Tara Revisited: Women, War, and the Plantation Legend by Catherine Clinton *****

Posted on June 13, 2014 by seattlebookmama

	First of all, if you are planning to visit Georgia with your family, don’t ask the tourist bureau to help you find Tara! It isn’t there. Neither is Scarlett or Mammy. They’re all fictional. Thank you; I feel much better having cleared the air. But nobody can make it clearer than author Catherine Clinton, who bursts the myth of the antebellum belle and her loyal house-slaves better with greater heat and light than I have ever seen done by any one historian before. In a time of increasing apology and revisionism that makes the American Civil War seem to have been merely a dreadful misunderstanding, and that decreases the social and material weight of the slaves it freed, Clinton’s historical smack back to reality makes me want to stand up and cheer! And also to thank Net Galley and Abbeville Press for the ARC. Clinton focuses primarily on Southern women, but she takes just about all of the myths of the “Lost Cause” and puts them through the shredder, introducing them and their origins, and in a manner meticulous but never, ever dull, demonstrates why each of them is incorrect. She doesn’t pussyfoot or hesitate to call bigotry by its name, but the tone is of the compelling storyteller rather than that of the lecturer. In a day when Caucasian Americans sometimes carelessly discard the complaints of people of color as “playing the race card” without first examining to see whether it has in fact been called out righteously, this succinct yet thorough narrative is refreshing, as if someone has opened the windows and let some of the cobwebs sweep away. Clinton uses the voices of Southern women, both Caucasian and Black, and recognizes that there is a dearth of the latter, but she has turned over every possible rock and ferreted out every last resource in the back stacks of government libraries dating clear back to the WPA to access what is available. She also quotes Mary Chesnut, a Caucasian Southerner whose diary is a mainstay of Civil War historians, enough and in enough interesting ways to make me want to go dig up my own copy, which bored me to tears the first two times I tried to slog through it. Filtered through Clinton’s prose, it is a lively and interesting vantage point. And she quotes WEB DuBois, one of my greatest heroes. There is one area where most US historians dislike to tread (or are perhaps unaware), and I read on with interest (this being the field in which I taught for many years) to see whether she would go there. She did. Not many American historians can bring themselves to discuss the deepest Southern shame (and by extension, America’s for having accommodated it so long) of slave breeding, a practice done in no other part of the world. In a time in which slavery was dying out across Europe, US border states, which had difficulty growing crops year ‘round to sustain the (minimal but still existent) expenses incurred by slaves, had turned to trafficking in human flesh, going so far as to select who should sleep with whom out in the quarters so that they would have the best possible product to sell once the progeny was born and weaned. Clinton does not use the word “breeding”, but she does describe it accurately. She also points out that actually, most white Southern women did not lead the lives of idle privilege that the cinema would have us believe; though their lives were many times better than that of slaves, they had a large household to manage without the labor saving devices technology would bring. And of course, most white households were not those of planters. She discusses the various social crumbs that were dropped for less affluent whites by the aristocracy in order to keep them from crossing the color line in solidarity with other toilers. I usually must abbreviate my reviews for fear I will give away all the meaty parts of a book and leave the reader no real purpose in checking it out personally. There is no danger of that here. This narrative is so deftly and expertly crafted that I found myself bookmarking more than half of its pages, because so many had a salient fact, interesting quote, or well-turned interpretation. I constantly found myself thinking, “Yes!” When Clinton mentioned the Southern fear of “miscegenation”, or racial intermarriage, this reviewer could not help a small intake of breath, given that in other times, I would be deemed guilty and my husband would likely be dead. If you have any interest whatsoever in the American Civil War, you need this book. If women’s history is of interest to you, get this book. If you care about issues of race in the United States, there are two recently published books that should adorn your shelves and be next-read if you have not done so: this book is one, and Isabel Wilkerson’s The Warmth of Other Suns. In a sense, Wilkerson picks up where (chronologically) Clinton leaves off. And if you have already read Wilkerson, you still need to read Clinton. What are you waiting for? Get out your credit card and order the book. You won’t be sorry.

