Anxiety

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

Page 395 of 501 · 20 per page

• From Giovanni's Room (1956)

  38 James Baldwin seemed to be doing mostof the drinking. There were the usual paunchy, bespectacled gentle- men with avid, sometimes despairingeyes, the usual, knife-blade lean, tight-trousered boys. One could never be sure,asconcerns these latter, whether theywere aftermoneyor blood or love. Theymoved about the bar incessantly, cadging cigarettes and drinks, withsomething behind their eyes at once terriblyvulnerable and terribly hard. Therewere, of course, les folles, always dressedin the mostimprobable combinations, screaming likeparrotsthedetails of their latestlove affairs — theirloveaffairs always seemedto behilarious.Occasionallyone wouldswoop in,quitelateintheevening, to convey the newsthathe— but theyalways called eachother'she'— had justspent time with a celebrated moviestar,orboxer. Then all of theothers closed in on this newcomer and theylooked like a peacock garden and soundedhke a barnyard. Ialwaysfound it difficultto beUeve thatthey everwent to bed with anybody, for amanwhowanted a woman would certainly have rather had a real one and a man who wanted a man wouldcertainly not want one ofthem. Perhaps, indeed,that was why they screamed soloud.There wasthe boy whoworked allday, it wassaid,inthe post office, who came out atnightwearing makeup and earrings and withhis heavy blond hair piled high. Sometimes heactually wore askirt and high heels. Heusually stood alone unless Guillaume walked over to teasehim. People GIOVANNI'S ROOM 39 saidthat hewas very nice, but Iconfess that his utter grotesqueness made me imeasy; per- haps inthe sameway that thesight ofmonkeys eating theirown excrement turnssome people's stomachs. They mightnot mind so much if monkeys did not— so grotesquely —resemble human beings. This barwas practically inmy quartier and I hadmany times had breakfast in thenearby workingman's cafeto which all thenightbirds of the neighborhood retiredwhenthebars closed. SometimesI was with Hella;sometimes Iwas alone. And I had been inthisbar,too, two or three times; once very drunk,Ihad been accusedof causinga minorsensation by flirtingwitha soldier. My memory of thatnight was, happily,very dim, and I tooktheattitude that nomatterhow drunk I may have been, I could not possiblyhave donesucha thing.But my face was known and I had thefeelingthat peoplewere takingbets aboutme. Or,itwas as though theywere the eldersof some strange and austereholy orderand werewatching me in order to discover,by means ofsigns I made but which only theycould read, whetherornot I had a truevocation. Jacques was aware,I was aware,as we pushedourwaytothe bar — it was like moving into the fieldof a magnet or like approaching a smallcircleof heat—of the presence of a new barman.He stood, insolent and dark and leonine, his elbow leaning on the cash register, hisfingers playingwith his chin, looking out

• From Giovanni's Room (1956)

  GIOVANNrS ROOM 63 'Oh/ said Giovanni, 'out. Far out. It is almost not Paris.' 'He lives in a dreadful street, near Nation; said Guillaume, 'among all the dreadful bour- geoisie and their piglike children.' Tou failed to catch the children at the right age,' said Jacques. They go through a period, all too brief, helas! whena pig is perhaps the only animal they do not callto mind.' And, againto Giovanni: In a hotel?' TNfo,' said Giovanni, and for the first timehe seemed sUghtly imcomfortable. 1 live ina maid's room.' With the maid?' TMo,' said Giovanni, and smiled, 'the maid isI don't know where. You could certainly tell that there was no maidif you eversaw my room.' 1 would love to,'saidJacques. Thenwewill give a partyfor you one day/ saidGiovanni. This, too courteous andtoo bald to permitany furtherquestioning,nearlyforced, nevertheless, a questionfrom my lips. Guillaume looked briefly atGiovanni, whodid notlookat himbut outinto themorning, whistling.I had been mak- ingresolutions for the last six hours and nowI madeanother one: tohavethiswhole thing 'oufwith Giovanni as soon asIgot himalone at Les Halles. Iwasgoing tohave to tell him thathehad made a mistake butthatwecould stillbefriends. But I couldnot becertain, really, thatitmightnot be Iwho was making a mis- 64 James Baldwin take, blindly misreading everything —and out ofnecessities, then, too shameful to beuttered, I wasin a box for Icould seethat, nomatter howI turned, the hour ofconfession wasupon meand could scarcely beaverted; unless, of course, Ileaped out ofthe cab,which would be themost terrible confession of all. Nowthecabdriver askeduswhere wewanted to go,for wehadarrived at thechoked boule- vards and impassable sidestreetsofLesHalles. Leeks,onions, cabbages, oranges,apples,pota- toes,cauliflowers, stoodgleamingin moimds all over,on the sidewalks,inthe streets,before greatmetal sheds. The shedswere blocks long and within the shedswere piledmore fruit, more vegetables,in some sheds, fish, in some sheds,cheese, insome whole animals,lately slaughtered. Itscarcely seemed possible thatall of this couldeverbe eaten. Butina few hours itwouldallbegone and trucks would be arriv- ing fromallcomersof France — and making their way, to the great profit of a beehiveof middlemen, across the cityof Paris —to feed the roaring multitude. Who were roaring now, at once wounding and charming the ear, before and behind, andon either side of our taxi — our taxi driver,and Giovanni, too, roared back. The multitude of Paris seems to be dressed in blue everyday but Sunday, when, forthe most part, they put on an unbeUevably festive black. Here they werenow, in blue, disputing, every inch, our passage, with their wagons, hand-

