Thoughts on the Help, a novel by Kathryn Stockett

My mother had help, but it wasn’t based on race. She had combination nursemaid/housekeepers in Europe, who were Caucasian.
Before my time, though, there was an African American called Willa Mae. I’d heard a lot about her, and had even seen a snapshot of her with my brothers. There were stories of the gems she said, reported in dialect, by my mother, a natural storyteller, especially in regards to my middle brother. He announced to Willa Mae that she was black. She said, “I’m not black. Look at my shoes; they black. I’m brown.” She probably wouldn’t mind that adjective if she were living now. Another thing she was reported to have said to him was, “You know what I b’lieve bout you? I b’lieve you lahk to cry.”
In my experience, there was a very pretty black teenager named Nora Lee, who worked part-time when my mother worked in the hospital as an R.N. I followed her around wanting to help her. She smiled and said, “I can’t let you dust. That’s my job.”

I felt the key lines in this novel were as follows (Chapter 24, p. 367-68) from Minny.

“She just don’t see em. The lines. Not between her and me, not between her and Hilly.”
Aibileen takes a long sip of her tea. Finally I look at her. “What you so quiet for? I know you got a opinion bout all this.”
“You gone accuse me a philosophizing.”
“Go ahead,” I say. “I ain’t afraid a no philosophy.”
“It ain’t true.”
“Say what?”
“You talking about something that don’t exist.”
I shake my head at my friend. “not only is they lines, but you know good as I do where them lines be drawn.”
Aibileen shakes her head. “I used to believe in em. I don’t anymore. They in our heads. People like Miss Hilly is always trying to make us believe they there. But they ain’t.”
“I know they there cause you get punished for crossing em,” I say. "Least I do."
“Lot a folks think if you talk back to you husband, you crossed the line. And that justifies punishment. You believe in that line?”
I scowl down at the table. “You know I ain’t studying no line like that.”
“Cause that line ain’t there. Except in Leroy’s head. Lines between black and white ain’t there neither. Some folks just made those up, long time ago. And that go for the white trash and the so-ciety ladies too.”
Thinking about Miss Celia coming out with that fire poker when she could’ve hid behind the door, I don’t know. I get a twinge. I want her to understand how it is with Miss Hilly. But how do you tell a fool like her?
“So you saying they ain’t no line between the help and the boss either?”
Aibileen shakes her head. “They’s just positions, like on a checkerboard. Who work for who don’t mean nothing.”
“So I ain’t crossing no line if I tell Miss Celia the truth, that she ain’t good enough for Hilly?” I pick my cup up. I’m trying hard to get this, but my cut’s thumping against my brain. “But wait, if I tell her Miss Hilly’s out a her league…then ain’t I saying they is a line?”
Aibileen laughs. She pats my hand. “All I’m saying is, kindness don’t have no boundaries.”

I also saw a couple of symbols in the book.

In Chapter 1 on page 6 in my edition of the book, Aibileen commented that Crisco was something you couldn’t dress up or fancy up no matter how hard you tried. Her son, Treelore, also compared Crisco to her ex, who left her and him, and was greasy, as well.
Minny has a completely different perspective on Crisco to Miss Celia as “the most important invention in the kitchen since jarred mayonnaise.” (Chapter 3, page 51-2) Its uses are many:
1) getting something sticky, like gum, out of your hair
2) slapping it on a baby’s bottom to prevent diaper rash
3) ladies rub it under their eyes, on their husband’s scaly feet
4) clean goo from a price tag
5) take the squeak out of a door hinge
6) stick a wick in it, burn it like a candle
7) and after all that, it will still fry your chicken!
So Miss Celia comments at “how pretty it is, like white cake frosting.” This conclusion is vastly different from “something you can’t dress up or fancy up.”

Why these characters have such different perspectives on the same thing, I don’t know for sure. But I do know that Minny is known for her excellent cooking and takes great delight in her children and her domestic skills. Aibileen, on the other hand, is more thoughtful and philosophical, “writing” her prayers for hours nightly. Her son, apparently, had a strong desire to write, also.

I thought Crisco was something called the Central Symbol, but then, I noticed another one…

It was the Mimosa Tree that Miss Celia disliked, yet gazed at for long periods. It seemed to be a symbol of depression. When Celia grew even more depressed regarding her antics at the Benefit Party, and would not get up out of bed, Minny finally told her the details about the “terrible, awful thing she done” to Miss Hilly. (Chapter 26, p. 397-402) So Miss Celia went out in the rain and finally took an axe to the tree, at Minny’s protestations. Celia would not stop until it was felled. That’s when Minny saw the note on Celia’s check to Hilly, a very deep dig. So, if some of Celia’s depression was “anger turned inward”, then, she succeeded in letting all her anger out on the tree.

