it?

I will reflect further on this as time allows. For now, I want to just think about this rationally, given the facts as we know them. I'll write more as soon as I can.


***

Update on the 20-year mark of this event in The State newspaper

The Mists of Ideological Time

The League of Ordinary Gentlemen is the sort of blog where thinking folks go to discuss the issues. Sometimes the debate over there reminds me of my father's den, where his students, friends, and folks from our church would come to debate the issues of the day, which in that time were civil rights, politics, and the lessons of history. I was a small child then, too young to take part, but I often listened from the other room. Looking back, it is fascinating to realize how important it was that my family was free to invite people who wanted to discuss the things they felt were important to continuing the right of self-determination, and to understanding the things they may or may not have experienced in their own lives, and so to apply current events to their own search for truth and justice. It was, in short, good preparation for the decade of the 1980s, just to be sure we were aware of the potential of our species to destroy itself. Rational folk won't generally self-destruct, and yet individuals and civilizations do it all the time. How does that happen?

Recently, there was a post at the League that asked a question that brought quite a bit of discussion. (See The Incredible Shrinking Candidate, by Tod Kelly) It was posited that the Republican party behaves as if the "real Mitt" isn't there. By refusing to answer direct questions that are pertinent to his experience and belief, the writer posited that Mitt Romney is hiding his true self. And he wrote that he thinks it's the fault of the far-right wing ideologues of his party and their largely successful efforts to get him to fall into lockstep with their true-believers path, which (he writes) history clearly demonstrates is not the path that Mr. Romney has followed - and that the Tea Partiers should back off. Mitt should be allowed to be Mitt. Essentially the author asked, if the "true Mitt Romney" were allowed by his party ideologues to be truthful about what he really might offer - both his experience as a businessperson, his family values, and his political savvy - wouldn't we like that person? Might we vote for him?

To that I have to say - hogwash. We're seeing the real Mitt. Tod Kelly is missing the forest because he's looking for trees that aren't there, he's looking for substance where there really is only mist. What happens when the mist lifts? The light of day, folks, which shines on the garbage can in the backyard, the front walk that needs sweeping and the grass that needs mowing, just as it all did yesterday. The mist isn't really obscuring anything at all, but we like to pretend that it does, because it's soft and poetical and all and covers up what we'd really rather not deal with at the moment.

Here are the facts: It's clear that Mitt Romney has followed the course of action throughout his entire life that he's following now: that of choosing whatever option he thinks will get him what he wants. All narcissists can appear to be gentle, benevolent gods when they choose - it's part of their charm.

Mitt Romney would be the same paper president he was at Bain Capital, the same leader of the Salt Lake Olympic squadron, the same governor of Massachusetts - taking the road that at the time paved the way toward looking good on paper and in rare public appearances, but disappearing at the first puff of the wind of substance.

Meaning that, voting for Romney as POTUS would mean that his cronies would be the ones calling the shots, directing his paper-doll stance, pulling the strings of his puppet arms. Mitt is the perfect non-candidate. Don't think for a moment that he's actually responsible for anything except carrying out the wishes of the entities filling his pocketbook. He's meaningless and hard to pin down because that's the person he is.

Mitt Romney is the worst kind of person in the world: a classic narcissist who thinks he has a god-given mission to lead the United States (please research his religion, specifically the white horse prophesy if you doubt it), who will always act in his own best interests, and the world be damned. He has delusions of grandeur and believes that he is destined for greatness not only during his time here on earth, but in the afterlife. The shifting sands of his character are ingrained, and have served him well as far as prosperity goes. The thought of him at the helm of the biggest ship in the world means that if he believes hitting that iceberg will land him in heaven's realm, and in the meantime array his family and his own self in gilded heaven-on-earth glory, well then - it's all a part of his god's plan.

Put another way, imagine Mitt Romney at the controls of a 747 headed for the World Trade Center. He'd never hit that building, right? Look again. There's a guy who looks like Mr. Romney sitting in first class holding Ann's hand. They look around and smile, chat up their neighbors, full of charm and class. Then Mitt looks at his watch, and they bow their heads and start to pray. Paul Ryan's in the pilot seat, and he believes that building is full of liberal Democrats, lesbians, and abortion providers. Mitt is smiling and dreaming of the afterlife. No wait - that's actually not Mitt at all. The real Mitt is far away on an island in the Caymans.

Now what would happen? Yeah, I'm joking. Look closer.

Then there is the Tea Party. Fortunately there are other folks who've gone the extra mile to put the naked truth about them before the American public, so I'll share this clip from Aaron Sorkin's amazing new show, The Newsroom, where the truth is told as "fiction."

We can stop this insane bunch of crass, self-serving idiots. We must vote. Take the day off to do so if you must, but do not leave the polls until you have cast your rightful, individual VOTE. I understand that there are some places where it may be difficult to do so. How many have been disenfranchised in the past in this country, through trickery? More than one is too many - but there have been many, many people who were unable to vote because they stood by while this opportunity was literally stolen.

