I’m walking home from work. It’s a bit chill, early March in Seattle, that city blessed of so much rain that only a writer can really endure its winters without complaining, the sky so close to earth. People talk of blue skies as if ‘blue’ means clear; sodden from the perpetual dripping of rain from the city’s cavernous ceiling, I knew deeply that grey is composed of every blue.
Trudging, actually, up the tree-flanked streets. To climb those hills without faltering, you must step as if on stairs. Wearing boots helps, though not to keep out of puddles, only to tone the calves upon those ascents. I guess you could maybe drive, but cars are for people who don’t like streets or trees and so must zoom past them quickly to get away from them.
It is nothing to sit on a stone bench in the rain in such a city, if you’ve been there long enough. This was my intention, white benches describing part of the circle-shrine where I and others sometimes prayed. It was to the Mother of God, and she seemed sometimes almost to intercede for us for other gods, though I think this was only my hope, not the truth. I tried to walk to the shrine, and suddenly felt a hard push to stop me.
Sowell contended that there had been an unchanging subculture going back centuries. Relying on Grady McWhiney’s Cracker Culture (1988), a flawed historical study that turned poor whites into Celtic ethnics (Scots-Irish), Sowell claimed that the bad traits of blacks (laziness, promiscuity, violence, bad English) were passed on from their backcountry white neighbors.
Picture found here.