How to Handle Rejection

Inside the envelope, was a letter from the publisher. She knew it was, because she saw the return address, Butterfly Magazine. Her hands shook as she carefully pulled out the open flap of the letter and pulled it open. Her eyes widened, as she glanced at the boldface lead, which said, “Just why do you small-town writers think you can send in your provincial garbage to our Chicago imprint company? We get literally sick when we see the trash from places out in the sticks that try to pass off their drivel as literature. Send manuscripts only when you’ve learned to become a real children’s writer, which is the grace period before becoming an author. Take a writing course. In your case, take several….” -- the Editorial Staff.
In a state of shock, she adjusted her eyes once again and reread the letter. “Dear Ms. Crockett, Thank you for submitting the your story to our magazine. Unfortunately, it does not meet the needs of our publishing company at this time. We wish you success as you submit to publishers with whom you share similar goals.”
Why did she read the letter before and get it all wrong? “Oh,” she thought, “it’s because I read between the lines. I know what they’re really saying."
So, she sat down at her keyboard to write a reply to the editor's email address, to show them how she could express herself.
“Okay, jerks; what makes you think you’re so high and mighty, just because you’re in a big Chicago office? You think you’re so great, as you judge me as an Okie from Muskogee? I’ll tell you where you can put your writing course suggestion.”
She knew that was fruitless, but it felt good, and she decided not to send it, so she erased it. It might make for bad public relations for the future, if there ever was any future with them.
She wiped her eyes, sniffed, and raffled through her publisher files and marketing books. She happened upon a flyer from a writing school, inviting her to take Course II for adult magazine writers. It was the first time she considered, maybe, they were right, and picked up the phone, “Hello, Intermediate School? I’ve reconsidered your offer…”
On the other side of the computer screen, a harried editor named Alexandra Maddox, had staggered into the publishing office of Butterfly Children’s Magazine. She had the mother of all headaches. The chief editor had appointed her as reader editing staff for newcomers. Amateur readers, she called it.
“What a slap in the face to put me into this amateur writers slot, to send in their unpolished crap! What an insult!”
There she sat, looking at the slush pile. “These writers think just because this link is for kids, they can send any garbage in, and we’ll just eat it up. I’m trying to build a reputation here, so just let them try!”
She read through the first account, with all its descriptive, confusing imagery and no decipherable plot. She nearly gagged, due in part, to the overabundance of partying the night before, when she drowned her low self esteem in beer.
“Okay,” she began typing on her keyboard to send to the writer’s street address, “I’ll try to be nice about this…”

Look, Jane, Look!

I see posts by political extremists on the right and the left, who apparently are seeking a pure and perfect world for themselves. It's a world they left behind by coming here to all this imperfection. We're not in a perfect world made just for us. We're really here to serve for the highest possible good of all concerned.
The extremists' philosophies are very simplistic, and what's amazing is they manage to have fans that say things like, "You're Spot On!"
For one thing, do you know anyone who talks that way in normal conversation?
Politically, when it comes to voting, the bright people apathetically stay home mid-term, especially, trusting that no one will be foolish enough to vote in simpletons.
But consider "Spot":
"See Spot. See Spot run. Run, Spot, Run!"
If simpletons and bimbos can run, then, I can run...for dog catcher.

By the Light of the Moon

This little chalet lodge my daughter, gran-daughter, and I stayed in was reminiscent of the past; the musty aroma in the hallways were like my Grandma Sodergren's apartment stairs in Minneapolis, as well as my mother's cousins' apartment stairs in Evanston. There were little reading lamps at tall tables next to Readers' Digest Condensed Books. I even found an early, red E.L.C. hymnal. Though I have one in my possession, I found it most unsual that someone else would have one. There was a book of ten plays, such as Antigone, Hedda Gabler, Othello, the Little Foxes, etc., as well as other books. The time and place made me feel nostalgic, somewhat like observing the antique typewriter I store in the basement. It was my kind of setting, as a writer: leather chairs, fans, lamps, especially the table lamp on my little high desk. It was very quiet. There was a nearly empty refrigerator with ice in the freezer; there also were big plants, a large clock, a fire place, a desk, sofas in a u-shape, and a coat rack. The one hour I spent writing mini-reviews in cursive and reading my writers' magazines was a precious hour I shall never forget. This is the way it was years back, no hum of the computer, just quiet, for these kinds of past-times.

