I drove to the mountains with a long-time girlfriend. Took us seven plus hours from here, through what seems to be the longest state in the US, Georgia. We visited some mutual friends in Highlands, North Carolina, a posh little town with sweet little shops filled with mostly expensive things, lovely restaurants, and beautiful people. Highlands is one of the highest towns east of the Mississippi River, with an elevation at 4,118 feet. It’s also located in one of the few temperate rainforests in North America. It rains a lot in the summer, and there’s nothing more relaxing than swaying slowly on a bench swing listening to the gentle drops of rain on the mountain laurel. Pondering on that deck of our friends’ three-bedroom log cabin was divine.

I’ve known all of these people for more decades than I care to admit, and even though we’ve all grown into our own unique personalities, history holds us in one another’s grip—shared memories are often the topic of conversation. It doesn’t hurt that we’ve all come to similar opinions about ‘left’ and ‘right’ political theories. We are in agreement that A) We’re much more afraid of fascist ideals than socialist ones, and B) We can’t wrap our heads around anti-vaxing. We all lived through polio and knew people who spent months in an iron lung or ended up walking with braces—like FDR—for the rest of their lives. Aside from confirming one another’s biases, we played cards—who does that anymore?—and enjoyed eating great food, both home cooked and restaurant offerings.

The weather stayed under eighty degrees in the daytime and hovered around mid-sixties at night. No wonder people with the means to do so come here—some to spend the summer and some for brief stays like our one-week visit. It was hard to leave to come back to our lives in Northwest Florida, where the heat and humidity are stifling, forcing us to stay indoors in the air-conditioning.

I don’t know about my friend Jean, but I came home happy. I think I’d been walking around with some resentment, which I knew wasn’t good for me, some underlying anger at my husband’s disability. I wasn’t consciously angry at him per se, but I had this grim set to my mouth, and there was a heaviness about my psyche I couldn’t explain any other way than to say I was resenting his limitations and the need to ‘take up the slack.’ I’m being brutally honest here; isn’t that what blogs are for? Anyway, I feel lighter and more agreeable, and even more grateful for small and large things. That’s one thing that has occupied my mind.

But there’s another.

While wandering around in Highlands, I noticed how friendly people were, how quick to converse with strangers. Admittedly, such strangers looked a lot alike—all well-heeled, nicely dressed folks, some with dogs on leashes and some with adorable children, and, of course, all white. I have to say, I too chatted happily with people I didn’t know. I joked with a man in the grocery store about taking his four cute kids off his hands, and I commiserated with a mom standing in line to put her name down for lunch. She was wearing her mask and explained that she was fully vaccinated but worried about taking something to her two kids. I got it and I said so. I was ordering three iced teas to go, and she even tried to pay for them, but the cashier was too quick for her. Nicest lady.

Why do I mention this? Well, at some level I felt a betrayal of my egalitarian value system. I knew these nice, smiling people were all rich (I’m not, so much, but I have been quite comfortable in the past, and I put on a good show). I was pretty sure that they wouldn’t be so quick to dish with each other in a different setting—one where there was a diverse crowd and they weren’t so sure of their place in the pecking order. Even if they supported Black Lives Matter. Even if they voted for Biden and were appalled by Trump. I’m not sure of the division of Republican to Democrat, seeing as how most Rs are likely to be wealthy, but I had to imagine that these nice people were also not haters. I wanted to believe that anyway.

My comfort among these folks left me feeling a little like a phony—or at least not exactly loyal to my code of inclusion. But, I’ve been prickly way too often in situations like that, and it annoys people who are just trying to have a good time. I could have brought it to my compatriot’s attention that if a busload of less-privileged citizens dumped itself out onto the Highlands Square, the mood might have dampened some. But I didn’t. I kept my observations to myself—at least then. I’m sharing them with you and hoping for feedback.

Nobody ever ‘talks’ to me through this blog; maybe I’m not set up correctly; maybe I just bore readers (all three of them). But if anyone reading this has anything to share on the topic—or any topic—I’m open to conversation.

I lived through the shameful times of colored neighborhoods, colored water fountains, separate movie theater seating areas, separate schools (with hand-me-down textbooks), and segregated churches. I remember that Negro folks weren’t allowed at the public pool, nor were they allowed on the ‘White” beach. I went to a state university where black Americans weren’t allowed to attend but where they could work in the cafeteria. In my twenties I remember looking through the ‘help wanted’ ads in a newspapers that were divided between colored and white jobs, as well as jobs for males and females..

Teaching today’s students the bitter truth that for decades systemic racism shaped public policy—such as denying equal job and housing opportunities and limiting economic progress—is simply relaying the facts about an intentional stacked deck. It doesn’t demonize anyone, but it shines a light on how bad things came to be. And it grants youth a chance to decide for themselves how to avoid such cruel inequity in generations to come. In other words, it tells the truth and lets the learner make of that truth what they will.

Step Four of the twelve steps in Alcoholic Anonymous-type recovery programs asks individuals to “make a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves,” in order to move forward into healing. As an entire country, Germany, ever since around 1990, has managed to do just that with many examples of commemoration that demonstrate the country’s willingness to face painful truths while contributing to an honest history lesson—lest they forget.  https://www.thelocal.de/20161019/how-germany-remembers-the-holocaust-world-war-two-nazis-jewish-history-germans/

Too many flag-waving Americans are in denial about their addiction to the glorified version of our beloved country. They want to paper over the cracks and flaws, and they proclaim that to criticize means to demean. It can mean that, sure, but it also means to assess, to analyze, and to evaluate—to bring into the light of day. Nothing hidden can contribute to healing.

As an editor, I believe that an effective critique of a piece of writing can operate the same as a critique of a society. Okay, it exposes the shortcomings, but in order to be a ‘searching a fearless assessment’, it also offers exposes areas needing improvement. Then it’s up to the writer, the student, or the citizen to create an upgrade they can be proud of.