• From Giovanni's Room (1956)

  GIOVANNI'S ROOM 91 lightin theguest room. My dirty clothes are ly- ing all over. Thosego with me/I say, trying to smile. *You could have come just across the road,' she says. 1 would have been gladto giveyou somethingto eat.A little soup, something nourishing. I cookevery day formy husband; what difference does one more make?' This touches me,but I donot know howto Indicate it,and I cannot say, of course, thateat- ing with herand her husband would have stretched my nervesto the breaking point. Sheis examining a decorative pillow. *Are you going to joinyour fiancee?' she asks. I knowI oughtto lie, but somehow I cannot. I am afraid of hereyes.I wish, now, that I had my drinkwithme. 'No,' I say, flatly,'she has gone to America.' Tiensl' she says.'And you —do you stay in France?'She looksdirectlyat me. Tor awhile,' Isay.Iam beginning to sweat. It has come tome that this woman, a peasant fromItaly, must resemble,inso manyways, themother ofGiovanni. I keeptryingnotto hearher howls ofanguish, I keeptryingnot to see in her eyes what would surelybe there if sheknew that her son wouldbedead by morn- ing, ifshe knew what I had done toherson. But, ofcourse, she is not Giovanni's mother. It isnot good,' she says, 'itis not rightfor a young manlike youto besitting alone ina great bighousewith no woman.' She looks, for a 92 JamesBaldwin moment, very sad; starts to saysomething more and thinks better ofit. Iknow she wants tosay something about Hella, whom neither she nor anyofthe other women here hadliked. But she turnsout thelight in the guestroom and we gointo thebig bedroom, the master bedroom, which Hella and I had used, notthe one in which Ihave left mydrink. This, too, isvery clean and orderly. She looks aboutthe roomand looks atme, and smiles. Touhave not been using thisroomlately/ shesays. I feel myself blushing painfully. She laughs. *But youwill behappyagain,'shesays. Tou mustgoand findyourself anotherwoman, a good woman,and get married,andhavebabies. Yes, that iswhat you oughtto do,'shesays, as though I had contradicted her,andbefore I can sayanything,Whereis your mamanV 'She is dead.' *AhrSheclicks her teeth insympathy. That issad. And your Papa — is hedead,too?' TMo. He isin America.' 'Pauvre bambinoTShelooksat myface. Iam really helpless in frontof herandif she does not leave soon, shewill reduce me totears or curses.'But youdo not havetheintention of just wandering through theworldlike asailor? I am sure thatwould make yourmother very unhappy. You will make ahome someday?' Tes,surely. Someday.' She putsher stronghandonmy arm. *Even

• From I'm Not a Mourning Person (2023)

  Exhale for six to eight counts. Repeat this three times (or as much as needed). Our breath is central to every aspect of our well-being, yet we often overlook its power. In times of fear, grief, pain, trauma, depression, and so on, let your breath serve as the lifeline it’s designed to be. Identify what you’re feeling: name it. Are your heart palpitations an indicator of fear? (They come on in a flash and have a beginning, middle, and end.) Or is it more like anxiety, worry, or rumination about something that may or may not happen? This next suggestion might sound silly, but it always helps me. Once you’ve identified the emotion, connect with it. “Hey, anxiety . . . Hey, sadness . . . you’re OK.” Greeting and soothing our emotions reminds us that our feelings are friends, not enemies. Validate what you’re feeling: Remember, feelings aren’t good or bad; they’re information. They help us know how to respond in different situations. Your feelings have a right to take up space. There’s nothing wrong with them or with you. They deserve to be seen without having to be fixed, justified, or controlled. They’re OK, and so are you. Soothe your inner critic: Sometimes it’s hard to selfsoothe when our inner critics shit all over our brains like demon-possessed parrots. You want to feel better, but your negative thoughts make it impossible. Inner critics are destructive for a reason: they’re trying to protect us. For example, my inner critic says BS like this: If you don’t look or act a certain way, you won’t be loved. You’ll be left. I don’t want you to experience that, so I’m going to shut you down or shame you back in line to avoid rejection. What a sweetie pie, right? As much as we want to avoid them, inner critics need our love, because they’re in a lot of pain. A question for you to ponder as you soothe your critic: What if the opposite of what you’re feeling about yourself were true? Think about it for a second. It’s certainly possible, isn’t it? Just as bad stuff can happen, so too can good stuff. Here’s another question that can help your brain get on a better track: What would your best friend say about this? I doubt she’d be as douchey as you (and I) can be to ourselves—because she’s your best frickin’ friend. And my personal favorite: What does love see? Love doesn’t think you’re worthless, incapable, unintelligent, weak, and all the other awful things you may believe when you’re out of sorts. Love sees you for who you truly are, a valuable and wonderful person. When self-attacking thoughts take hold, lean on love. My go-to way of working through these questions is by journaling.

