Fullejava el conegut llibre de Stephen R. Covey, The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People, amb l'habitual menyspreu amb què els elitistes contemplam els llibres d'autoajuda, i estava a punt de deixar-lo anar, tot satisfet de mi mateix, quan aquesta història em va fer adonar que potser no era tan llest, jo, i que potser sí que ho era, l'autor...
A few years ago, my wife Sandra and I were struggling with this kind of concern. One of our sons was having a very difficult time in school. He was doing poorly academically; he didn't even know how to follow the instructions on the tests, let alone do well in them. Socially he was immature, often embarrassing those closest to him. Athletically, he was small, skinny, and uncoordinated -- swinging his baseball bat, for example, almost before the ball was even pitched. Others would laugh at him.
Sandra and I were consumed with a desire to help him. We felt that if "success" were important in any area of life, it was supremely important in our role as parents. So we worked on our attitudes and behavior toward him and we tried to work on his. We attempted to psyche him up using positive mental attitude techniques. "Come on, son! You can do it! We know you can. Put your hands a little higher on the bat and keep your eye on the ball. Don't swing till it gets close to you." And if he did a little better, we would go to great lengths to reinforce him. "That's good, son, keep it up." When others laughed, we reprimanded them. "Leave him alone. Get off his back. He's just learning." And our son would cry and insist that he'd never be any good and that he didn't like baseball anyway. Nothing we did seemed to help, and we were really worried. We could see the effect this was having on his self-esteem. We tried to be encouraging and helpful and positive, but after repeated failure, we finally drew back and tried to look at the situation on a different level.
At this time in my professional role I was involved in leadership development work with various clients throughout the country. In that capacity I was preparing bimonthly programs on the subject of communication and perception for IBM's Executive Development Program participants. As I researched and prepared these presentations, I became particularly interested in how perceptions are formed, how they behave. This led me to a study of expectancy theory and self-fulfilling prophecies or the "Pygmalion effect," and to a realization of how deeply imbedded our perceptions are. It taught me that we must look at the lens through which we see the world, as well as at the world we see, and that the lens itself shapes how we interpret the world.
As Sandra and I talked about the concepts I was teaching at IBM and about our own situation, we began to realize that what we were doing to help our son was not in harmony with the way we really saw him. When we honestly examined our deepest feelings, we realized that our perception was that he was basically inadequate, somehow "behind." No matter how much we worked on our attitude and behavior, our efforts were ineffective because, despite our actions and our words, what we really communicated to him was, "You aren't capable. You have to be protected." We began to realize that if we wanted to change the situation, we first had to change ourselves. And to change ourselves effectively, we first had to change our perceptions.
As Sandra and I talked, we became painfully aware of the powerful influence of our character and motives and of our perception of him. We knew that social comparison motives were out of harmony with our deeper values and could lead to conditional love and eventually to our son's lessened sense of self-worth. So we determined to focus our efforts on us -- not on our techniques, but on our deepest motives and our perception of him. Instead of trying to change him, we tried to stand apart -- to separate us from him -- and to sense his identity, individuality, separateness, and worth. Through deep thought and the exercise of faith and prayer, we began to see our son in terms of his own uniqueness. We saw within him layers and layers of potential that would be realized at his own pace and speed. We decided to relax and get out of his way and let his own personality emerge. We saw our natural role as being to affirm, enjoy, and value him. We also conscientiously worked on our motives and cultivated internal sources of security so that our own feelings of worth were not dependent on our children's "acceptable" behavior.
As we loosened up our old perception of our son and developed value-based motives, new feelings began to emerge. We found ourselves enjoying him instead of comparing or judging him. We stopped trying to clone him in our own image or measure him against social expectations. We stopped trying to kindly, positively manipulate him into an acceptable social mold. Because we saw him as fundamentally adequate and able to cope with life, we stopped protecting him against the ridicule of others. He had been nurtured on this protection, so he went through some withdrawal pains, which he expressed and which we accepted, but did not necessarily respond to. "We don't need to protect you," was the unspoken message. "You're fundamentally okay."