Coyote Ugly

The man grinned as he packed up his briefcase. "So, sir, you only need to consult the Bible instead of all this useless information in my encyclopedia set?"
"That's correct," said the homeowner, smiling dumbly.
"Well," said the sales rep., reaching out his hand in a conciliatory handshake, "Good luck with that."
As the salesman walked out and shut the screen door behind him, the resident couldn't help but feel there was a mocking tone in that last remark, as well as notice a rather sardonic smile. In fact, he thought he might have also heard muffled laughter as the other man walked off, every once in awhile, cupping his hand to his face.
Still, the man of the house straightened up confidently and thought, "Well, he couldn't say anything to that, could he now!"
He turned on the television. His present concern was the latest news, the most accurate, fair and balanced was of course, Coyote News.
"Yes, the conflict in Libya continues, and this President is certainly botching up this one as well," spoke a confident Caucasian news reporter, "We report; you decide."
"Libya," thought the man, "I've forgotten where that was."
So, he opened his Bible Atlas to see Libyan Desert right next to Egypt.
"That proves my point," beamed the householder.
"And," continued the news reporter, "a huge mega-tornado has hit the southern state of Alabama, demolishing it, and the President hasn't acted as swiftly and decisively as our man did with New Orleans. We report; you decide."
"Hmmm....Alabama...Where in the southern United States is that? Let's see...Tigris, Euphrates...Salt Sea...Maybe the guy means Ammon here?
That's kind of south."
The commentator went on to say, "Yes, the Tea Party-ers are simply trying to emulate the Boston Tea Party of 1773 when the colonists dressed up as Indians and tossed tea in the harbor over the British tea tax."
"Let's see," thought the man surveying the Bible Atlas once more, "this India that they're imitating seems a little ways away, farther east. Why would they want to dress up like those folks?"
"The astronauts are returning today," the newscaster continued.
"Well," said the man, "not a problem! That's in the Book of Ezekiel. Gee, I don't like the orders from the head astronaut here. Hope they're not in as foul a mood when they land!"
"I don't believe his policies are Constitutional. This policy is certainly against the Constitution!"
"Okay," thought the man, leafing through his Bible, "that must be Moses coming down from Sinai. Yup, he'd talked it over with Jethro, his father-in-law, and Jethro told Moses he couldn't do this governing without God's input. Wow, he doesn't follow the Ten Commandments?"
"We report. You decide," said the commentator.
"I'm not so sure on this one."
He looked at the salesman's card, lifted up the phone receiver and called the rep.
"I'm reconsidering getting your reference set."
"Never mind," said the rep., "I'm leaving this field to sell campaign signs to 'Bible scholars' like yourself. Encyclopedia sales is dying out. If you want to know some basics, check the internet."
From the other party's phone, he heard an abrupt,"click."

A Tree Grows Next Door

The deafening roar and the blast of wind surrounded the house. The wooden chimes banged against each other furiously. The tree across the yard stood strongly as the wind pelted it. The branch that could have come crashing down on the house from that distance had been sawed off, the result of a deal made with a previous next door neighbor.
Later on, under new ownership, branches groaned in time for the woman sitting in the yard to pull the Chow dog away and to run about frantically, wondering what to do.
Kevin, the owner in the nearby house, who'd made the previous deal, counseled her to call her husband, Ed.
Soon, the yard was filled with "tree people", saws noisily cutting up the fallen limbs, leaving a mess for the couple to clean up after heaving the lighter branches into their truck.
Ed approached Kevin as he stood on the porch.
"Can't figure out how that limb got sawed off. Do you know?"
"Have no idea," Kevin responded.
"Well," said Ed, "I'd get rid of the rest of it, especially that limb that could fall right over on your porch here. Just can't afford it."
"Oh, I think it would probably fall just short of it, like in your yard and driveway."
"Well, I can't afford to take care of it. Somebody must have seen fit to cut off the other one that was sure to have fallen on your roof. Any idea who?"
Kevin said he had none.
"It looks to me like this one could."
"Maybe," Kevin said unemotionally.
"You know what else I'd like to do?" Ed inquired.
"What?" said Kevin.
"How about I pave the driveway so it reaches your sidewalk? I'm pretty sure my property reaches that far anyway."
"You think so?," queried Kevin, "Feel free to measure it."
So Ed started measuring from the fence to the sidewalk. Each time, the measuring tape never quite measured 40 feet.
"Well," Kevin observed, "my wife says she wants to keep our sidewalk separate from your driveway."
"Oh, she does?" inquired Ed, "Tell her to think it over tonight. Maybe she'll change her mind."
"Don't think so," said Kevin.
"Gonna take my wife to Disney World," said Ed.
"Yeah, we been there."
"Really?" Ed asked, surprised, "Well, I'm going to build another story on our house for my wife."
"That so?" replied Kevin, "Well then, you'd better do something about that tree.
You wouldn't want a storm to come and a limb to fall on your house...once you've built it."

St. Paddy's Potluck Party

We spent St Patrick's Day at one of those superficial, artificial church groups of people. They were people pushed together, who had virtually nothing in common, created to compensate for a large church where anonymity was the general rule.
I felt we were intruding, even though we were guests.
I was put on the spot with questions like, "Since you're teaching in that district, are you part of the corruption the local news is reporting?"
To which, I replied, "No," and "you're taking the word of the new superintendent and her perspective."
A senior lady began to relate excitedly, the story of her recent trip to Hawaii, and the host disdainfully countered her with, "I already been there," cutting her off and walking away in a huff.
The men walked out on the veranda. My husband followed.
"Excuse me," said the host, "this is only for golfers."
"Surely, you don't mean that."
"Yes, I most certainly do."
That explained why my husband came back into the room.
The green beer was accessible to the hostess. Her husband, who had returned, took her into the corner to admonish her for her alcoholic behavior.
As we ate, the strawberries on her cake were, not surprisingly, rancid.
After which, she climbed upstairs, where her teen-age daughter and my ten-year-old one were playing at the computer.
The hostess took out her frustration on the dog.
"Sammi, I told you, over and over again, not to poop on the floor!"
I'd heard St. Paddy chased the snakes out of Ireland. That night, we walked away from them, never to return again to the mega-church.