Frankly my dear

I often list Gone with the Wind as a favorite book. Well I did. Then, as I got older, I would say it’s a favorite, even though I know it’s racist. Um… so knowing somehow forgives the fact that I like a book that unapologetically refers to darkies and Negroes and, yes, the other n word. That creates a stupid little slave called Prissy, not to mention a handful of other mindless characters who can’t deal with the responsibility of freedom and need the benevolent white women to show them how to survive in the post Civil War south. Oh, yes, Mammy and Big Sam were heroes in their own way – in spite of the fact they were black. They were still lacking respect. They were still caricature.

Okay, I still like that book. I like the movie, even though it deleted a lot of Scarlet’s humanity because it was written by men who thought she was a bitch. They took away her children. They took away a lot of her business sense. They had to take away something, right? The movie was three hours and fifty-nine minutes. So why not take away that? I still love the movie, don’t get me wrong. I love it even though I know it’s wrong.

I read it for the first time the summer after 8th grade. I was caught up in the sexy allure of Rhett Butler, especially that steamy kiss while Atlanta burned. I felt for Scarlet even though she was selfish and vain… and not beautiful (though men seldom noticed when caught by her charm). I cheered for her. I admired her tenacity to survive anything, even rotten turnips in the ground, even a Yankee soldier plunderer. Even if she was obsessed with that dolt, Ashley Wilkes. Yup, I loved that book when I was 13. So much that I felt bad that the South lost the Civil War. Yeah, I felt bad. I felt bad that plantations were obliterated. I felt bad that Frank got killed because he went out with the Ku Klux Klan. Um… I was stupid. 

But it’s such a good story. All that stuff doesn’t matter, does it? Not if you’re a 13 year old white girl living in a house with a pool in a rural New England town. The important part is that steamy kiss on the side of the road while Atlanta is burning. Even though the admirable futility of Rhett is that he is going off to fight for the Confederacy and preserve the way of life that enslaved a whole people.

My last attempt at rereading it was six years ago. I was working on a different novel that I shelved and hope to return to at some point. But I decided to read the book from my character’s point of view. From the point of view of an African American in 1938. I didn’t actually finish the book. It looked very different.

Not many people want to admit they are racist. And I think that desire to not be racist shows an honest desire to not promote prejudice against one’s skin color. But, racism isn’t just about thinking or speaking the thoughts. It’s about tolerating the voices that shout it out. I believe in free speech, man. Really, I do. But I don’t think that allows anyone – ANY ONE human being – to speak a word of hate. I don’t think it means just letting things be said and not arguing against it.

This year more than any other, I have come to believe that one should admit when he or she is wrong. It is vital if one wants to improve. Because if you can’t admit you are wrong, you deny yourself the power to make it right. This country is still wrong when it comes to race. So very, very wrong. We have to admit that people. We can’t keep sweeping it under the carpet. We can’t keep pretending it isn’t an issue just because we don’t want to admit to ourselves that we tolerate or agree with something as hateful as racism. We have to look at this opportunity to make it right. 

I am still fascinated by Gone with the Wind. I know more about that book and movie than a lot of people. But one of those things I know is its disregard for people of color. The celebration of a cult that promotes hate and racism. And the romanticism of a way of life that deserved to burn to the ground. Maybe that’s irrelevant to the overall story. But, frankly, my dear, I do give a damn.