As the weeks and months passed, he began to feel a quiet confidence and affirmed himself. He began to blossom, at his own pace and speed. He became outstanding as measured by standard social criteria -- academically, socially and athletically -- at a rapid clip, far beyond the so-called natural developmental process. As the years passed, he was elected to several student body leadership positions, developed into an all-state athlete and started bringing home straight A report cards. He developed an engaging and guileless personality that has enabled him to relate in nonthreatening ways to all kinds of people.
Sandra and I believe that our son's "socially impressive" accomplishments were more a serendipitous expression of the feelings he had about himself than merely a response to social reward. This was an amazing experience for Sandra and me, and a very instructional one in dealing with our other children and in other roles as well. It brought to our awareness on a very personal level the vital difference between the personality ethic and the character ethic of success. The Psalmist expressed our conviction well: "Search your own heart with all diligence for out of it flow the issues of life."
[Edited for conciseness]
So I went on reading...
No és que vulgui això:
When I go to a site like the New York Times or the San Jose Mercury, it should know what I am interested in and what has changed since my last visit. If I read the story on the US stimulus package only six hours ago, then just show me the updates the reporter has filed since then (and the most interesting responses from readers, bloggers, or other sources). If Thomas Friedman has filed a column since I last checked, tell me that on the front page. Beyond that, present to me a front page rich with interesting content selected by smart editors, customized based on my reading habits (tracked with my permission)
ni molt menys això...
Imaginen esta escena: Barajas, 9 de enero de 2009. Una nevada ha paralizado el aeropuerto. Miles de pasajeros ven en las pantallas que sus vuelos han sido cancelados o retrasados. Inmediatamente, la mayoría de ellos reciben en sus teléfonos móviles un SMS de su compañía aérea, para verificar que tienen sus datos correctos, con su nombre, número de vuelo, y código de reserva, y que tienen el teléfono operativo. También les dicen que a partir de ese momento recibirán por SMS cada hora, o cuando haya cambios, información sobre el status del vuelo. Mensajes similares reciben también personas que aún no han salido de sus casa u oficinas, pero cuyos vuelos se sabe ya que están retrasados o cancelados.
Otro SMS les envía, a los que tienen derecho a ello, un código con el cual pueden recoger en las cafeterías del aeropuerto bebida y comida. Aquellos que tienen que pasar la noche en Madrid reciben también un SMS pidiéndoles su confirmación sobre si necesitan hotel o traslados a los mismos. En caso afirmativo reciben instrucciones de traslados y códigos que sirven como bonos en los hoteles. Los pasajeros de vuelos cancelados o muy retrasados reciben por SMS información de las opciones disponibles (cancelación del viaje, reacomodo en otro vuelo, aplazamiento para otro día) a las que pueden responder también por SMS. Con los códigos recibidos pueden imprimir en las máquinas de auto-checkin sus nuevas tarjetas de embarque, si son necesarias.
... però, seria possible, després d'anys i anys de fer la mateixa operació en els caixers automàtics (retirar 20 euros, només vint, i sempre vint, i no res més), que deixàs de demanar-me, al final, si en vull fer una altra? No em podria donar els 20 euros i el bon dia estimat usuari i deixar de fer-me perdre el temps?
A la fira del llibre en català que s'ha inaugurat avui a Palma he estat fullejant un llibre que m'ha interessat, Consells per a pares imperfectes. Sense haver-lo llegit, puc dir aiximateix que el llibre és bo, ni que sigui tan sols perquè la llista d'errors, vint, que els autors apleguen en l'índex (cada error ocupa un capítol específic) és adequada, aguda, i comprensiva —completament certa. Es la següent:
Obligar els infants a menjar
Adormir-los
Alimentar-los exclusivament amb allò que més els agrada
Sobreprotegir-los
Confondre símptomes amb malalties
Cedir a les rebequeries
No establir límits clars de comportament
No valorar l'esforç suficientment
Suposar que no senten gelosia
Projectar-se en els fills
Valorar la seva opinió tant com la nostra
Enganyar-los
No prestar atenció als seus èxits petits
Negar els seus monstres o fantasmes
Etiquetar-los
Menystenir els seus problemes
Ridiculitzar-los o criticar els seus amics
No donar-los un entorn previsible
Confiar en ells al cent per cent
Amagar els nostres errors o limitacions
I qui no els hagi comès, tots i cadascun, un cop i un altre també, que aixequi la mà...