First of all, if you are planning to visit Georgia with your family, don’t ask the tourist bureau to help you find Tara! It isn’t there. Neither is Scarlett or Mammy. They’re all fictional.

Thank you; I feel much better having cleared the air. But nobody can make it clearer than author Catherine Clinton, who bursts the myth of the antebellum belle and her loyal house-slaves better with greater heat and light than I have ever seen done by any one historian before. In a time of increasing apology and revisionism that makes the American Civil War seem to have been merely a dreadful misunderstanding, and that decreases the social and material weight of the slaves it freed, Clinton’s historical smack back to reality makes me want to stand up and cheer! And also to thank Net Galley and Abbeville Press for the ARC.

Clinton focuses primarily on Southern women, but she takes just about all of the myths of the “Lost Cause” and puts them through the shredder, introducing them and their origins, and in a manner meticulous but never, ever dull, demonstrates why each of them is incorrect. She doesn’t pussyfoot or hesitate to call bigotry by its name, but the tone is of the compelling storyteller rather than that of the lecturer. In a day when Caucasian Americans sometimes carelessly discard the complaints of people of color as “playing the race card” without first examining to see whether it has in fact been called out righteously, this succinct yet thorough narrative is refreshing, as if someone has opened the windows and let some of the cobwebs sweep away.

Clinton uses the voices of Southern women, both Caucasian and Black, and recognizes that there is a dearth of the latter, but she has turned over every possible rock and ferreted out every last resource in the back stacks of government libraries dating clear back to the WPA to access what is available. She also quotes Mary Chesnut, a Caucasian Southerner whose diary is a mainstay of Civil War historians, enough and in enough interesting ways to make me want to go dig up my own copy, which bored me to tears the first two times I tried to slog through it. Filtered through Clinton’s prose, it is a lively and interesting vantage point. And she quotes WEB DuBois, one of my greatest heroes.

There is one area where most US historians dislike to tread (or are perhaps unaware), and I read on with interest (this being the field in which I taught for many years) to see whether she would go there. She did. Not many American historians can bring themselves to discuss the deepest Southern shame (and by extension, America’s for having accommodated it so long) of slave breeding, a practice done in no other part of the world. In a time in which slavery was dying out across Europe, US border states, which had difficulty growing crops year ‘round to sustain the (minimal but still existent) expenses incurred by slaves, had turned to trafficking in human flesh, going so far as to select who should sleep with whom out in the quarters so that they would have the best possible product to sell once the progeny was born and weaned. Clinton does not use the word “breeding”, but she does describe it accurately.

She also points out that actually, most white Southern women did not lead the lives of idle privilege that the cinema would have us believe; though their lives were many times better than that of slaves, they had a large household to manage without the labor saving devices technology would bring. And of course, most white households were not those of planters. She discusses the various social crumbs that were dropped for less affluent whites by the aristocracy in order to keep them from crossing the color line in solidarity with other toilers.

I usually must abbreviate my reviews for fear I will give away all the meaty parts of a book and leave the reader no real purpose in checking it out personally. There is no danger of that here. This narrative is so deftly and expertly crafted that I found myself bookmarking more than half of its pages, because so many had a salient fact, interesting quote, or well-turned interpretation. I constantly found myself thinking, “Yes!”

When Clinton mentioned the Southern fear of “miscegenation”, or racial intermarriage, this reviewer could not help a small intake of breath, given that in other times, I would be deemed guilty and my husband would likely be dead.

If you have any interest whatsoever in the American Civil War, you need this book. If women’s history is of interest to you, get this book.

If you care about issues of race in the United States, there are two recently published books that should adorn your shelves and be next-read if you have not done so: this book is one, and Isabel Wilkerson’s The Warmth of Other Suns. In a sense, Wilkerson picks up where (chronologically) Clinton leaves off. And if you have already read Wilkerson, you still need to read Clinton.