I have seen instances in my lifetime, in the past decade, where voting machines were moved - while voting was actually taking place - from high-minority, low-income, inner-city districts to predominantly white, wealthy, suburban ones so that there was a dearth of machines in the minority low-income districts and an unnecessary plethora of them in the wealthy, white districts; many of those machines were absolutely empty and unused during the remainder of the election. This forced many to have to leave to go back to work before they'd had a chance to cast their votes. I have stood in line to vote while poll workers went down the rows handing out cards and demonstrated how to vote a straight Republican ticket - and yes, there were unenlightened people who honestly thought they were simply being shown "how to vote." I have been there while people who were legally registered were turned away because they didn't have - or refused to show - a "proper ID."

This is America. No one has the right to do this to us. Stay, vote, and don't back down. Don't leave. Cast a provisional vote if you have no other choice. But Do. Not. Leave. Your future, your children's future, depends on your exercising the right to VOTE. Do not let them turn this country into the third world nation they can control, because that is what they want. That is what they believe God wants. They think we are stupid, and they do not respect us or the democracy they were born into. They are misguided, they are armed, and they are dangerous.

Fifty years ago a similarly high-minded group of politically-charged individuals led by a single charismatic mouthpiece spewing venomous hate went after innocent folk in the name of protecting our American shores from "communism." The McCarthy era was responsible for ruining hundreds, perhaps thousands of lives, and amounted to publicly-sanctioned ethnocentrism and racism. This time it's worse: there are dozens of charismatic mouthpieces spewing racism, misogyny, lies, and hate. They assert that our GOD is on their side, and because of that they ask us to doubt our conscience and look the other way while people who shout fear and hate take over our government. They are asking us to abdicate our democracy, and for those of us who refuse, they are doing their damnedest to take away our right to self-determination.

We should know better. Hate is hate, patriarchal control is control outright, and it preys on our fears of that which we do not understand and don't want to admit to our lack of understanding - and we should never allow it to cloud our vision. We must not give in to the claim that it doesn't matter who wins. It matters. We must not abdicate our rights as an informed electorate. To do so will result in the loss of everything our democracy stands for, and will effectively negate our Constitution and our way of life.

Don't let them take over our government again. We probably won't get it back if they do. But don't let this scare you. Let it strengthen your resolve. There is really absolutely nothing to fear except fear itself.

This election season, do not be confused by the vapor surrounding the truth, obscuring the things they really don't want you to see. Step through the mist, pick your way carefully over the rocky shoals hidden underneath the gloom of doubt and suspicion. VOTE.

Further ruminations on the heresy of Mormonism at the New York Times.

Gov. McDonnell Signs Mandatory Ultrasound Bill

The photo is of me about 16 years ago, with three of my children and one on the way.  As you can see,  we enjoy studying and re-enacting the lifeways of the 18th & 19th centuries in America. My children know more about the experience of our forebears than most history teachers, because they've lived it.

Today, as the mother of four beautiful daughters, one son, with a delightful granddaughter and another grandchild on the way, I am extremely disappointed in the actions of the Governor and the Virginia Legislature that limit women's access to reasonable and prudent health care and place unreasonable restrictions that intrude into the confidential trust and privacy concerning procedures that are only appropriately made between a woman and her health care provider.

Modern health care made it possible for me to have children spaced reasonably apart so my body could recover. Prescription birth control helped my doctor treat ovarian cysts, critical bleeding, and endometriosis.  I am healthier because of it. Moreover, I know had I really lived in the 18th century, I would not have survived my condition. I have the option and luxury of studying the lessons of history from the vantage point of modern understanding. I'm not certain many of our legislators even know what that is.

The legislature - and certainly no MAN - has any right whatsoever to intrude into women’s private health care matters.  I chose to give birth naturally to all five of my children, and even chose to give the first up for adoption at birth because I was still in school and too young to be responsible enough for her.  She was raised by wonderful, loving parents, she found us when she became an adult, and we are grateful for her and all of our children.  However, I still defend to the utmost any woman's right to choose not to give birth, through whatever means she and her doctor deem reasonable and in her best interests, and I will not stand by and have any access to health care denied because of intrusive, invasive, and unreasonable legislation.  My choice to give a child up for adoption was the most searing, difficult decision of my life, and I would not force that decision on anybody.  Every woman must have the choices available to her that make sense for her body and her situation.

No procedure should be dictated by an uninvolved non-medical entity, most especially the Virginia Legislature and government. I am very, very disappointed in our governor, senators and representatives and will voice my dissatisfaction in the voting booth.

Thanks to Planned Parenthood of Virginia for keeping this issue before the hearts and minds of the public.  Hopefully a day of reason is not far off, in spite of legislative efforts to the contrary.

If you would like to add your photo and story, please see Planned Parenthood of Virginia's tumblr.