Jo, per la meva banda, n'afegiria un: negar-los el respecte que, com a persones, mereixen igual que tothom; un respecte que els neguem cada cop que els mentim, però també en desenes d'altres ocasions —quan, per exemple, parlam d'ells davant d'ells, talment com si no hi fossin; o quan obviem les disculpes que els devem, quan els hem tractat injustament o mesquinament. I recíprocament: no exigir-los el respecte que els pares i els altres adults i infants, no específicament com a tals, sinó com a persones, mereixen tant com ells.
I encara un altre: esperar que sàpiguen fer, com per iŀluminació divina, tot allò que no hem tingut ni el pensament d'ensenyar-los a fer; o en altres paraules: donar l'aprenentatge, tant d'habilitats pràctiques com socials i inteŀlectuals, per suposat. I lamentar-nos-en després, amargament si cal, tot donant la culpa als altres, és a dir als mestres, és clar.
El problema amb els llibres d'autoajuda és que només són útils a aquells que no necessiten l'ajuda. La iŀlusió, o l'esperança, dels lectors és que seguint les indicacions de l'autor trobaran la solució als seus problemes; no se n'adonen que la solució presentada per l'autor és indissociable d'una manera de veure el món i d'afrontar-lo que no és la dels lectors necessitats; perquè aquests poguessin beneficiar-se de les prescripions de l'autor, haurien de compartir-hi la visió del món i els trets bàsics de personalitat. Però si així fos, haurien organitzat ja la seva vida de manera que no tindrien els problemes per als quals ara cerquen solucions; en les prescripcions de l'autor hi veurien, simplement, la pròpia manera d'actuar --magníficament analitzada i categoritzada, si el llibre és bo, això sí. Pensar que una personalitat A pot solucionar els seus problemes aplicant la metodologia pròpia d'una personalitat B és l'error fonamental --i el resultat habitual és un fracàs en certa manera alliberador.
(As a follow-up to this yesterday twitter of mine:
Browsing some books JC has sent me, Dale Carnegie's kind, from authors with funny names like Napoleon Hill. )
Podria, i potser deuria, aparentar indiferència, o adoptar un posat irònic, o millor encara, no fer cap referència en absolut, com si la cosa no anàs amb mi. I tanmateix, ací estic, escrivint en públic, confessant la destemprança, fent palesa la debilitat. No ha passat un dia, en tot aquest any, que no hi hagi pensat.
La impressió que em fa TF és la contrària a la meua. El veig completament determinat, segur d'ell mateix, tranquil, i satisfet amb la situació. Que la cosa està com ell vol que estiga i que s'hi sent bé. No ho dic amb rancúnia --ho dic amb enveja. Crec que per primera vegada en la meua vida estic en el costat turbulent, inestable, feble, d'una relació.
No tenc l'orgull ferit --no és això. Hi ha, però, una qüestió en la que sí que hi intervé: al contrari del què li vaig dir, m'ho he repensat i no aniré a demanar-li explicacions. No les necessit, jo sé el que he fet i el que no he fet i consider que siguin quines siguin les raons de la ruptura, concretes o abstractes, importants o banals, és qui trenca qui ha de dur la iniciativa.
Però no escric això amb cap esperança, no és un ham, no necessit realment cap explicació i no la deman. No pens, sincerament, que puguem tornar a cap passat, ni que tingam cap futur. Tampoc no em pesa que em pesi --la persistència i intensitat del dolor de la pèrdua m'ha fet sentir bé amb mi mateix, m'ha ajudat a conèixer-me, m'ha fet conscient del valor que per mi tenen els amics de veritat. Però m'agradaria arribar a la clausura, al tancament, i que mentrestant ens deixàssim de pardalades.
Tinc davant el calendari que ha publicat l'Institut Balear de la Dona per a l'any 2009. Aquest Institut ha gastat una quantitat considerable dels diners de tots per fer una sèrie de preguntes, una per cada mes, als homes d'aquestes illes. Per exemple, el gener és Fem dissabte cada setmana tots junts. I tu per què no? amb el dibuix d'un pare passant l'aspiradora. Al febrer, L'educació és cosa de tots. I tu per què no?, amb un pare assegut a taula fent els deures amb la seva filla. A l'abril, A la família ens repartim les tasques. I tu per què no? etc. (fins i tot, juny: Separam la roba per colors, i tu per què no? i desembre: Planificam els dinars i sopars familiars, i tu per què no?)
