Thinking With My Skin*Natterings and Fulminations by Bill Cameron
Before the pandemic began, I had a number of bookstore and library events scheduled that were subsequently cancelled. No worries there, of course. Health and safety comes first.
But in anticipation of those events (particularly those venues that couldn’t sell books directly) I bought a bunch of copies of Crossroad. Since those public appearances won’t be happening, I’ve decided to make the books available for sale through Etsy.
If you’re interested in a personalized copy and don’t have access to stores that currently stock them, head on over to Etsy and place your order. Shipping is free in the U.S. if you’re comfortable with slow boat Media Mail.
But, of course, please check with local stores which may have signed copies (so long as you don’t want a personal inscription). I signed copies at the following stores:
- Third Place Books, Ravenna, Seattle, WA
- Two Rivers Bookstore, Portland, OR
- Queen Anne Book Company, Seattle, WA
- Vintage Books, Vancouver, WA
- University Book Store, Seattle, WA
- Barnes and Noble, Eugene, OR
Signed and Personalized Copies Available
A limited number of hardcopy books are available directly from the author—copies intended for events that have been cancelled due to COVID-19. Each copy can be inscribed and personalized, if desired.
Price: $26.99, with free shipping in the U.S. by Media Mail. Place your order at Etsy.
There was a time when I really enjoyed the online world. I made friends, had laughs, and felt my world enlarge. But it hasn’t been fun for a long time. Events on Twitter of the last day or so really drove that fact home for me, so I’ve deactivated my Twitter account. My Facebook account—which I use rarely anyway—will soon follow. I’ll probably keep my Instagram account active, at least for the time being. I carefully curate what I see there, limiting content to about 90% cute animals.
Social media has come to represent too much negativity—something I admit I’m too often tempted to contribute to. Trolls and MAGAts are the worst, of course, but lately I’ve found people I like and respect—people I think of, or thought of, as friends—are too quick to interpret the mildest misstep in the worst possible light, and then treat it as justification for an attack. Even when I agree with a particular argument, too often the approach is to blast a narrow interpretation of incomplete information, score rhetorical points without concern for collateral damage, and then congratulate one’s own cleverness and self-righteousness. I’m seeing too many bad faith arguments made by people who should know better. Coupled with the endless nightmare that is existence during pandemic, made worse by the way it plays out online, the decision to step away became an easy one.
It is possible my Twitter hiatus is temporary. I’ve used the “30-day deactivation” option for now. When that time is up, should I feel less aggravated with Twitterdom, I may return—though my follow list will be much shorter, and my mute and block lists much longer. Or I may just delete my account permanently. No one will miss much either way.
Given my already indifferent attitude toward Facebook, my plan is to delete that account entirely. While Twitter often annoys and frustrates me, I’ve hated Facebook for years. Of course Instagram has become Baby Facebook, but since I have an easier time managing what I see there I’ll tolerate it for now. But who knows? Maybe my time with social media is ready to end permanently. Wouldn’t be the worst decision I ever made—not by by a long shot.
 I’d already be gone from Facebook, but I’m an admin for a couple of pages that I need to turn over to others. That may take a few days to arrange.
 If I never again see the word “thread” outside the context of fabric arts, it’ll be too soon.
During one of her first solo body removal jobs as an apprentice mortician, Melisende Dulac discovers an old man’s sad end may not have been all that natural.
“Hey Nineteen” marks the first appearance of Melisende Dulac, and precedes the events of Crossroad by about eight months.
The story appears in the anthology A Beast Without A Name: Crime Fiction Inspired by the Music of Steely Dan, (Down and Out Books, October 28, 2019).
Edited by Brian Thornton, A Beast Without A Name features stories by Steve Brewer, W.H. Cameron, Reed Farrel Coleman, Libby Cudmore, Aaron Erickson, Naomi Hirahara, Matthew Quinn Martin, Richie Narvaez, Kat Richardson, Peter Spiegelman, Jim Thomsen, and Jim Winter.
To commemorate the occasion, over at the Poisoned Pen Press blog, I write about the origins of Joey Getchie, reluctant hero of Property of the State, and even touch on my own, er, criminal past. Check it out.
Somehow today I wrote two—count ’em, two—blog posts. Oh my!
In my second post, I visit the Not the Usual Suspect Facebook Group to talk about writing in Oregon. I go on to share a little about the world-building I’m doing for my current work-in-progress, a mystery set in a fictional Oregon High Desert county.
Speaking of my work-in-progress, for this year’s NaNoWriMo, my goal is to make significant progress, if not finish a first draft. I’m somewhere around half-done (which could mean I’m one-third done or two-thirds done or who knows until it’s actually done done). So far, so good. I made a major plot breakthrough yesterday, saw my way past a sticking point that had been troubling me for months. I’ll need to do some revisions in the work already done as a result, but I’ll worry about that later. For now, it’s forward to the Full Draft One finish line.
