If you don’t know what’s going on in the world, then congratulations! You have found the only rock big enough to shut out an actual uprising. (But really, not congratulations, you really should be world aware.)

I have been debating, going back and forth, not if I should say something–of course I should–but what I should say. Because words aren’t enough. My words aren’t enough. Nothing I can possibly type, write, or even say will fix anything, will change anything. But the the past few days have taught me that trying is more important that my feeling of inadequacy. Not, not my feeling. I am inadequate. And that’s okay; because this isn’t about me.

Silence is violence.

This phrase crossed my social media more than once and it has left a lasting impact. Because it seems counterintuitive at the surface. How can you be violent if you’re doing nothing?

That’s exactly how. By doing nothing.

By sitting idly by and not speaking up against injustices and race issues, we are contributing to the problem. Everybody has an obligation to correcting the racism that is prevalent in today’s society–not just in America but worldwide. It is your responsibility as a human being; and if you don’t think you’re part of the problem, you are. You absolutely are. I am part of the problem. We are all part of the problem.

And I could sit here and harp on ways to fix it, but as a white man with a lot of privilege, I’m not really qualified to give that kind of advice. So instead, I will turn it over to some people who are. The following is a list of books collected not only by myself, but compiled by other teachers, public figures, and–most importantly–people of color who are the actually qualified people to teach me and everybody about race issues.

1. The New Jim Crow: Mass Incarceration in the Age of Colorblindness by Michelle Alexander
2. White Fragility: Why It’s So Hard for White People to Talk About Racism by Robin DiAngelo
3. White Rage: The Unspoken Truth of Our Racial Divide by Carol Anderson
4. They Can’t Kill Us All: The Story of the Struggle for Black Lives by Wesley Lowery
5. Between the World and Me by Ta-Nehisi Coates
6. Your Silence Will Not Protect You by Audre Lorde
7. How to Be an Antiracist by Ibram X. Kendi

And for you fiction lovers, a bonus pick: The Hate U Give by Angie Thomas

All of these books address race and racial issues in a real, straight-forward way. They’re not delicate. And that’s okay. Delicate is not what we need right now.

Refinery29 compiled this list of black-owned bookstores that I encourage you to consider patronizing. You can find it here.

Read. Think. Love. Do Better. This is my call to everybody.

Yours,
The Plucky Reader

In the musical, Billy Elliot, the title character is asked to describe how dancing makes him feel. He sings one of my favorite songs from any musical ever, “Electricity”. In a touching song, Billy explains exactly how he feels when he’s dancing, and the audience is given a direct look into Billy’s thoughts, into his soul.

I can’t really explain it
I haven’t got the words
It’s a feeling that you can’t control
I suppose its like forgetting
Losing who you are
And at the same time
Something makes you whole
Its like that there’s a music
Playing in your ear
And I’m listening, and I’m listening
And then I disappear

And then I feel a change
Like a fire deep inside
Something bursting me wide open
Impossible to hide

“Electricity” from Billy Elliot, Lyrics and Music by Lee Hall and Elton John

I’m no dancer–although I can do a mean shuffle-ball-change in my tap shoes–but I can totally understand exactly what Billy means. I know what it feels like to chase after that music that’s impossible to hear. I know what it means to be so absorbed in your dream, that the only way to explain it is through metaphor and analogy.

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A few weeks ago, I drove three hours from my house to the Dallas area stay the night with my best friend before my flight to Rhode Island. I prefer flying out of Dallas, even though there is a small regional airport in the city where I live. It also gives me an excuse to spend time with my best friend and her kids, who have thought of me as their uncle since birth.

As I was driving, I was listening to Stay Sexy and Don’t Get Murdered: The Definitive How-To Guide. At this point, I have spent more than two years listening to Georgia Hardstark and Karen Kilgariff tell me about heinous crimes. While I’m aware they’re not everybody’s cup of tea for so many reasons, they are exactly my cup of tea. So I knew this memoir was exactly what I needed for my drive. And as I listened to their words, I was overcome with tears.