El govern demanant-me que per què, quan pos la rentadora, no separ la roba per colors. I que com així que no vaig pensar de convidar els cunyats per la nit de Nadal.
I per què demanen als homes tot això? Realment creuen que el gruix de masclistes que aquesta societat patriarcal produeix, en llegir les inscripcions del calendari, comprendran la veritat, se n'adonaran de la iniquitat del seu comportament, abraçaran la fe progressista, demanaran perdó a les seves dones per tota una vida d'opressió i abús, i se posaran a planxar i a separar la roba mentre, de pas, pensen com podrien contribuir a millorar el món a través de l'Aliança de les Civilitzacions?
Segur que ho creuen, perquè la inteŀligència no abunda, en segons quins Instituts del Govern. Ara bé: quan vegin que, l'any que ve, els homes segueixen sense separar la roba, passaran a l'acció amb la promulgació d'una llei de paritat qualsevol que obligarà els marits a separar una forquilla de roba que osciŀlarà entre el quaranta i el seixanta per cent de la bugada diària. Que de considerats i flexibles, ho són.
¿I perquè, en comptes de demanar a l'explotador que renunciï voluntàriament a l'explotació (cosa ben poc probable, com tothom que hagi viscut més de dos dies sap perfectament), no demanen a l'explotada per què continua tolerant ser explotada? Perquè no gosen sentir la resposta, evidentment. Perquè, què passaria si les demanades contestassin coses com ara:
Mira, sóc beneita, se veu, o
Ja em va bé així, o
Ni tu estàs tan bé, ni jo estic tan malament, o
Tot té avantatges i inconvenients, o
I tu, què sabràs, de com van les coses dins ca meva, o
I tu, que n'has de fer, de com organitz jo la meva vida familiar?
Doncs passaria que s'acabarien les excuses per malgastar diners públics, per continuar tractant-nos com a infants, i per seguir restringint la llibertat en nom del Món Feliç del Correcte-Progressisme.
I've added some more poems to my selection from The Young Oxford Book of Christmas Poems. Click here to read them; they're worth it. Here's one:
The Thorn, by
Helen Dunmore
There was no berry on the bramble only the thorn, there was no rose, not one petal, only the bare thorn the night he was born. There was no voice to guide them, only the wind's whistling, there was no light in the stable, only the starshine and a candle guttering the night he was born.
Diu Anne Applebaum a Slate : Moral authority, or any authority, is something people earn, thanks to their achievements and the quality of their ideas—and it is something they can sustain only if they know how to advertise themselves.
From the normblog profile, Hilzoy: What commonly enjoyed activities do you regard as a waste of time? > Gambling. I have proposed to several of my friends that they simply give me money, and every so often, at random unpredictable intervals, I will give some of it back to them. They do not think this is the same. I honestly don't see why not.
Next time M. ask about the origin of the Universe, make him read the very first paragraphs of Bill Bryson's A Short History of Nearly Everything :
No matter how hard you try you will never be able to grasp just how tiny, how spatially unassuming, is a proton. It is just way too small.
A proton is an infinitesimal part of an atom, which is itself of course an insubstantial thing. Protons are so small that a little dib of ink like the dot on this i can hold something in the region of 500.000.000.000 of them, rather more than the number of seconds contained in half a million years. So protons are exceedingly microscopic, to say the very least.
Now imagine if you can (and of course you can't) shrinking one of those protons down to a billionth of its normal size into a space so small that it would make a proton look enormous. Now pack into that tiny, tiny space about an ounce (28.3 g) of matter. Excellent. You are ready to start a universe.
I'm assuming of course that you wish to build an inflationary universe. If you'd prefer instead to build a more old-fashioned, standard Big Bang universe, you'll need additional materials. In fact, you will need to gather up everything there is—every last mote and particle of matter between here and the edge of creation—and squeeze it into a spot so infinitesimally compact that it has no dimensions at all. It is known as a singularity.
In either case, get ready for a really big bang. Naturally, you will wish to retire to a safe place to observe the spectacle. Unfortunately, there is nowhere to retire to because outside the singularity there is no where. When the universe begins to expand, it won't be expanding out to fill a larger emptiness. The only space that exists is the space it creates as it goes.