Finally, a reminder about my appearance on the Sentence to Paragraph podcast, where I discuss my process and a lot more.
Recently, I had the privilege of speaking with Daryll Lynne Evans and James Stegall on writing craft for the Sentence to Paragraph podcast. That conversation is now available, along with discussions with writers Eric Witchey and Cidney Swanson. More interviews in this new podcast series are coming soon. I’m very excited to be a part of it.
In my own interview, we talk about my approach to character development, voice, young adult and adult mysteries, and more. Check it out, and let me know what you think. I love to talk craft!
I’d like to tell you about my Grandma Daisy.
Born in rural Kentucky in 1912, she lived most of her adult life in Dayton, Ohio. What I know of her life before I was old enough to form longterm memories is limited to the stories she told me, and most of those stories focused on her bucolic (and likely fictional as told) childhood. Still, I picked up a few details along the way.
I know she was married for a time to an abusive man—my grandfather—long enough to have my father and aunt. After the marriage ended, she made her living as a seamstress, taking in piecework from local drycleaners. She was always poor. By the time I came along, she was barely scraping by in a tiny house in West Dayton, in poor health but still able to keep a small garden in the backyard.
To supplement the $186 she received each month from Social Security, she made homemade wine from Welch’s grape juice that she sold at her alley gate. She also grew and sold marijuana. I speak from personal knowledge when I say the wine was cloying and strong and the pot was harsh and weak, but both were up to their appointed task.
She was a merciless card player, savaging me and my family across the table on Saturday evenings at 500 Rummy and matchstick poker. Good humored, always ready with a tale or a joke, she was a delight to be around. She made sublime buttermilk biscuits. I spent countless days and nights at her tiny house, and loved her dearly. She died when I was 23, and it is a loss I still feel sharply as I sit here writing about her.
Grandma Daisy was also a racist.
When she and her husband moved to West Dayton, the area was white working class, mostly shotgun houses on tiny lots. The people who lived around her worked for Dayton Tire, or Delco, or in other similar industrial Midwest jobs that today are mostly gone.
Over the years, the area changed. White Flight took hold, and the neighborhood’s demographics shifted. I don’t know what’s there now—it’s been 30 years since Grandma Daisy died and I’ve lived in Oregon for most of that time—but when I was a kid visiting her, Grandma Daisy was the only white resident for blocks in any direction.
And did she ever know it.
From her, I heard just about every racial slur you can think of. She kept a small .32 revolver, because she was sure any moment one of “them” would try to rob her. When I got to be driving age, I once showed up at her house for a visit without calling first, and the first thing I saw when she opened the door to my knock was the barrel of that gun.
Despite her deeply ingrained and open racism, she was close to her black next door neighbor, Mrs. Long, and was friendly with a number of folks on her block. She was able to sell wine and pot because she knew everyone and everyone knew her. Even the police who patrolled her area were aware of her side business and looked the other way—though if she’d been black I doubt they would have been so accommodating.
All my life, she railed against the blacks* but truth be told, none of her fears ever came to reality. Grandma Daisy wasn’t robbed, burgled, or assaulted. On summer evenings, she and chatted with Mrs. Long—each on their adjacent front porches—while I played with Mrs. Long’s grandchildren in the street. When she died, Grandma Daisy’s funeral was attended by her black neighbors, many of whom wept for her. Mrs. Long and I cried together at the graveside.
Why am I telling you all this? It’s not, I assure you, to rehabilitate an unrepentent racist—because that’s what Grandma Daisy was. Now, I don’t know what Grandma Daisy’s politics were. In functional terms, I suspect she was apolitical in that she never voted nor showed any interest in voting. She never talked politics in the sense of discussing candidates or issues. I don’t have the slightest clue how she felt about Nixon, Ford, Jimmy Carter, or Ronald Reagan—the presidents when I was old enough to know about them and she was still alive. But that’s not the sort of thing she would have talked to me about anyway.
But of course her all her racist talk was political. Very political. I didn’t understand that then, but now I look back on my Grandma Daisy and the way she talked, and I understand all those racist tirades were fundamentally political. I also recognize that if she was still alive, she’d probably be a Trump supporter. She might not actually vote for him, but she’d probably agree with many of the things he and his surrogates say.
Honestly, there’s a very high likelihood she’d be in the basket of deplorables.
Officially, I was raised to believe racism is wrong. Mostly, this happened through a kind of mushy “everyone should be treated the same” sense that well-meaning white people confuse with taking an active stand against race-based privilege and hatred. I’d be told, “Don’t talk about black people the way your Grandma Daisy does”—a sentiment usually followed up by giving her a pass because she was “old,” or “grew up in different times,” or “doesn’t know better.”