• From Giovanni's Room (1956)

  And then he went on about my stepmother and how she wanted to see me, and about some of our friends and what they were doing. It was clear that my absence was beginning to frighten him. He did not know what it meant. But he was — GIOVANNI'S ROOM 121 living, obviously, in a pit of suspicions which daily became blacker and vaguer—he w^ould not have known how to put them into words, even if he had dared. The question he longed to ask was not in the letter and neither was the offer: Is it a woman, David? Bring her on home. I don't care who she is. Bring her on home and Til help you get set up. He could not risk this question because he could not have endured an answer in the negative. An answer in the nega- tive would have revealed what strangers we had become. I folded the letter and put it in my back pocket and looked out for a moment at the wide, sunlit foreign avenue. There was a sailor, dressed all in white, com- ing across the boulevard, walking with that funny roll sailors have and with that aura, hopeful and hard, of having to make a great deal happen in a hurry. I was staring at him, though I did not know it, and wishing I were he. He seemed—somehow—younger than I had ever been, and blonder and more beautiful, and he wore his masculinity as unequivocally as he wore his skin. He made me think of home perhaps home is not a place but simply an irrevocable condition. I knew how he drank and how he was with his friends and how pain and women baffled him. I wondered if my father had ever been Uke that, if I had ever been like that— though it was hard to imagine, for this boy, striding across the avenue like Ught itself, any antecedents, any connections at all. We

• From Barclay's Guide to the New Testament (2008)

  It demanded a new standard of moral purity, a new kindness, a new service, a new forgiveness - and it was difficult. And, once the first thrill and enthusiasm were gone, it became harder and harder to stand out against the world and to refuse to conform to the generally accepted standards and practices of the age. (3) It is to be noted that i John shows no signs that the church to which it was written was being persecuted. The peril, as it has been put, was not persecution but seduction; it came from within. That, too, Jesus had foreseen. `Many false prophets', he said, `will arise, and lead many astray' (Matthew 24:11). This was a danger of which Paul had warned the leaders of this very church of Ephesus when he made his farewell address to them. `I know', he said, `that after I have gone, savage wolves will come in among you, not sparing the flock. Some even from your own group will come distorting the truth in order to entice the disciples to follow them' (Acts 20:29-30). The trouble which i John seeks to combat came not from people who were out to destroy the Christian faith but from those who thought they were improving it. It came from people whose aim was to make Christianity intellectually respectable. They knew the intellectual trends and currents of the day, and felt that the time had come for Christianity to come to terms with secular philosophy and contemporary thought. The Contemporary Philosophy What, then, was this contemporary thought and philosophy with which the false prophets and mistaken teachers wished to align the Christian faith? Throughout the Greek world, there was a way of thinking to which the general name of Gnosticism is given. The basic belief of all Gnostic thought was that only spirit was good and that matter, the material world, was essentially evil. The Gnostics, therefore, inevitably despised the world since it was matter. In particular, they despised the body, which, being matter, was necessarily evil. Imprisoned within this body was the human spirit. That spirit was a seed of God, who was altogether good. So, the aim of life must be to release this heavenly seed imprisoned in the evil of the body. That could be done only by a secret knowledge and elaborate ritual which only true Gnostics could supply. Here was a train of thought which was written deep into Greek thinking - and which has not even now ceased to exist.