L'hàbit de dir sempre la veritat té una conseqüència indirecta, la d'afavorir el comportament recte en cada moment --si després no vas a poder mentir, més val fer les coses de manera que la veritat de les quals no t'ocasioni problemes. També, és clar, potencia la responsabilitat en el comportament i dóna una mesura de la vàlua personal. Som tan propensos a mentir, fins i tot en les coses insignificants, que n'hem fet un modus vivendi que, contràriament a allò esperat, complica la vida i la devalua; els pares, especialment, exigim honestedat d'uns fills als quals no fem altra cosa que mentir de totes les maneres possibles i imaginables.
Les dites són una gran oportunitat, i excusa, per plantejar reflexions a M. que altrament seria difícil de tenir o provocar.
Avui he tingut un estrany moment de melangia, com els que sovint tenia abans i que feia molts anys que no em venien. Es curiós, perquè només feia uns dies que havia pensat que, d'aquests moments de reminiscència melancòlica, ja no en tenia.
Documents extraordinaris hi ha pocs, i aquest n'és un --la paraula dels qui varen sofrir l'arrabassament de l'única dignitat possible, la humana.
Extractes del llibre:
Slave Narratives: A Folk History of Slavery in the United States from Interviews with Former Slaves, Arkansas Narratives, Part 4.
Autor: Work Projects Administration
Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson
Person interviewed: Taylor Jackson, Edmondson, Arkansas
Age: 88?
[Date Stamp: MAY 11 1938]
"I was born two miles from Baltimore, Maryland. I was a good size boy.
My father carried me to see the war flag go up. There was an awful
crowd, one thousand people, there. I had two masters in this country
besides in Virginia. When war was declared there was ten boats of
niggers loaded at Washington and shipped to New Orleans. We stayed in
the 'Nigger Traders Yard' there about three months. But we was not to
be sold. Master Cupps [Culps?] owned father, mother and all of us. If
they gained the victory he was to take us back to Virginia. I never
knowed my grandparents. The yard had a tall brick wall around it. We
had a bunk room, good cotton pads to sleep on and blankets. On one
side they had a wall fixed to go up on from the inside and twelve
platforms. You could see them being sold on the inside and the crowd
on the outside. When they auctioned them off they would come, pick out
what they wanted to sell next and fill them blocks again. They sold
niggers all day long. They come in another drove they had, had men out
buying over the country. They come in thick wood doors with iron nails
bradded through, fastened on big hinges, fastened it with chains and
iron bars. The house was a big red brick house. We didn't get none too
much to eat at that place. I reckon one side was three hundred yard
long of the wall and the house was that long. Some of them in there
cut their hands off with a knife or ax. Well, they couldn't sell
them. Nobody would buy them. I don't know what they ever done with
them. Plenty of them would cut their hand off if they could get
something to cut with to keep from being sold.
"A Negro on a joining farm run off. They hunted him with the dogs and
they found him at a log. Heap his legs froze, so the white doctor had
to cut them off. He was on Solomon's farms. After that he got to be a
cooper. He made barrels and baskets--things he could do sittin' in his
chair. They picked him up and made stumps for him. Some folks was
mean.
"I couldn't tell how many I ever seen sold. I seen some sold in
Virginia, I reckon, or Maryland--one off the boats. They kept them
tied. They was so scared they might do anything, jump in the big
waters. They couldn't talk but to some and he would tell white folks
what he said. [They used an interpreter.] Some couldn't understand one
another if they come from far apart in the foreign country. Slavery
wasn't never bad on me. I never was sold off from my folks and I had
warmer, better clothes 'an I have now. I had plenty to eat, more'an I
has now generally. I had better in slavery than I have now. That is
the truth. I'm telling the truth, I did. Some didn't.
Interviewer: Samuel S. Taylor
Person interviewed: Lula Jackson, 1808 Valentine Street, Little Rock, Arkansas
Age: 79?
"My mother's name was Bertha Williams and my father's name was Fred
Williams. [...] Early Hurt was mama's master. He had an awful
name and he was an awful man. He whipped you till he'd bloodied you
and blistered you. Then he would cut open the blisters and drop
sealing-wax in them and in the open wounds made by the whips.