What are you waiting for? Get out your credit card and order the book. You won’t be sorry.

How to Tell Toledo from the Night Sky, by Lydia Netzer *****

Posted on June 12, 2014 by seattlebookmama

	Imagine a complete collection of the Great Books. Add in all those that have won Pulitzers and the National Book. Do you see room for one more? If not, you’ll need to grab the title you never really thought belonged in this collection and toss it. Now, go ahead and slide this title in there, because it is where How to Tell Toledo from the Night Sky belongs. The story is about a pair of astronomers who were meant for one another on a whole lot of levels, but if, like me, astronomy bores you, this wonderful, quirky romance won’t. It contains a number of story elements that don’t usually appeal to me; the presence of a very unscientific sort of clairvoyance is one that usually causes me to close my book abruptly. This time, the story had me from hello, and it was going to take a lot more than that to turn me away. In the end, I didn’t want to. I received my copy electronically via Net Galley in exchange for a review. I’ve read and written about dozens of free books either there or via the Goodreads first reads program, and I have never suggested that any other book was worthy of a place among the timeless classics by which we define ourselves as a society and pass down to our children. I’ve read some really good books, but I haven’t read one this great in years. The suggestion that ancient Babylon was once where Toledo is seems a bit cheeky in some ways; typically American to assume it must be here somewhere. Those who hail from other countries won’t find it nearly so disturbing, I imagine, as will New Yorkers. But for our story’s purpose, the setting shouldn’t be anywhere except Toledo. Irene, the protagonist, returns to Toledo from her position in the south to take a prestigious position. She also arrives in time to deal with her dead mother’s remains and clean out the house. From there, nothing takes the trajectory that Irene has anticipated. A warm story that manages to be sentimental yet never maudlin, it pulled me in and I had to stay with Irene once I hit the halfway mark. I never thought once about character development, plot plausibility, pacing, transitions, or anything else. And once I was done, all I could think of was who else I should buy it for. Don’t miss it.

Imagine a complete collection of the Great Books. Add in all those that have won Pulitzers and the National Book. Do you see room for one more? If not, you’ll need to grab the title you never really thought belonged in this collection and toss it. Now, go ahead and slide this title in there, because it is where How to Tell Toledo from the Night Sky belongs.

The story is about a pair of astronomers who were meant for one another on a whole lot of levels, but if, like me, astronomy bores you, this wonderful, quirky romance won’t. It contains a number of story elements that don’t usually appeal to me; the presence of a very unscientific sort of clairvoyance is one that usually causes me to close my book abruptly. This time, the story had me from hello, and it was going to take a lot more than that to turn me away. In the end, I didn’t want to.

I received my copy electronically via Net Galley in exchange for a review. I’ve read and written about dozens of free books either there or via the Goodreads first reads program, and I have never suggested that any other book was worthy of a place among the timeless classics by which we define ourselves as a society and pass down to our children. I’ve read some really good books, but I haven’t read one this great in years.

The suggestion that ancient Babylon was once where Toledo is seems a bit cheeky in some ways; typically American to assume it must be here somewhere. Those who hail from other countries won’t find it nearly so disturbing, I imagine, as will New Yorkers. But for our story’s purpose, the setting shouldn’t be anywhere except Toledo.

Irene, the protagonist, returns to Toledo from her position in the south to take a prestigious position. She also arrives in time to deal with her dead mother’s remains and clean out the house.
From there, nothing takes the trajectory that Irene has anticipated. A warm story that manages to be sentimental yet never maudlin, it pulled me in and I had to stay with Irene once I hit the halfway mark. I never thought once about character development, plot plausibility, pacing, transitions, or anything else. And once I was done, all I could think of was who else I should buy it for.

Don’t miss it.