• From Giovanni's Room (1956)

  'Jacques said you left him there without any money, without any cigarettes, or anything, and you didn't even tell him you were going to be with me/ There are lots of things I didn't tell Giovanni. But he's never made any kind of scene before I guess he must be drunk. I'll talk to him later/ 'Are you going to go back there later?' Well/ I said, 'if I don't go back there later, I'll go on over to the room. I've been meaning to do that anyway/ I grinned. 1 have to get shaved.' Hella sighed. 1 didn't mean to get your friends mad at you/ she said. Tou ought to go back and have a drink with them. You said you were going to/ 'Well, I may, I may not. I'm not married to them, you know.' 'Weli, the fact that you're going to be married to me doesn't mean you have to break your word to your friends. It doesn't even mean/ she added, shortly, 'that I have to like your friends.' 'Hella/ I said, 'I am perfectly aware of that.' We turned off the boulevard, toward her hotel. 'He's very intense, isn't he?' she said. I was staring at the dark mound of the Senate, which ended our dark, slightly uphiU street. 'Who is?' 'Giovanni. He's certainly very fond of you.' 'He's Italian/ I said. Italians are theatrical/ GIOVANNrS ROOM "5 Well, this one/ she laughed, 'must be special, even in Italy I How long have you been living with him?' 'A couple of months/ I threw away my cig- arette. 1 ran out of money while you were away —you know, Fm still waiting for money— and I moved in with him because it was cheaper. At that time he had a job and was living with his mistress most of the time/ 'Oh?' she said. 'He has a mistress?' 'He had a mistress/ I said. 'He also had a job. He's lost both/ Toor boy,' she said. 'No wonder he looks so lost.' 'Hell be alright/ I said, briefly. We were be- fore her door. She pressed the night bell. Is he a very good friend of Jacques?' she asked. 'Perhaps/ I said, 'not quite good enough to please Jacques.' She laughed. 1 always feel a cold wind go over me/ she said, 'when I find myself in the pres- ence of a man who dislikes women as much as Jacques does/ 'Well, then/ I said, 'well just keep hun away from you. We don't want no cold winds blow- ing over this girl.' I kissed her on the tip of her nose. At the same moment there was a rumble from deep within the hotel and the door un- locked itself with a small, violent shudder. Hella looked humorously into the blackness. 'I always wonder/ she said, If I dare go in/ Then she looked up at me. 'Well? Do you want to have

• From Giovanni's Room (1956)

  220 James Baldwin She lookedat meand held out her hand. 'Good-bye, David/ I took her hand.It was cold and dry,like her lips. 'Good-bye, HeUa/ Shegot into the taxi. I watched it backdown the drive, onto the road. Iwaved one lasttime, but Hella didnot wave back. Outside my window the horizonbegins to lighten, turning the grey sky a purplish blue. I have packedmy bags andI have cleaned the house. The keys to the houseareon the table before me.I have onlyto change my clothes. When the horizon has become a little lighter thebus which willtakemetotown, to the station, to the trainwhich will takeme to Paris,will appearat the bend ofthe highway. Still,I cannot move. On the table, also,isasmall, blue envelope, the notefromJacques informing me of the date of Giovanni's execution. I pour myselfa very httledrink, watching,in the window pane,myreflection,which steadily becomes more faint. Iseem tobe fading away beforemy eyes —thisfancy amuses me,and I laugh to myself. It shouldbenow that gatesare opening be- fore Giovanni andclanging shut behind him, never,for him,tobe opened or shut anymore. Or perhaps it is already over. Perhaps it isonly GIOVANNI'S ROOM 221 beginning. Perhapshestillsitsinhis cell,watch- ing, with me,the arrival ofthemorning. Per- haps now therearewhispers at theend ofthe corridor,three heavymeninblack taking off theirshoes,one of themholding thering of keys,all of the prisonsilent,waiting, charged with dread.Threetiersdown,theactivity on thestonefloor hasbecome silent, issuspended, someonelights a cigarette. Willhe die alone? I donotknow ifdeath,in this country, is a soli- tary oramass-produced affair.And what will he say tothepriest? Take off yourclothes,something tells me, ifs gettinglate. Iwalk intothebedroom where the clothes I will weararelyingon thebedand my bag Hes open andready. I begin to undress.There is a mirrorinthisroom, a largemirror. Iam ter- riblyawareofthe mirror. Giovanni's face swings before me like an un- expectedlantern ona dark,dark night. His eyes — hiseyes,theyglow like a tiger's eyes, theystarestraightout,watchingthe approach of his lastenemy, the hairof his flesh stands up. Icannotreadwhatisinhiseyes: ifit is terror, then I haveneverseenterror, if it is anguish,then anguish hasneverlaid hands on me. Nowtheyapproach,nowthekey turns in thelock, nowthey havehim. He cries out once. They look at himfromfar away. They pull him tothe door of hiscell,thecorridor stretches beforehim likethegraveyard ofhis past, the

• From The Unexpected Legacy of Divorce: A 25-Year Landmark Study (2000)