"My mother's second husband was named Fred Williams, and he was my
father. All this was in slavery times. I am his oldest child. He
raised all his children and all his stepchildren too. He and my mother
lived together for over forty years, until she was more than seventy.
He was much younger than she was--just eighteen years old when he
married her. And she was a woman with five children. But she was a
real wife to him. Him and her would fight, too. She was jealous of
him. Wouldn't be none of that with me. Honey, when you hit me once,
I'm gone. Ain't no beatin' on me and then sleepin' in the same bed
with you. But they fit and then they lived together right on. No
matter what happened, his clean clothes were ready whenever he got
ready to go out of the house--even if it was just to go to work. His
meals were ready whenever he got ready to eat. They were happy
together till she died.
Husband's Death
"I told you my first husband got killed. The mule run away with his
plow and throwed him a summerset. His head was where his heels should
have been, he said, and the mule dragged him. His chest was crushed,
and mashed. His face was cut and dirtied. He lived nine days and a
half after he was hurt and couldn't eat one grain of rice. I never
left his bedside 'cept to cook a little broth for him. That's all he
would eat--just a little broth.
"He said to his friend, 'See this little woman of mine? I hate to
leave her. She's just such a good little woman. She ain't got no
business in this world without a husband.'
"And his friend said to him, 'Well, you might as well make up your
mind you got to leave her, 'cause you goin' to do it.'
"He got hurt on Thursday and I couldn't git a doctor till Friday. Dr.
Harper, the plantation doctor, had got his house burned and his hands
hurt. So he couldn't come out to help us. Finally Dr. Hodges come. He
come from Sunnyside, Mississippi, and he charge me fourteen dollars.
He just made two trips and he didn't do nothin'.
"Bowls and pitchers were in style then. And I always kept a pitcher of
clean water in the house. I looked up and there was a bunch of men
comin' in the house. It was near dark then. They brought Sampson in
and carried him to the bed and put him down. I said, 'What's the
matter with Frank?' And they said, 'The mule drug him.' And they put
him on the bed and went on out. I dipped a handkerchief in the water
and wet it and put it in his mouth and took out great gobs of dust
where the mule had drug him in the dirt. They didn't nobody help me
with him then; I was there alone with him.
Whippings
"Early Hurt had an overseer named Sanders. He tied my sister Crecie to
a stump to whip her. Crecie was stout and heavy. She was a grown young
woman and big and strong. Sanders had two dogs with him in case he
would have trouble with anyone. When he started layin' that lash on
Crecie's back, she pulled up that stump and whipped him and the dogs
both.
"Old Early Hurt came up and whipped her hisself. Said, 'Oh, you're too
bad for the overseer to whip, huh?'
"We had a old lady named 'Aunt' Charlotte; she wasn't my aunt, we jus'
called her that. She used to keep the children when the hands were
working. If she liked you she would treat your children well. If she
didn't like you, she wouldn't treat them so good. Her name was
Charlotte Marley. She was too old to do any good in the field; and she
had to take care of the babies. If she didn't like the people, she
would leave the babies' napkins on all day long, wet and filthy.
"My papa's mama, Sarah, was killed by lightning. She was ironing and
was in a hurry to get through and get the supper on for her master,
Early Hurt. I was the oldest child, and I always was scared of
lightning. A dreadful storm was goin' on. I was under the bed and I
heard the thunder bolt and the crash and the fall. I heard mama
scream. I crawled out from under the bed and they had grandma laid out
in the middle of the floor. Mama said, 'Child, all the friend you got
in the world is dead.' Early Hurt was standin' over her and pouring
buckets of water on her. When the doctor come, he said, 'You done
killed her now. If you had jus' laid her out on the ground and let the
rain fall on her, she would have come to, but you done drownded her
now.' She wouldn't have died if it hadn't been for them buckets of
water that Early Hurt throwed in her face.
Interviewer: Thomas Elmore Lucy
Person interviewed: Mary Jackson, Russellville, Arkansas
Age: 75?
"My name is Mary Jackson, and I was born in Miller Grove, Hunt County,
Texas during the War. No sir, I do not know the year. Our master's
name was Dixon, and he was a wealthy plantation owner, had lots of
property in Hunt County.
