Me and Mrs. Baxter

One of my all-time favorite books is Celia Garth, a novel written by Gwen Bristow nearly 60 years ago.  It tells the story of a seamstress living in Charleston, South Carolina during the Revolutionary War, how she fell in love, lost her love, found love again . . . and by the way, she became a spy for the Revolutionary cause.

I recently re-read the book and found myself thinking about one of the minor characters, Mrs. Baxter.
When we meet Mrs. Baxter, she's telling a customer in Celia's dress shop about her little boy George, taking pains to explain that he was named for General Washington, not for that "stupid old king," George III. 

Later, we learn that her first name is Charlotte, but that she prefers to be called Patsy, because Charlotte is the name of the queen and Patsy is the nickname of Martha Washington. 

In the course of the book, Celia gets engaged, only to have her fiance and her family murdered by a band of British soldiers who also destroyed their property.  With her future destroyed, Celia, who had been staying with a woman for whom she sewed, decides to go back to work at the dress shop.  It's the low point in Celia's character arc, and it's before she is asked to become a spy for the American cause. 

Back in the dress shop, she muses on how the whole town has gone Tory.  And she thinks about a recent order from Mrs. Baxter, who wanted her handkerchiefs embroidered with the initial of her first name . . . C for Charlotte.  Celia wondered if people forgot that she used to detest being called by the name of the British queen.  Or, as long as she was being socially accepted by the winning side, maybe Mrs. Baxter just didn't care.

This is sometimes how I feel these days.

I feel like the only way to be accepted by anyone is to just not care about my convictions or even to have any.  No matter what I think, do, or say, someone is going to jump all over me and accuse me of being hateful to whatever group they think I'm being hateful to. 

I am so sick of the division in this country.  I'm reminded both of the Bible verse and Abraham Lincoln's speech in which they both said, a house divided among itself cannot stand.  We are divided among ourselves, racially, culturally, and in every other way possible.  People hate each other, and it's getting worse by the day.  I'm afraid to say anything to anyone about anything because I don't want to be accused of being a racist, bigot, or whatever other word they want to call me. 

Maybe I'm like Mrs. Baxter.  Maybe I just want to be "socially accepted" by the winning side. 

I am afraid of losing friends and relationships to the current political and cultural climate.  I want to accept the right of other people to have and express their opinions, but I also fear that if I express mine, I will be attacked and I will lose relationships.  I keep a lot of my politics off of my main Facebook page, but sometimes, I can't always keep my mouth shut or my hands off the keyboard.

African-Americans are hurting.  They deal with generations of racism, and even though the law has mostly outlawed overt signs of racism (e.g. "white only" and "black only" accommodations as one example), the law cannot change the inside of people.  The law can't force you not to be a racist or a bigot.

Hispanics are hurting.  Not every Hispanic in this country is here illegally.    And while I do believe that people in this country should learn to speak English, English is a difficult language to learn and I'm willing to cut people slack while they're learning it.

I believe we are all hurting. And I as a white person am even afraid to say things like, "How can I help?" because I don't want to be accused of being patronizing and/or condescending, like the white person swooping in on a broom to save the day.

I'm extremely discouraged, as I'm sure you can tell.  I feel like nothing I do or nothing I say is going to make one bit of difference, and I fear that I value my acceptance or social standing more than I do my integrity and my convictions on what is right and what is wrong.  I fear that any day now, the literal or figurative Molotov cocktail is going to be thrown that will launch either World War III or the Second Civil War.  I fear that I will have to pick sides, and that no matter what I do, I will lose acceptance.  Sure, it's fine for me to think or believe that I could stand alone if I absolutely had to . . . but I don't know if I could ever be that brave. 

Maybe I'm just as bad as Mrs. Baxter, who wanted social acceptance more than anything else. 

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.