S Street Rising: Crack, Murder, and Redemption in D.C. by Ruben Castaneda *****

Posted on June 12, 2014 by seattlebookmama

	This book is remarkable, and I am not the tiniest bit surprised that its writer has won multiple awards. He began life as a journalist, and in part, that’s what this is about. It is a memoir at least four times over. Seamlessly, Castaneda weaves the history of S Street, a formerly down-and-out part of Washington, DC that holds deep personal meaning for him; his own personal story ; the history of local police and in particular, the use of gratuitous violence and what happens to those who try to shut that shit down; and also the memoir of a local street ministry and after school program linked to S Street and the area’s revival. It is braided together evenly and I cannot find a flaw in it (and I am picky). At the end, he ties the whole thing together and puts a bow on it, and my jaw dropped. Did he just do that? Yes, he did! Many thanks to Net Galley and Bloomsbury USA for the DRC. My initial thought was that it takes titanium cojones to not only write about the DC crack epidemic while being addicted to it (as well as alcohol), and THEN to come out and write a risky but much lauded magazine article about his own journey doing same, and his subsequent recovery (sixteen years, at the time this was written), and then, after all of that, to write a book about it. But it’s not just about guts. There are multiple essential messages he wants us to receive, and his strong word-smithery and pacing make it easy to keep turning the pages. The narrative is smooth as glass, transitions so natural they are hard to find. Twice I went back to the opening pages to make sure this was actually nonfiction, because it bears the crafting of a well-paced thriller. And it is highlighted by the journalistic integrity of the writer in what he recognizes is a dying craft: the investigative newspaper reporter. Looking through the pages of my own city’s less-than-laudable local press as well as TV news coverage, I see two types of journalists, for the greater part. One is the phone-it-in writer. Typically, it is an article about a corporation or organization and the subject of the piece has really done the writing. It shows up as news without anybody double checking the self-aggrandizement done by the firm in question. Easy story. The other is the heartless story-at-all-costs. Castaneda confesses to being an adrenaline junkie, and the reader must recognize that to keep the hours a journalist keeps for the salary provided, there would have to be a secondary payoff, that of satisfaction. But I do see journalists who go too far, the ones who will approach a mother whose babies have perished in a fire moments before, stick a microphone in her face, and bark, “Tell us how you are feeling at this time, ma’am.” Our author has a couple of sticky ethical decisions he has to make, decisions of integrity versus alpha-journalistic behavior, and he comes down more often than not on the side of the angels, and at least once, he does so at great cost to his career. This is really admirable. I have read over 200 memoirs, and yet there has never been one like this one. I cannot recommend it highly enough.

This book is remarkable, and I am not the tiniest bit surprised that its writer has won multiple awards. He began life as a journalist, and in part, that’s what this is about. It is a memoir at least four times over. Seamlessly, Castaneda weaves the history of S Street, a formerly down-and-out part of Washington, DC that holds deep personal meaning for him; his own personal story ; the history of local police and in particular, the use of gratuitous violence and what happens to those who try to shut that shit down; and also the memoir of a local street ministry and after school program linked to S Street and the area’s revival. It is braided together evenly and I cannot find a flaw in it (and I am picky). At the end, he ties the whole thing together and puts a bow on it, and my jaw dropped. Did he just do that? Yes, he did!

Many thanks to Net Galley and Bloomsbury USA for the DRC.

My initial thought was that it takes titanium cojones to not only write about the DC crack epidemic while being addicted to it (as well as alcohol), and THEN to come out and write a risky but much lauded magazine article about his own journey doing same, and his subsequent recovery (sixteen years, at the time this was written), and then, after all of that, to write a book about it.

But it’s not just about guts. There are multiple essential messages he wants us to receive, and his strong word-smithery and pacing make it easy to keep turning the pages. The narrative is smooth as glass, transitions so natural they are hard to find. Twice I went back to the opening pages to make sure this was actually nonfiction, because it bears the crafting of a well-paced thriller. And it is highlighted by the journalistic integrity of the writer in what he recognizes is a dying craft: the investigative newspaper reporter.