At times, my anti-racist education was more explicit. One day my friend Demetrius came over to swim. He lived in the “black part of town” but we were friends from school—a place uncomfortably integrated. I really liked Demetrius. He was smart and kind and helpful. He got me through Algebra I, and tried to help me learn to catch a football well enough to try out for wide receiver. He laughed at my dumb jokes, and let me confide in him and confided in me in turn.
But I betrayed our friendship that day he came to my house to swim by making jokes about how he lived in the “black part of town.”
My stepfather—a man no one would ever describe as enlightened—actually called me out on it, directly and unexpectedly. He told me I’d been thoughtless, and unfair, and cruel—that I should be ashamed of myself. His words hit home. I felt terrible about what I’d said to Demetrius and determined to never do it again. But what I didn’t do was apologize. Well-meaning white people weren’t taught to apologize. Apparently, when we “felt bad” or vowed to “do better,” people of color were supposed to pick up on it telepathically or something. In any case, the damage was done and I did nothing to repair that damage, and so I lost a friend. Demetrius never came over again, and avoided me at school from then on. Forty years later, I still miss him. Not that I blame him in the least.
I may have been raised to “not be racist,” but I was swimming in racism my whole life. I loved my Grandma Daisy, but she was remorseless in her vituperation of black people. Even when I was very young, I think I understood on some level that what she was saying was wrong, but it never occurred to me to challenge her on it. Even as a college student in an enlightened interdisciplinary studies program I never thought to say anything to her. Around the time she died, I was going through that “I don’t see color” phase white progressives often go through, and often get stuck in. I’m sure I was very proud of myself, and probably thought I was “modeling” anti-racism to my grandmother by not joining in on her tirades. Perhaps I sometimes looked a little uncomfortable.
A revolutionary, I was not.
And besides, didn’t she have all those black friends? Mrs. Long was heartbroken by her death, so surely that proved Grandma Daisy wasn’t so bad. It was just talk, mostly to me and others in the family. And besides the besides, how could I say she’d be one of Trump’s openly and unapologetically racist supporters today? She never displayed Confederate flags or swastikas. She never screamed at black people from the car. And we can’t forget Mrs. Long weeping at her funeral.** Checkmate, libturds—amirite?
The problem with that is it dismisses the arc of American racial politics over the last five decades. It pretends the Southern Strategy wasn’t a thing, that mealymouthed white liberalism doesn’t take people of color for granted, that as a society we didn’t reassure ourselves with lullabies of living in a post-racial world—all the while ignoring the seething white resentment being coddled and exploited by corporatists and the retrograde religious extremists of the Christian Right.
Over the past thirty odd years, centrists and earnest white liberals comforted themselves the myth that the “not so bad” racists like my Grandma Daisy would soon die out as the post Civil Rights generations replaced them. The “bad racists” in this myth would still be there, sure, but few in number and politically inert—an uncomfortable and easily ignored anachronism.
Into this fatuous fantasy sprang Trump, a boastful buffoon whose only actual skills are leveraging a system designed to protect people like him from the consequences of their mistakes and monetizing his own narcissism. He’s lurched onto the biggest stage in the world and from there given voice to the most toxic and deplorable elements of our society.
And, yes, I think my Grandma Daisy would be one of them. If she was alive today, the dehumanizing things she would never say in front of anyone except those with whom she felt most safe would come bubbling out into the open. Because as a society, we let it happen. Because earnest white people like me have given people like her a pass. Because the Right has nurtured her fear and resentment and the Left pretended she was a thing of the past.
And I’m part of the problem. I never challenged her. I’ve rarely challenged myself. Hell, I couldn’t even bring myself to apologize to my friend.
True understanding is a long time coming when you don’t need to understand. For many well-meaning white folks like myself, it never comes. And don’t get me wrong. I don’t pretend to possess some kind of profound enlightenment. At best, I think I’ve come to recognize that there’s a lot I will never understand about what it means to be a member of a marginalized community in America, but that my place of privilege is unearned and undeserved.
I also recognize that defeating Trump is only one step in a much larger journey, one I and my earnest white friends can’t make alone—or even lead. But we do have a part to play: to acknowledge our role in propping up a longstanding system of racial inequity and abuse, and to listen to, to support, and to stand with people of color.
And also to apologize.
I’d like to start with the friend I hurt. Demetrius, I’m sorry. I was a dick to you, and I’m sorry.
Edit: After I posted this, I made a single attempt to connect with Demetrius. He wasn’t interested in hearing from me, which I respect. He owes me nothing—not forgiveness or absolution, not even a single moment of his time.
Revisions are when you get to
get to move the darts onto the bullseye while no one is looking.