  We are on the threshold of learning what we can and cannot do for these young people. Still one wonders, can an educational intervention replace the learning that occurs naturally over many years within the family? How do we create a corps of teachers who are qualified to lead meaningful courses on relationships? By this I mean courses that are true to life, honest, and respectful of students. I worry about the adult tendency to lecture or sermonize. In a society where the family has become a political issue, I’m concerned about attacks from the left and the right, about the many people who would attack such interventions the way they’ve attacked the Harry Potter books. Mostly I’m concerned about finding a constituency of adults who would rally behind an idea that has so many pitfalls. But I’m also convinced that doing nothing—leaving young people alone in their struggles—is more dangerous. We should not give up without a try. For the ChildrenEXCEPT FOR THOSE raised in divorced families, few people realize the many ways that divorce shapes not only the child’s life but also the child. As we have seen in many homes, parenting erodes almost inevitably at the breakup and does not get restored for years, if ever. The changes in parenting and in the structure of the family place greater responsibilities on the child to take care of herself. And she, in turn, becomes a different person as she adjusts to the new needs and wishes of her parents and stepparents. All of the children I have described in this book took on new roles in direct response to changes that occurred during the postdivorce years. Many were acutely aware of their parents’ distress and tried to rescue them. Others remained angry at their parents’ diminished attention and judged them harshly. Others longed for the family they had lost and tried to reverse the divorce decision. And still others took responsibility for keeping the peace and walked on eggs throughout their childhoods. These children took many paths, but all changed significantly in the wake of divorce. And because the children’s character and conscience were still being formed during the postdivorce years, the new roles they assumed in the family had profound effects on who they became and on the relationships they established when they reached adulthood. As an adult child of divorce reading this book, I hope you have gained a better understanding of who you are today and how you got here. I hope you realize that you have millions of peers who share your worries about relationships and who understand the seriousness of your predicament. Your fears and feelings were forged in the crucible of your parents’ divorce years ago and strengthened over the years that followed. These emotions, which are often hidden from consciousness, have the power to affect your marriage, your parenting, indeed the quality of your entire life.

• From The Unexpected Legacy of Divorce: A 25-Year Landmark Study (2000)

  In this family and many others, no one talked about how the children would spend time with their father. No one thought to help the man or the daughters figure out ways to get to know one another after such a long absence. The parents never met alone or with an adviser to explain the children’s interests or their natural concern about how the visits would cut into their social lives and friendships. The court made no provision for a gradual implementation of the new schedule. Basically the children were treated like objects and sent off on the assumption that of course everything would work out for the best. Paula’s mom arranged for a neighbor to take the girls to the bus station for the trip up to Santa Rosa every other Friday afternoon. Their dad met them at the depot or, if he was working late, had them take a cab to his apartment. Unaware of his children’s anxieties, the father did what he remembered doing when they were young. He took them to the playground. When this bombed, he took them to the movies. But with a limited selection of G-rated films in Santa Rosa, he finally resorted to the video store. As time wore on, the girls spent their weekends watching television or videos or tagging along with their father while he did routine errands. Occasionally, he would take them to an amusement park, especially if he had a girlfriend along. Sometimes he helped with homework. He tried his best to be a good father and there was no question that he loved them and looked forward to their visits. But he was at sea. The four-year absence plus the sullen resentment of the children at the disruption of their social lives were very hard for him to overcome. The hardest was when he went out on dates in the evening and Paula and Joan were left alone in the apartment complex. There were few other children to play with. Neither girl liked to venture out alone. Once they tiptoed down to the small swimming pool near their apartment, only to be set upon by a group of older boys who teased and frightened them. They never went back.

• From I'm Not a Mourning Person (2023)

  Truth is, we may never know why we or someone we love gets sick. Why our partner decides to leave us for a younger lover. Why we get laid off from a dream job or booted from a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Why a BFF suddenly becomes distant. Why a seemingly good financial investment goes south. And on and on. And while assigning blame may make us feel like we have some degree of control, ultimately it’s the last thing that deserves to be taking up valuable space in our minds. Survival demands that we don’t get stuck looking back or spinning our wheels with worry about the future or beating ourselves to a pulp with a bunch of “should-haves.” When it comes to navigating uncertain moments, a far more productive focus is on how we care for our mental and physical health, right here and right now. When we let go of the “why” and zero in on the “what”—as in, What do I most need right now to feel supported?—we not only calm our systems, but we become more present, more adaptable, more creative, and, most importantly, more at ease with life’s natural currents. HOLD FAST Only 1 in 10 pancreatic cancer patients survives five years past their diagnosis. If the cancer is found early and the tumor can be removed, the chances for survival are slightly higher. But one of the problems with pancreatic cancer is that it’s hard to detect because the symptoms often go overlooked. Dad’s disease was already aggressive when the doctors found it. If he didn’t do chemo and radiation right away, his prognosis of survival was less than two months. To make matters worse, his tumor was wrapped around a major artery. The only way he’d even be eligible for surgery was if the mass shrank enough to clear the artery. Dad muscled through six months of a powerful cocktail of chemotherapy and radiation, along with all their debilitating side effects. To help him find the inner strength to dig deep, my mother made a beautiful altar with photos of our ancestors, cherished mementos that reminded him that life was so worth fighting for. She also framed a photo of his personal mantra: Hold fast—a nautical term that to him meant “rough seas ahead, tie the lines, batten down the hatches.” Each morning my parents would sit at their sacred altar and meditate on those words. They’d read inspirational books, practice gratitude, and connect with each other outside the blur of medical terminology and doctors’ appointments. During this time, I watched as the irritations and preoccupations they had with life and each other slowly faded into the background and were replaced by a deep and abiding sense of what truly mattered: love. Every other week, I watched Dad hold fast and gin up the motivation to get hooked up to chemo.