Looking through the pages of my own city’s less-than-laudable local press as well as TV news coverage, I see two types of journalists, for the greater part. One is the phone-it-in writer. Typically, it is an article about a corporation or organization and the subject of the piece has really done the writing. It shows up as news without anybody double checking the self-aggrandizement done by the firm in question. Easy story.

The other is the heartless story-at-all-costs. Castaneda confesses to being an adrenaline junkie, and the reader must recognize that to keep the hours a journalist keeps for the salary provided, there would have to be a secondary payoff, that of satisfaction. But I do see journalists who go too far, the ones who will approach a mother whose babies have perished in a fire moments before, stick a microphone in her face, and bark, “Tell us how you are feeling at this time, ma’am.” Our author has a couple of sticky ethical decisions he has to make, decisions of integrity versus alpha-journalistic behavior, and he comes down more often than not on the side of the angels, and at least once, he does so at great cost to his career. This is really admirable.

I have read over 200 memoirs, and yet there has never been one like this one. I cannot recommend it highly enough.

The Nanny Diaries, by Emma McLaughlin and Nicola Kraus ****

Posted on June 12, 2014 by seattlebookmama

	This was an awesome vacation read. I got it (as often happens) purely by chance, and I found it hugely entertaining. This is written by two actual former nannies who have removed all the names and created a sort of amalgam of the typical “Type A” nanny experience. I was fascinated by the coded language that makes the very rich able to look themselves in the mirror every morning and value themselves for doing absolutely nothing, including take care of their own child, at all, ever, despite his or her desperate needs, and their capacity to utterly dominate the lives of their servants, even when clear boundaries have been initially set as to times they are supposed to be working. It sounds like a nightmarish story, and in some ways it is at its most dreadful peak, but it is put together with such wry, deft storytelling that one feels one is at a slumber party getting the juicy tale rather than being dragged through the muck by the overly entitled wealthy New York jet set. I found myself going to sleep later and later on my trip because frankly, who could put it down? I can’t give it the fifth star, because I am one of those finicky reviewers who has to limit that category to literature that is amazing, either in its timelessness or occasionally, because it made me laugh sooo hard, or actually changed my world view. But what this is, is a really fun romp. And for those of you on this site while your nanny is keeping your child from making any noise in the house or touching any furniture outside his or her room…go be a parent!

This was an awesome vacation read. I got it (as often happens) purely by chance, and I found it hugely entertaining.

This is written by two actual former nannies who have removed all the names and created a sort of amalgam of the typical “Type A” nanny experience. I was fascinated by the coded language that makes the very rich able to look themselves in the mirror every morning and value themselves for doing absolutely nothing, including take care of their own child, at all, ever, despite his or her desperate needs, and their capacity to utterly dominate the lives of their servants, even when clear boundaries have been initially set as to times they are supposed to be working.

It sounds like a nightmarish story, and in some ways it is at its most dreadful peak, but it is put together with such wry, deft storytelling that one feels one is at a slumber party getting the juicy tale rather than being dragged through the muck by the overly entitled wealthy New York jet set. I found myself going to sleep later and later on my trip because frankly, who could put it down?

I can’t give it the fifth star, because I am one of those finicky reviewers who has to limit that category to literature that is amazing, either in its timelessness or occasionally, because it made me laugh sooo hard, or actually changed my world view. But what this is, is a really fun romp.

And for those of you on this site while your nanny is keeping your child from making any noise in the house or touching any furniture outside his or her room…go be a parent!

The Lost Get-Back Boogie, by James Lee Burke *****

Posted on June 12, 2014 by seattlebookmama

Whoa. Okay. I can’t BELIEVE what it says in the preface, that this novel was REJECTED 111 times…and then nominated for the Pulitzer. It’s raw, it’s vivid, and in places so painful that I had to read it in small jags at a time to break it up. That’s okay; it made this excellent novel last longer.

