Democracy may require a ménage a triage

Great Barrington has drawn national attention after an incident in early December in which police, acting on an anonymous tip and with the permission of school officials, investigated whether a copy of “Gender Queer,” a graphic-comic style memoir by Maia Kobabe, was part of a teacher’s lending book collection at the W.E.B. Du Bois Regional Middle School. 

While the outcome of the search, according to news reports, yielded no book, the teacher who was targeted has taken a leave of absence after the incident, and the community is rightly outraged. 

The police department has allegedly  apologized for its part, and town officials have similarly promised to conduct a transparent investigation, but each has tempered some of that contrition with the age-old qualified defense of “just doing our job.”

Numerous spokespeople have cited an “inability” to pick and choose the “crimes” they investigate as a kind of magic eraser for police overreach as they look into the criminality of reading material.

School officials have repeatedly been quoted as saying they feel obligated to allow police access to school grounds when asked because they feel a cordial and necessary partnership with them in the event of an emergency. As if school authorities have no reason to question, let alone second-guess, outside authority. 

Even those who we might hope would be friendly toward the democratic ideals of freedom of speech and expression, have come out and asked what all the fuss was about.

“Personally, I don't think the police did anything wrong. I think they responded to a call, I think they're obligated to respond to a call, they didn't go in there with a SWAT team and armed officers. I think some people are trying to capitalize on this in a very negative way because of what's going on in Florida, in some other states. But I think the police did their job,” is what Massachusetts State Rep. Smitty Pignitali (D) told WAMC.

The American Civil Liberties Union has asked for records pertaining to the investigation and has requested the town to take corrective action that includes instructing school staff that law enforcement's response to concerns about educational material is not only inappropriate but also deeply concerning. Anything less would not only allow but condone the use of police forces to harass and discriminate against certain community members. 

Like the teacher who was targeted by an anonymous phone.

The book in question, a coming-of-age story about identifying as non-binary, was published by Oni Press in 2019 with an initial run of only 5,000 copies. Two years later it had become not only a useful guide for young people in their exploration of self-identity, but also one of the most challenged books in the United States.

 According to the American Library Association and free speech advocate organization PEN America, who track the escalation of censorship and book bans in classrooms and libraries nationwide, the book was targeted for attack by conservative groups, parents, school boards, religious leaders, and politicians across the nation. 

According to PEN, censorship has shown a marked increase during the 2022-2023 school year, much of it driven by new state bans (as well as a few prolific and sometimes anonymous tipsters) that seek to label books that deal with race, sexual orientation, and gender as “explicit, harmful or age-inappropriate.”

 

Police Investigations of school libraries are not just a waste of police resources, it is a misuse of them. It is quite literally using the power of the state to intimidate, and curtail the rights to speech and expression of citizens. 

And if police are not able to discern from a tip line what constitutes criminal activity in a school library maybe there should be some kind of home triage unit that could decide for them.

Because if you buy the explanation that police can't pick and choose what they investigate, I suppose you might also believe that schools shouldn’t be able to determine what constitutes education, or that medical staff aren't allowed to decide for themselves what constitutes a medical emergency. 

Oh wait … 

How do you like your coffee? Reel or Insta?

 “Did you see what I sent you?”

He’s usually sitting on the couch next to me as we divide our attention between three different screens and trying to stay alert to the beckoning of a kitchen timer.

I usually roll my eyes before I change course scrolling to check my messages. I have no idea how many times I'll have to watch this movie before I understand what's happening. 

Over the years, my husband has sent me countless videos gleaned from the internet of seemingly miraculous things:

A scratch-and-sniff “museum” in Japan that offers visitors the experience of smelling various animal butts; A bride and groom who dressed up their pet llama as a groomsman; a pygmy goat who can only relax if he’s dressed in a duck costume; an octopus unscrewing the lid of a jar from the inside; and a never-ending reel of foodie challenges that have got to be based on dares.

“Even if we had a marble counter there is no way I'd spread two jars of gravy and a cylinder of shake cheese as a way of mixing spaghetti and meatballs.”

Honestly, I had never before felt the urge to test any of these (usually) zany (sometimes crass) videos’ validity.

Until now.

All it amounted to was a tight shot of a ribbon of coffee pouring through an orange slice into a demitasse cup.

My husband had found my weakness. A coffee recipe so simple that it might even be foolproof.

Not that I was going to rush into recreating it.

I mean…  I had to watch the 30-second long video over and over despite it having only one step. Thoroughness could take days.

I mean … I had to have the perfect ingredients. This could mean at least four trips to the grocery store to take into account the number of times I leave the place with everything but what I had on my list.

I mean  … it was so simple that when I decided to try it I didn't even bother with a trial run. I was just going to record the simple process and send him my cinematic tribute via instant messenger forthwith.

Eventually, I would get it all together. 

Ready? Set? The camera was rolling now. 

I knew what to expect as I steadied my hand against it and waited for the magic to happen.

The coffee sprang forth from the espresso machine like a freight train in a winter storm. Steam and froth accompanied the brown liquid as it poured onto the slice of orange I had placed over my cup.

But instead of filtering through the sliver of citrus the espresso cascaded over the edge and created a river on the counter.

#@^&!! Internet! I laughed as I cut the video and promptly sent it off into the green chat bubble toward the mister.

Three dots later he had a helpful suggestion: 

“In the video, the orange has a hold in the center. Maybe you shouldn't get the seedless?”

In dogged pursuit

The unnamed roadways on the Island De Vieques pushed northward in steep elevation along the coastline, and I pushed myself up their pockmarked surfaces at as steady a pace as I could muster. 