• From I'm Not a Mourning Person (2023)

  Uh-oh. I felt a pang in my stomach. Mom greeted me at the door, fully dressed in “slacks” and a matching sweater set—second clue. Slacks meant business, especially when worn late at night. As she hugged me and asked about my trip, I answered her briefly (“Fine”) while surveying her face for clues. Her eyes looked strained. Something was definitely up. “Listen, there’s something I need to tell you,” she said as I was taking off my shoes. Then she paused for 10 unbearable seconds. “I don’t know how to say it, so I’ll just say it. Dad has a mass on his pancreas, and he needs to get a biopsy first thing tomorrow.” His pancreas? Shit. Shit. Shit. “Can I come to his biopsy with you? And can I stay for as long as it takes to figure this shit out?” I asked. “Oh, yes. Please,” she responded. We hugged and cried and then we did what the women in my family do—we put on our fucking game faces and (you guessed it!) got busy. Spreadsheets. Research. Facebook groups. Phone calls. E-mails. Second and third opinions. Networking. Networking. Networking. My mom goes into beast mode with this stuff. Doctors are blown away by her thoroughness. They say things like, “I wish you could teach all my patients how to organize like this.” But like all beasts, Mom has teeth and she will use them. For example, don’t tell her she can’t have a physical copy of the latest round of blood work because “it isn’t standard procedure.” Moving mountains to save your loved ones isn’t standard procedure, either. Get her the damn report. Unfortunately, Mom’s tenacity is warranted. In today’s medical system, you have to be hypervigilant to get the care you need. For people with anxiety and control issues, this is the marathon that we’ve been training for our whole lives. No doubt, having a trauma history plays a role, too. We’re so accustomed to the chaos of crises that it feels natural and good to navigate storms. Survivors gonna survive. My mother’s fierceness and compassion are among the reasons my dad lived for as long, and as well, as he did. And this wasn’t the first time she had to go into beast mode. As I watched her eagle-eyeing nurses, meticulously taking notes and formulating important follow-up questions, I was reminded of how quickly she had also flown into action in the early days of my own diagnosis. How many years of her precious life would be eaten up by caring for loved ones with cancer? I was enraged for her. And yet I’ve sometimes felt like the reason I got sick was so we’d have half a clue about what to do when Dad needed us. Turns out my cancer was our family’s dress rehearsal. I didn’t sleep a wink that night, and I don’t remember what I said to Dad the next morning. What I do remember was his biopsy.

• From Giovanni's Room (1956)

  We had been wandering about the city all day and all day Hella had been full of a subject which I had never heard her discuss at such length before: women. She claimed it was hard to be one. 1 don't see whafs so hard about being a woman. At least, not as long as she's got a man.' Thafs just it,' said she. ^Hasn't it ever struck you that that's a sort of humiliating necessity?' *Oh, please,' I said. It never seemed to hu- miliate any of the women I knew.' about any of them—in that way.' Well,' she said, Tm sure you never thought 1 certainly didn't. I hope they didn't, either. And why are you7 Whafs your beef? Tve got no beef,' she said. She hummed, low in her throat, a kind of playful Mozart tune. Tve got no beef at all. But it does seem—well, difficult— to be at the mercy of some gross, un- shaven stranger before you can begin to be yourself.' 1 don't know if I like that,' I said. 'Since when — James Baldwin 166 have I been gross? or a stranger? It may be true that I need a shave but that's your fault, I haven't been able to tear myself away from you.' And I grinned and kissed her. Well,' she said, 'you may not be a stranger now. But you were once and I'm sure you will be again—many times/ If it comes to that/ I said, 'so will you be, for me.' She looked at me with a quick, bright smile. Will I?' Then: "But what I mean about being a woman is, we might get married now and stay married for fifty years and I might be a stranger to you every instant of that time and you might never know it.' 'But if I were a stranger you would know it?' Tor a woman," she said, 1 think a man is al- ways a stranger. And there's something awful about being at the mercy of a stranger.' TBut men are at the mercy of women, too. Have you never thought of that?' 'Ah!' she said, 'men may be at the mercy of women—I think men like that idea, it strokes the misogynist in them. But if a particular man is ever at the mercy of a particular woman— why, he's somehow stopped being a man. And the lady, then, is more neatly trapped than ever.* 'You mean, I can't be at your mercy? But you can be at mine?' I laughed. Td like to see you at anybody's mercy, Hella.' Tou may laugh,' she said, humorously, *but 167 GIOVANNI'S ROOM there is something in what I say. I began to realize it in Spain— that I wasn't free, that I couldn't be free until I was attached—no, com- mitted— to someone/