Now, to be fair, I’ve had a really tough few weeks at work. I’ve experienced stress from a million angles and I haven’t have a chance to properly sort through anything I’ve been feeling. But something about their words, about this book existing, and this particular drive hit home for me. Something Georgia said about going to see Ray Bradbury speak after his books essentially saved her life.

After she had the chance to talk to him in person (oh my God, can you imagine? I’d have died for real.) and give him a letter she’d written for him. In the mail a few weeks later, she received a package from THE Ray Bradbury himself. In it was a letter thanking her for her kinds words, and a copy of Zen in the Art of Writing, which he’d signed and inscribed on the inside: Onward!

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Look who’s back with a book review! Me, it’s me. I’ve been reading. And painting. And singing. And performing. And not finding quite enough time for self care, but I’m getting there. I’ve even found a few spare minutes here and there to play a few video games.

This week, I had the immense pleasure of reading No Truth Left to Tell, a brilliant work of historical fiction that rings most–if not all–of my bells. Cops, crime, moral dilemmas, and a hint of home, as it is set in the fictional town of Lynnwood, Louisiana.

I’m sure I’ve mentioned this somewhere on here, but I am one of the hosts of a true crime podcast, Lifetime Sentence. As such, I love learning about true crime. That also means, however, that I am very picky with crime novels. They have to be believable; they have to have a premise that compels me, and the investigations must be well-researched, because I’ve done a lot of reading about actual investigations. Tomorrow we will release our 62nd episode on top of the bonus cases we cover on Patreon, so I have a little experience with the investigation process. All that to say, No Truth Left to Tell doesn’t feel forced in its treatment of things. Even when investigators catch a lucky break, it still felt authentic. That happens all the time in real life.

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Today I flew to Providence, Rhode Island, for a week-long workshop. I’m really pumped about the things I’m going to be learning and all the ways I’ll be able to use them in my classroom. I love bringing innovation and excitement to my room; kids need it. And God knows I need it.

This morning, I woke up at the ungodly hour of 3 AM and began my harrowing journey to the airport. I came downstairs at my best friend’s house after showering, and was greeted by a TV flickering in the living room. Odd. We turned the TV off before we all went to bed last night. Then suddenly, at the sound of my footsteps, the TV flickered off and I noticed that the lid to the ottoman was off-center. I hope and pray that one of my best friend’s children was in the ottoman, because I had just enough time to have a minor heart attack and get in my car to drive to the airport. I guess I should check in with her and make sure they’re all alive.

My GPS took me to the wrong place–which wasn’t bad, it just said the airport was on the wrong side of the road. I turned around in a parking and went to try again, except there was a curb in the middle of that road. (Dallas, what’s up with that?) So I drove the wrong way up a highway for about twenty feet. Thank God it was 3 AM so there were no cops or anybody else to see me. I was so embarrassed.

When I finally got to the airport, things went a lot more smoothly. Airports at 4am are a very strange place. There are men in business suits and teenagers in pajamas all sitting side-by-side, ignoring the world in favor of their cell phones. There are women with big bags people-watching and couples with dogs that are too cute for me to pass without petting (the dogs, not the people.) The smell of Auntie Anne’s pretzels mix with the bite of Starbucks and somewhere in the distance, the sound of the Chick-Fil-A grate announces the arrival of chicken biscuits in our lives.

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2019 summed up:

If you don’t have something nice to say, don’t say anything at all.

So, the long version of things is 2019 was a rough year for me. Every time I got on here to post a blog, all I could think to do was talk about how bad things were in my life. And the rational part of me–that part that I bury deep because I much prefer to be emotional and that makes me “quirky”–couldn’t claw its way out of a hole. All I could see was darkness surrounding me, and for no reason.

I know I’ve written about my depression on here before, so I try not to be a broken record about things. But this was a particularly rough year. The best way I can quantify it is this: it was my least productive year, maybe in my entire life. I didn’t read much. I didn’t paint much. I didn’t leave my house much.

I allowed myself to be pulled into this endless cycle of going to work and coming home. And when I’d get home, I’d be so tired that writing or reading were the last things I could even fathom doing. What I could fathom doing was getting on here and letting my fingers rip everybody with whom I’d come into contact that day to shreds. So I just didn’t type anything.

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