It was the last day of our acquaintance, and I was saying farewell to the lovely and rugged place with a final jog around the neighborhood. 

It wasn't my first ride on this particular carousel. but I was still wary. 

During the six days I'd been here, I had gotten lost at least twice and encountered a host of curious animals -- everything from hermit crabs and iguanas to wild horses.

Most of them ignored my intrusion once they realized the things I carried – a phone, a beach towel, a pair of sunglasses – contained no nutritional value. 

But nothing frightened me more than the dogs that roamed loose. I had kept a lookout for them, making note of places I'd seen the scruffier ones linger in hopes of avoiding any unwanted surprises. I took pains to scuff my feet on the gravel as loudly as possible, doing so I hoped would herald my whereabouts.

I was having success: 

I startled a shaggy mixed breed that looked like a relative of Little Orphan Annie’s pooch (1982 Movie not the ‘76 Broadway Musical) but he deduced I was harmless and continued on his merry way, nosing through some litter. 

I came face to snout with Old Yeller’s clone and got the distinct message (from his raised hackles and continuous growl) that he did not want me to pass anywhere near his humble abode. So I turned on my zero-drop heels and went along MY merry way.

Then there was the adorable pair of teacup pooches of the fluffy variety all alone in front at the boutique hotel just a few doors down from where I'd ventured out, and where my relatives were still sleeping akimbo. The pups looked comfortable and fetching in their matching outfits and bejeweled collars. But as I approached the place where I imagined their relatives were still checking out, they snarled and bared their teeth. 

Circling back. 

I'll just cut over on the nearest side street and cross my fingers that it will connect with the broader loop. I've already run one and a half miles; one and a half more would scratch the itch. 

It's restful here. The air is warm but not heavy. The hills give and take. The traffic I encounter of the automotive variety never reaches top speed thanks to narrow roadways laden with speed bumps. 

I am at the bottom of a steep hill and jogging upward, having almost completed my second circle when I hear some commotion behind me. 

The jingle of collars, nails scraping the pavement, and barks that travel through deep chests. 

There are two of them. 

I am afraid to look back. Afraid to lock eyes. But I know. They have different gaits and their growls have different pitches.

I instinctively stop running, knowing I can't outrun them but hoping that slowing down will give all of us more time to think. 

But I don't dawdle. I set my sights on the top of the hill and push the pace.

“Stay calm,” said the voice in my head who was telling me what I already knew: a pack of dogs that would ambush me from behind was not interested in playing. 

I feel one of the dogs touch the back of my knee. It feels like the dry lips of a horse flapping at a palm hoping to slurp a handful of something tasty. And then came the pressure. Not a bite. Maybe the swipe of a heavy paw?

I wish I had a rock to throw at their broadsides. Even if I might miss. Chances are fair that at least one of them might trade the chase for an instinctive game of fetch. 

In my escalating panic, the voice of actor Matthew McConaughey comes rushing out of my mouth like it's air from a punctured tire. 

“ALRIGHT ALRIGHT ALRIGHT … I've got no intention of moving in on your action.” 

And like movie magic, once the three of us reached the top of the hill, the dogs turned back and disappeared into parts unknown.

I took off running. 

Plane air

 The temperature got warmer all of a sudden. 

Up until that moment during the three-and-a-half-hour flight, the plane had felt drafty and frigid. I imagined we had crossed some point in the world between the arctic North and tropical South, though I could only make an estimation based on elapsed time. 

I certainly hadn't ponied up for WiFi. 

I might have asked my husband where the dashes and dots appeared on the map as if such movie icons could materialize in real-time. But he had drawn the long straw assigned seating and managed a bulkhead seat that might as well have been a lounge chair for all the space it gave him. 

He tried to make my side of the sardine can more comfortable by offering to share one of his wireless earbuds so I could at least listen to a movie he had downloaded … but I demurred. I didn't want to listen to things explode. 

I'm already an anxious traveler. 

So I fidgeted in my aisle seat, vacillating between playing games of backgammon on my phone and pretending to doze off. 

The girl had the window and was tapping away at her screen. Earphones blot out the jet stream of sounds recirculating in the cabin, which range from mechanical to mucousy. 

The boy, a monkey in our middle, had fallen asleep on this flight and the one before it. His head wobbled from side to side as the plane shimmied from one pocket of turbulence to another. 

The two of us wagered the odds of him sleeping through the third and final leg of the journey. Magic 8 Ball says: “All Signs Point To Yes.”

A steady stream of fellow passengers mill past us to get to the lavatories. They navigate past without grazing any part of my person. They are careful and I have tucked my arms in between the armrests. 

I have learned from the man who doffed the head of a woman sitting on her suitcase near the moving sidewalk as he dangled his arm over the handrail. 

Jerks. Forever sprawling past their fair share of space.  

My husband, sensing my angry thoughts, pulls his elbows into his body. He doesn't notice I am telegraphing instructions to return his seat to its upright position for landing.

From my mind to the flight attendant’s mouth. He pretends he didn't notice though everyone knows great wars have been waged over that angled inch. 

Turns out we were six miles above sea level and headed into our descent.

The cabin lights switch off as the Fasten Seatbelt sign comes to life with a crystal-tinked ding.

It occurred to me then, that the whole ride had been a breeze. Not once had the baby in the seat ahead of us, who had smiled beatifically as he was bounced and juggled between his equally placid parents, seemed disgruntled. Not once did my own children argue. And not once did I  wish minor, irritating harm on my fellow man.

We all just seemed to float effortlessly, harmoniously together.

And before I knew it we had landed, smooth as silk. Passengers erupt into applause of appreciation. I hadn't even been worried. Now I was grateful.