• From Giovanni's Room (1956)

  GIOVANNI'S ROOM 149 aryprize. But this man'slife wasover. He was fondofsayingthat, sincetobein prison was simplynot tolive, thedeathpenalty was the onlymerciful verdictany jurycould deliver. I rememberthinking that, ineffect, hehad never leftprison.Prison wasallthatwasreal tohim; he could speakofnothingelse. Allhis move- ments, even to thelighting ofacigarette, were stealthy,whereverhiseyesfocusedone saw a wall rise up. Hisface,thecolor of his face, broughtto minddarknessand dampness, I feltthatifonecuthim,hisfleshwould be the flesh of mushrooms.And he described tous in avid, nostalgicdetailthe barred windows, the barreddoors,thejudas,theguards standing at far ends of corridors, underthelight. Itis three tiers high insidetheprison andeverything is the color of gunmetal.Everything isdark and cold, except for thosepatches of light, where author- ity stands.There isontheair perpetually the memory of fists against themetal, adull, boom- ing tom-tom possibility,like the possibility of madness.Theguards moveandmutter and pace the corridors and boomdullyup anddown the stairs. They areinblack, theycarry guns, they arealwaysafraid, they scarcelydarebe kind. Three tiers down,in theprison'scenter, in the prison's great, coldheart,thereis always activ- ity:trusted prisonerswheeling things about, goingin and out ofthe offices, ingratiating themselves with theguards forprivileges of cigarettes, alcohol,andsex. Thenight deepens 150 JamesBaldwin in theprison, there is mutteringeverywhere, and everybody knows— somehow —thatdeath willbe entering the prison courtyard early in the morning. Veryearly inthemorning, before the trusties beginwheelinggreatgarbage cans of food along the corridors, three menin black will come noiselesslydown thecorridor, one of them willturnthe keyin thelock.They will lay handson someone and rush him downthe corridor, firstto thepriestand thento adoor which will open onlyfor him, which will allow him, perhaps,one glimpse of the morning be- fore heis thrown forwardon his belly on a board and the knifefalls on his neck. 1 wonder about the size ofGiovanni's cell. I wonder ifitis biggerthan his room. Iknow that it iscolder.I wonderif he isaloneor with two or three others;ifheisperhaps playing cards, or smoking, ortalking,orwriting aletter — towhom wouldhebe writing aletter? — or walking up anddown.I wonderifhe knows that the approaching morning is the last morning of hislife. (Forthe prisoner usually does not know;thelawyer knowsand tells the family or friends but doesnottell theprisoner. )Iwonder if he cares. Whetherheknowsor not, cares or not,he iscertainly afraid. Whetherhe is with others or not, heiscertainlyalone. 1try to see him, his backtome, standing at the window of hiscell.Fromwherehe is perhaps he can only see the opposite wingof theprison; perhaps, by straining a little,justoverthe high wall, a

• From Giovanni's Room (1956)