"The days after the War--called the Reconstruction days, I
believe--were sure exciting, and I can 'mind' a lot of things the
people did, one of them a big barbecue celebration commemoratin' the
return of peace. They had speeches, and music by the band--and there
were a lot of soldiers carrying guns and wearing some kind of big
breastplates. The white children tried to scare us by telling us the
soldiers were coming to kill us little colored children. The band
played 'Dixie' and other familiar tunes that the people played and
sang in those days.
"Yes sir, I remember the Klu Klux Klan. They sure kept us frightened
and we would always run and hide when we heard they were comin'. I
don't know of any special harm they done but we were afraid of em.
Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson
Person interviewed: Virginia Jackson, Helena, Arkansas
Age: 74
[Date Stamp: MAY 31 1938]
"Mother said I was born the same year peace was declared. I was born
before the Civil War close, I reckon. I was born in Tunica,
Mississippi. Mother belong to Mistress Cornelia and Master John Hood.
He come from Alabama in wagons and brought mother and whole lot of
'em, she said, to Tunica, Mississippi. My mother and father never
sold. They told me that. She said she was with the master and he give
her to father. He ask her did she want him and ask him if he want her.
They lived on joint places. They slept together on Wednesday and
Saturday nights. He stayed at Hood's place on Sunday. They was owned
by different masters. They didn't never say 'bout stepping over no
broom. He was a Prince. When he died she married a man named Russell.
I never heard her say what his name was. My father was Mathew Prince.
They was both field hands. I never knowed my father. I called my
stepfather popper. I always did say mother.
Interviewer: Mrs. Bernice Bowden
Person interviewed: William Jackson, Route 6, Box 81, Pine Bluff, Arkansas
Age: 84
"Me? Well, I was born July 12, 1853. Now you can figure that up.
"I was sold four times in slavery times. I was sold through the nigger
traders and you know they didn't keep you long.
"I was born in Tennessee, raised in Mississippi, and been here in
Arkansas up and down the Arkansas River ever since I was fifteen.
"A fellow bought me in Tennessee and sold me to a fellow named Abe
Collins in Mississippi. He sold me to Dr. Maloney and then Winn and
Trimble in Hempstead County bought me. They run a tanyard.
"I went to school one day in my life. My third master's children
learned me my ABC's in slavery times. I'm not educated but I can read.
Read the Bible and something like that.
"The Ku Klux run me one night. They come to the door and I went out
the window. They went to my master's tanyard in broad open day and
took leather. Oh, I been all through the roughness. But the Lord has
blessed me ever since I been in this world. I can see good and hear
good and get about.
"I come here to Arkansas with some refugees, and I been up and down
the river ever since.
"In slavery times I had plenty to eat, such as 'twas. Had biscuits on
Sunday made out of shorts.
"I lived with one man, Dr. Maloney, who was pretty cruel. I run away
from him once, but he caught me fore night. Put me in a little house
on bread and water for three or four days and then he sold me. Said he
wouldn't have a nigger that would run away. Otherwise I been treated
pretty well.
"I come to Pine Bluff in '82. Last place I farmed was at what they
call the Nichol place.
"I used to vote Republican--wouldn't let us vote nothin' else. In this
country they won't let niggers vote in the primary 'cause they can
vote in the presidential election. I held one office--justice of the
peace.
"If the younger generation don't change, the Lord goin' to put curses
on em. That's just what's goin' to come of em. More you do for em the
worse they is. Don't think about the future--just today."
La meua entrada, si s'accepta, per al Diccionari afectiu de la llengua catalana
GLUTEN
Allò que el meu fill no pot menjar.
Substància maleïda que en panxeta d'innocent causa dolor de mal diagnòstic, vespres insomnes, vòmits constants i diarrea incessant; que agafa un infant i l'interromp el creixement, tot xuclant-li l'energia i llevant-li l'alegria, juntament amb la dels seus pares que, inexperts i temorosos, no saben o no volen reconèixer el problema; que pediatres incompetents no saben detectar, perllongant innecessàriament el sofriment de tots plegats.
Proteïna omnipresent que, sistemàticament evitada, fa que l'estómac recuperi la forma, l'infant la força i el goig, els pares la felicitat hipotecada i la vida el seu vessant amable.
Allò que, a força d'aprendre-hi a renunciar, i a través de la dificultat, contribuirà a forjar en M. autoconsciència i responsabilitat (o això esper).
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