Category Archives: VA

The Quagmire Quandary

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At least once a year, Jack and I discuss whether we should have a LGBT section in the bookstore. We also debate the pros and cons of an African Interest shelf.

See, once you open this can, the worms just explode in all directions. Why do we need an African section? Alice Walker and Toni Morrision are just fine in Classics, thanks. But what about the annual publication from a contest of short stories by African American writers? The biography of Sojourner Truth? The ethnographic classic “Why are All The Black Kids Sitting Together in the Cafeteria?” That obscure text that often gets misrepresented, “White Men on Race?” If they were shelved together, people could find them easily, instead of having to know they existed and search the appropriate category.

But, if we put “black” books together, where does the color line stop? Where would we put that horrible nasty book about how Afri-centrism is wrong and should be expelled from Academia? Does Maya Angelou have to leave Classics? Would romance novels featuring people with black skins on their covers relocate from the Luv Shack?

What about same-sex partner books? We can differentiate between Rita Mae Brown’s mysteries and her social commentary, no bother, but what do we do about Lisa Alther’s Five Minutes in Heaven? Dina McGreevey’s memoir Silent Partner? And is anyone going to bring up the word “ghettoization” or get mad because we even HAVE a LG-et al. section?

We don’t know what to do. Our default is to do nothing. There are lots of wonderful books in the shop that particular people—not just people with black skin or same sex partner preferences, but people who like to cook vegetarian, people who love dogs, etc.—would like if they knew they were here. Categorization is a sticky wicket at the best of times, and we’re not even good at simpler divisions, like separating Southern from General Fiction. (We keep arguing the toss on Florida.)

Divvying up intense categories based on concepts over which people have literally been killed throughout history? Heh. We want to do the right thing. And we haven’t got a blooming clue what that is.

Senile, My Ar(hem)

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For the past year Jack and I have tiptoed around our CEO. Our oldest cat ValKyttie is Scottish, 17, and senile; since our opening she has ruled the roost with an iron paw, demanding wet cat food, specially purchased Catsip milk, and obsequious obedience from the foster cats.

She, who used to jump from six-foot bookshelves, now rubs my ankles to be picked up and nestled in my lap. Dr. Beth says her hips are “delicate.”

In her senility, she chases Beulah–her sister for the past eight years–from the shop with hisses, flattened ears, and extended claws. She swipes at any dog silly enough to get within range. She tolerates young Owen, the newest staff kitten, because he does obeisance before approaching, and cuddles her as he takes nips from whatever delicacy she’s getting that the others are not.

It’s good to have a boy toy. Owen has great muscle structure.

When she wants to be held, I stop writing. The other day I was sitting in the wing chair working on a laptop balanced on my knees, and she rubbed my ankles. I explained the geometry to her, and she rubbed my ankles again. With one hand, I gently scooped her around the middle and swung her into the chair next to me, warning her away from my fully-occupied lap. She put out one delicate paw and with surprising strength shoved the laptop sideways, sauntered into the space, and sat, her head resting just under my chin, leaning against my chest and purring.

What could I say, except, “Well-played, Madam.”

Jack got it before I did. As we chased her down one evening, snatching her up just before she slashed Beulah through the cat flap into the snowstorm outside, Jack said, “She’s Great-aunt Ada.”

Those of you who saw my essay in December on NPR Books (3 Great Small Town Reads) will recall that Cold Comfort Farm is one of my favorites. In it, Great-aunt Ada lives a life of reclusive luxury upstairs, waited on hand and foot because, as a child, she “saw something nasty in the woodshed.”

“ValKyttie’s not senile at all,” Jack persisted. “And she’s not delicate. See how fast she moves when she’s chasing Beulah. Look at that jump she just made to the dresser. If this cat’s confused, I’m a Marx Brother.”

“Cut it out, Harpo,” I said, scooping ValKyttie against my shoulder, where she snuggled down and purred. “You know she’s 17 and fragile.”

“And getting her every whim catered to,” he said. “You hold her if she so much as mews. She gets a heating pad to sleep on, carried everywhere she wants to go. Look,” he said suddenly, turning me toward the bedroom vanity’s three-sided mirror so I could see ValKyttie’s face over my shoulder.

Gosh darn it, she was smirking.