Five Days at Memorial by Sheri Fink.
Nonfiction by a woman, not a memoir.
I assumed my thoughts on this would be cut and dried- I’m fairly
utilitarian, not religious, and certainly persuaded by the idea that prolonging
life for the benefit of those still living can be hugely painful. When it comes
to me, don’t do everything possible. Just do a sensible amount. I’m grateful
every day that I didn’t die in childbirth, and that my children are vaccinated.
Interventions all. But what is a sensible amount of intervention? I don’t know,
and this book won’t lead you there. I am, however, firmly convinced that of all the people potentially who caused
suffering during Hurricane Katrina, one random doctor is not the most culpable.
Mao’s Last Dancer by Li Cunxin
Memoir, but by a man.
The
backlash
against gratitude has begun, still let me say that I read this and felt an enormous
amount of gratitude for my life. Thank you, universe, for not making me born a
peasant in rural China during the cultural revolution. I vow to read a memoir
like this during every Christmas with my in-laws. Imagine being this tough.
IMAGINE.
Watching the English by Kate Fox
Nonfiction by a woman, not a memoir.
Because I am both an
egoist and a doubter, I am suspect about the recreated dialogue in some of
these parts. The pub and races stuff sounded particularly unreal. However, I did love all
the class information, and I think I’ll buy a copy so I can do all the flip-flip-flipping
to the best parts that I love. As the descendant of English/German/Scottish
migrants to Australia it’s very easy to identify myself as middle (upper
middle?) class. You know who doesn’t leave England/Germany/Scotland in search
of a better life? Rich people, that’s who. So rule out upper class. My parents’
and grandparents’ professional careers rule out working class. Both my
grandfathers were church Ministers. My paternal grandfather was a chaplain in
the Army. I have a photo of him during service in PNG in 1944. It’s one of my favourite
things. My maternal grandfather also worked as a church accountant and
administrator for head office. My maternal grandmother had a career as what we
could today call a “graphic designer”. Back then they called it signwriting. She
designed and painted in freehand, advertising logos and fonts on shopfronts and
billboards.
Wikipedia tells
me that “Traditional signwriting is now regarded as art”. Yay grandma. Both
my parents started off as high-school classroom teachers and ended their
careers as senior education administrators. In any case, while those jobs aren’t
the tippity-top of the class pole, they aren’t working class. So here we are: I
never say “tea”; I sometimes say “lounge”; I am sufficiently sure of myself to use
marker pen in all my children’s clothes.
My husband’s family is more
interesting. His family are migrants from Ireland/England/The Netherlands,
however his parents are farmers, and his ancestors are farmers all the way back
to whenever. He, however, went to Oxford. And Harvard. So, class barriers? Consider them overcome. Thanks Australia (gratitude again).
