Day #30--Naughty words

I have plenty of work to keep me busy. On whatever long list of suffering people may exist, I'd be way at the bottom if I showed up at all.

Yesterday I lost a speaking gig, my fourth since all of this started; but for me, sheltering in place has not been a horror. Our greatest suffering is perfectly awful weather that just about forbids exercise. I did my two miles yesterday in a snow squall, and it's mid-April, for crying out loud. See that picture? It's our backyard. I'm serious. Merry Christmas.

My only contribution to the war-against-pestilence effort--if it can be called a contribution--is reading The Boxcar Children to Ian, my grandson. I record it; he gets it on his iPod and listens to a chapter every night. I told him that when I was his age--he's in fourth grade--I just loved The Boxcar Children, and I wasn't a lover of books, at least not then. 

Initially, I told him I'd send him a chapter and see if he might like it. He said that'd be okay. Wasn't necessarily thrilled. You know.

Right now, we're about halfway through. If you know that old saga--it was first published in 1924--Henry, the oldest boy, who really didn't know he was a runner, just took home the prize for coming in first in the town's annual game-day footrace, a really big deal that earned him some bucks.

Before the race, some kid talks to him and describes what happened in last year's epic:

"That was a funny one," he said. "There was a college runner in it, and a couple of fat men, and some girls—lots of people. And the little colored boy over there won it. You just ought to have seen that boy run! He went so fast you couldn't see his legs. Beat the college runner, you know."

I'm guessing that paragraph didn't make later editions.

Now Ian is not my son, he's my grandson; and I'm not there when he listens. I'm not obliged to say anything, and, yes, I'm attempting to absolve myself from responsibility because when I read over the paragraph yesterday, I wondered if I should say something about contemporary usage. 

In her day, I'm sure Gertrude Chandler Warner was using perfectly acceptable language. Not so today.

But then how would I explain that saying "colored" is insensitive, but saying "people of color" is, these days, perfectly acceptable? For that matter, how would I explain the word insensitive?  And even if I'd bring up that usage, how on earth would I explain that the boy's description of last year's winner taking home the prize can most certainly be seen as racist, even if the winning sprinters on the platform during the next Olympics--whenever they're held--are likely to be all "people of color?"

I just kept reading. I could have left out the whole passage--it's not central to the plot. But I didn't. 

And then what about this? Mr. Cordyce, the boss at a steel mill, the man who funds the race, allows himself the joy of one annual holiday, the author says, the day of the race. Here's how she describes it:

Once a year J. H. Cordyce allowed himself a holiday. If he had a weakness, it was for healthy boys—boys running without their hats, boys jumping, boys throwing rings, boys swimming, boys vaulting with a long pole. 

Sheesh. Makes my skin crawl. 

I let it go. Ms. Warner meant nothing by saying things the way she did.

Ian is ten years old. I'm his grandpa, not his dad or mom. But I wouldn't be saying all of this if I didn't think it, would I?

Boxcar Children is an old classic I loved when I was his age. There'll be time for all of that propriety soon enough--that's what I'm thinking anyway, just like there was time for me. 

Still. . .

I got a day. I could put that voice track up on software and cut it right out. I could. . . 

What do you think?