This is not a recent publication, but it’s one that has stood the test of time. It is also one of the first novels I read by this writer, and I became such a fan that I went back and read his entire Dave Robicheaux detective series in order. Sooner or later I will enter those books here, but for now, this stand-alone story is one of the best I have ever read, and it gives me an easy way to make sure this outstanding writer is on my blog somewhere.

Here it is clear that the protagonist (and likely the writer) has ABSOLUTELY NO use for the American prison system or cops in general, though he is careful to avoid stereotyping his characters, and even his bad guys have their better moments as well. Since I agree with his perspective, I found myself nodding in synch with the bald, raw statements made by the narrator as well as multiple characters within the story line.

But the guy is no bleeding heart; he also recognizes that people sometimes make some terrible choices to get inside those walls, and that those newly emerged often wreak a lot of damage to themselves and sometimes to others before they hit their stride, supposing that they do.

This is brilliantly written, and I don’t know what more to add to those who say that it is as much fun to read what he leaves unsaid as what he says outright. This early work shows a real gift, and it’s fun to go back and find out where he started.

Chump Change, by GM Ford *****

Posted on June 12, 2014 by seattlebookmama

From within the crowded field of mystery, crime thriller, and detective fiction writers, there are three still living who can make me laugh out loud without missing a beat or slowing the pace of a damn fine novel. GM Ford is one of them. (For the curious: James Lee Burke and Sue Grafton are the others.)

I celebrate whenever one of his novels, which had become something of a rarity in recent years, is published, and because of their whimsical yet biting nature, I prefer the Leo Waterman series to the excellent but not funny Frank Corso series.

Had this one not come up like a gift waiting to be unwrapped on Net Galley, it would have been on my Mother’s Day wish list.

When in Seattle, what should one do when a crime is being committed—whether property related or violent—within one’s view, or even to oneself? The knee jerk reaction is to call the cops; as Ford reminds us, we grew up expecting “Officer Friendly” to turn up with his big muscles and righteous justice, brimming with yearning to help the oppressed and exact justice. But that’s a myth. And right now, when SPD is in such hot water for its gratuitous use of violence that the FBI is monitoring its cops and the Justice Department is telling the new mayor that it’s not okay to substitute additional training in place of discipline, this novel could not have been better timed. Waterman falls for the 911 plea for assistance gambit twice, though he is old enough to know better. Chaos ensues both times, of course. When justice comes, it is because of the protagonist’s smarts and his excellent connections in other places.

Much of this novel is set on the Eastern side of the Cascades, out in wheat country near the Idaho border. And there, his fictional cops are about the same as those everywhere in the US of A: easily greased by the squeaky wheels that have the most resources. The gloves are off; the veneer of political correctness that sometimes hides the scruffier side of law enforcement in the state’s alpha city is nowhere to be seen way out there in good ol’ boy country.

Once again, Ford uses what would ordinarily be considered a trite device toward the story’s climax, but stews it in enough crazy juice to make it absolutely brand new. The only mitigation of my joy was in noting how few pages of the story remained.

I also appreciated what he does with his side kick character, who has done a really bad thing, but who is young enough to redeem himself in a fresh situation. The measures of forgiveness and caution are well played.

I hope this marvelous book will receive enough publicity and promotion for Ford’s work to be appreciated by a wider audience than local folk. He deserves it. Just as I enjoy a journey to Louisiana or Montana through the pages of Burke’s literature, or to Southern California through Grafton’s, so should everyone, including those who read the New York Times, be treated to a taste of Leo Waterman and the misty yet gritty city he calls home.

Maxwell Street Blues, by Marc Krulewitch ****

Posted on June 12, 2014 by seattlebookmama

Maxwell Street Blues is an entertaining first of a series by Marc Krulewitch. Set primarily in present-day Chicago, it has a noir flavor that takes the reader back about 60 years, despite the presence of meth as a key storyline component. Picture it all in black and white, the fog, the halo of the street light, the only thing missing are the fedora and the trench coat. We even have a mystery woman; no, make it two. And pay attention or you will lose track of which is which.

A brief change of setting, from Chicago to Los Angeles and suddenly the noir feeling evaporates and all is neon. Back to Chicago again; black and white, shadows and light.

The ghost of organized crime has come to call. Were it contemporary organized crime, it would be scurrilous, but it is from long ago in protagonist Landrau’s past. This struck a note for me; I have family mobsters two generations back. It’s rendered innocuous by the distance of time.

I very much enjoyed this read, which came to me free courtesy of Net Galley. There were a couple of moments that verged on the trite, and unfortunately they showed themselves in the climax. But as for me, I will cheerfully continue to read the rest of the series as it appears and becomes available. This is only the beginning, and it’s a very good one.

The Splendid Things We Planned: A Family Portrait, by Blake Bailey *****

Posted on June 12, 2014 by seattlebookmama

Blake Bailey is one hell of a writer. In this memoir of a family that is first twisted and then broken, he has given of himself in a way that is impossible to measure. It is a powerhouse of a memoir, a beacon that starts out distant and becomes gradually more focused and immediate in a way only a master of the genre can do. I feel fortunate for having been lucky enough to catch a glimpse free and in advance, courtesy of his publisher and the Goodreads.com first reads program. If you are drawn to haunting, searingly evocative memoirs, I recommend you go out and get a copy for yourself. You won’t forget this one.

In the beginning, he is so droll that I mistakenly dropped this story onto my “humor” shelf. It begins light, as childhood tends to be in spite of everything, and gradually, not unlike the “Clouds” he uses to end his story, it darkens, at first almost imperceptibly, then in a way that builds until the reader sits up, sits back (perhaps like me) to say, “Oh HELL no!” or, “Did that just happen?”

It did. And when you think about it, how could it be otherwise?

It is not just a good read, but also a damning indictment of the so-called justice system in the USA. How much human potential has been wasted in funding and resorting to incarceration when mental health care is so badly needed for so many?

I have a couple of quotations I had considered using, but why should I do that when I recommend that you read it yourself? It would ruin part of the discovery for you.

The silence when he finishes is thunderous and deafening.

I Love a Man in Uniform: A Memoir of Love, War, and Other Battles by Lily Burana ****

Posted on June 12, 2014 by seattlebookmama

	This was one of the most unlikely things I’d ever have guessed I would read. I found it in my favorite home-town used book store, and I read the blurb on the back. Huh. Might actually be interesting. Though I myself come from a family with lots of military folk, I have opposed every modern war in which the US involved itself, and I consider the American Civil War the last truly righteous US war. But I could see that this memoir had an outsider’s point of view, and from my (strangely many) friends who do come from military backgrounds, I had figured out that the military is a culture unto itself. So…how would a former stripper accommodate herself to a military lifestyle? And just how does a former exotic dancer end up marrying into the military…to an officer, no less? See what I mean? It really does leave a swirl of question marks dancing in the air around it. I can’t quote from the book, because I bought it, read it, and gave it to (who else?) a friend whose family was military, before I began writing reviews. But I will tell you this: it is a story like no other. And if, like me, you want to avoid smut in your reading material, relax. This story is not about sex. It’s about the fear many of us have of what would happen if someone important to us finds out who we really are, or at least, used to be. In the author’s case, the problem is exponential. Not only is her marriage on the line (because she kept this nugget to herself until after they’d both said “I do”), but all of the new friendships she has found on the base may fold up around her and exclude her, talk about her if this thing becomes known. It’s enough to drive a woman to a nervous breakdown. Whether you are military, a peacenik, or just a person who loves an absorbing memoir, this is unique and very readable. Recommended for all, except children.

This was one of the most unlikely things I’d ever have guessed I would read. I found it in my favorite home-town used book store, and I read the blurb on the back. Huh. Might actually be interesting.

Though I myself come from a family with lots of military folk, I have opposed every modern war in which the US involved itself, and I consider the American Civil War the last truly righteous US war. But I could see that this memoir had an outsider’s point of view, and from my (strangely many) friends who do come from military backgrounds, I had figured out that the military is a culture unto itself. So…how would a former stripper accommodate herself to a military lifestyle? And just how does a former exotic dancer end up marrying into the military…to an officer, no less?

See what I mean? It really does leave a swirl of question marks dancing in the air around it.

I can’t quote from the book, because I bought it, read it, and gave it to (who else?) a friend whose family was military, before I began writing reviews. But I will tell you this: it is a story like no other. And if, like me, you want to avoid smut in your reading material, relax. This story is not about sex. It’s about the fear many of us have of what would happen if someone important to us finds out who we really are, or at least, used to be.

In the author’s case, the problem is exponential. Not only is her marriage on the line (because she kept this nugget to herself until after they’d both said “I do”), but all of the new friendships she has found on the base may fold up around her and exclude her, talk about her if this thing becomes known.

It’s enough to drive a woman to a nervous breakdown.

Whether you are military, a peacenik, or just a person who loves an absorbing memoir, this is unique and very readable. Recommended for all, except children.

The Wrong Carlos: Anatomy of a Wrongful Execution, by James S. Liebman ****

Posted on June 12, 2014 by seattlebookmama

Has anyone ever been proved to have been executed in the USA for a crime s/he did not commit? I would have thought this was a no-brainer, but then, I have watched the so-called criminal “justice” system ruin basically good kids and incarcerate exponentially larger numbers of people—primarily people of color—for doing small things that would never touch a white person of material substance. I’ve seen it unfold in multiple cities and in diverse situations. It’s endemic. It amazes me that anyone felt a study needed to be done in order to demonstrate what is naked before our eyes in any major city and a lot of smaller towns, too.

However, apparently some academics at Columbia University believed the answer was less than clear, and so in the chillingly clinical writing of the intelligentsia, they lay out, sometimes minute by minute, sometimes hour by hour, the entire case of the murder of Wanda Lopez. Wanda was a convenience store clerk; Carlos Hernandez appears to have been a sadistic sociopath who enjoyed using his knife on human beings. (After being sent up once for using a gun, he drew the only natural conclusion: in the future, kill people using a knife, not a gun. Logical, right?)

There is testimony; there are photographs; and if you want to go online and watch videos (heaven help us all), you can do that too.

DNA tests should hypothetically be definitive in capital murder cases today, but they are very expensive and (as the recent Amanda Knox trial in Italy demonstrates), they can also be ambiguous. For example, one can argue whether a person’s DNA is present in a given place for a good reason; then too, DNA must be matched to someone who’s on file, and if the person in question has never been in trouble and got away clean, you might as well be holding yesterday’s newspaper as the DNA of who-knows-who.

Ultimately, as this case demonstrates using eerily dry language rather than the kind of compelling narrative one might generally expect, the courts spend more time and effort on those who are in a position to hire competent counsel, garner community support, and have others actively advocating for them. On the other hand, those who are alienated and dispossessed; those who fear law enforcement too much to come forward in someone else’s defense; those who don’t have the funds for transportation or who fear taking time off and losing the hard-won job that represents the thin, dim line between barely scraping by and being out on the street; these folks get sent up easily, and a case is closed.

Neither Carlos was an angel, goodness knows. The innocent-of-murder Carlos was a convicted rapist who pleaded no contest and admits that he tore a woman’s clothing off her body so he could force her to have sex. With the inclusion of such facts, the man who was executed becomes a much less sympathetic character, but the point of the Columbia scholars is not to restore the good name of Carlos DeLuna or to excoriate the memory of Carlos Hernandez (also dead now); it is to prove the point they set out to prove: at least one person has been sent to his death when he was innocent of the crime for which he was executed. If anyone doubts the truth of this statement, I invite them to read this cold, horrible indictment of the US “Justice” system.

For some of us, there was no doubt to begin with.