  GIOVANNI'S ROOM 51 and their measure! Theymeasurethegram,the centimeter, these people,andthey keep piling all thelittle scraps they save,oneon top ofthe other, year in and year out,allinthestocking orunder the bed— and what dotheygetout of all this measure? A countrywhich isfalling to pieces, measure bymeasure, before theireyes. Measure.Ido not like to offend yourearsby saying allthe things Iamsure thesepeople measure before theypermitthemselves any act whatever.May Ioffer youa drink now,' he asked suddenly, ^beforetheoldman comes back?Whois he?Isheyouruncle?* I did not know whetherthe word 'uncle'was being used euphemisticallyornot. I felta very urgent desire to makemy positionclear but I did not know how to go about it.I laughed.'No,'I said,lie is notmyuncle.Heisjust somebody I know.' Giovanni looked atme.Andthislookmade mefeel that no oneia mylife had everlooked atme directly before. 1hopehe isnotvery dear to you,' he said, with a smile,^because I think heis silly. Not abad man, you understand — just a little silly,' Terhaps,' Isaid, and atonce feltlike a traitor. He's not bad,' Iadded quickly, 'he's reallya pretty nice guy.' That's not true,either,I thought, he's far from being aniceguy. 'Any- way,' I said. Tie's certainly not verydear tome,' and felt again, at once, this strange tightening in my chest and wondered atthe sound of my voice. 52 JamesBaldwin Carefully now, Giovanni poured my drink. ytveVAmerique,' he said. Thank you/ Isaid, and lifted my glass,'vive le vieux continent.' Wewere silent for a moment, T)oyou come in here often?' asked Giovanni suddenly. TMo,' I said, 'not very often/ 'Butyou willcome/ heteased, with awonder- ful,mocking light on his face, 'more often now?" Istammered: Why?' 'Ah I' cried Giovanni. T)on'tyou know when you have made a friend?" Iknew Imust look foolish andthat my ques- tionwas foolish too: 'So soon?' Why no/ hesaid, reasonably, and looked at his watch, 'wecan waitanotherhourif you like. Wecan become friends then.Orwecan wait until closing time. Wecanbecomefriends then. Or wecan waituntiltomorrow, only that meansthat you mustcome inheretomorrow andperhaps youhavesomethingelse todo.' He put hiswatchawayandleanedbothelbows on the bar. Tellme/ hesaid,'what isthisthing about time? Whyisit betterto belate than early?Peoplearealwayssaying, we must wait, we must wait.Whataretheywaiting for?' 'Well/I said,feeling myseK beingled by Gio- vanniinto deep anddangerous water,1 guess people waitin order tomakesureof whatthey feel/

• From Giovanni's Room (1956)

  And his sister Ellen, a Uttle older than he, a little darker, always overdressed, overmade-up, with a face and figure beginning to harden, and with too much jewelry everywhere, clanging and banging in the light, sits on the sofa, read- ing; she read a lot, all the new books, and she used to go to the movies a great deal. Or she knits. It seems to me that she was always carrying a great bag full of dangerous-looking knitting needles, or a book, or both. And I don't know what she knitted, though I suppose she must, at least occasionally, have knitted some- thing for my father, or me. But I don't remem- ber it, anymore than I remember the books she read. It might always have been the same book and she might have been working on the same scarf, or sweater, or God knows what, all the years I knew her. Sometimes she and my father played cards— this was rare; sometimes they talked together in friendly, teasing tones, but this was dangerous. Their banter nearly always ended in a fight. Sometimes there was company and I was often allowed to watch them drink their cocktails. Then my father was at his best, boyish and expansive, moving about through the crowded room with a glass in his hand, refilling people's drinks, laughing a lot, handling all the men as though they were his brothers, and flirting with the women. Or no, not flirting with them, strutting like a cock before them. Ellen always seemed to be watch- 20 James Baldwin ing him as though she were afraid he would do something awful, watched him and watched the women and, yes, she flirted with the men in a strange, nerve-wracking kind of way. There she was, dressed, as they say, to kill, with her mouth redder than any blood, dressed in something which was either the wrong color, or too tight, or too young, the cocktail glass in her hand threatening, at any instant, to be re- duced to shards, to splinters, and that voice going on and on like a razor blade on glass. When I was a little boy and I watched her in company, she frightened me.

• From Giovanni's Room (1956)

  GIOVANNrS ROOM 143 then I heard someone come into the bar down- stairs soI turned around without saying any- thing more and walked out/ He stopped in front of me. 'Can I havesome more cognac?' he asked, with a smile. 1 won't break theglass this time/ I gave him my glass. He emptiedit and handed it back.He watched my face. 'Don'tbe afraid/ he said. "We will be alright.I amnot afraid.' Then hiseyes darkened, he looked again toward thewindows. "Well/ hesaid, 1 hopedthat that would bethe end ofit.Iworked in the bar and tried not to think of Guillaume orof what hewas thinking or doingupstairs.It was aperitif time,you know?and I was verybusy. Then, suddenly, I heardthedoorslamupstairs and the moment I heard that Iknew thatit had happened, the awfulthing hadhappened.He cameinto the bar, alldressed now,like a French business- man, andcame straight to me.He did not speak to anyone as hecamein,andhe lookedwhite andangry and,naturally,thisattractedatten- tion. Everyone waswaiting tosee what he woulddo. And, I must say,I thoughthe was going tostrike me,orhehad maybe gonemad andhad a pistolin hispocket. SoIamsure I looked frightened andthis didnothelp matters, either. He came behind thebar andbegan say- ingthat I was a tapette and a thief and told metoleave atonce orhewouldcallthe police andhave me put behind bars. Iwas so as ton- 144 JamesBaldwin ishedI couldnot say anything andallthe time his voicewas risingandpeople werebeginning to listen and,suddenly,moncher, I felt that I was falling, falling from agreat,high place. For a longwhile Icouldnotget angryand I couldfeel the tears,Uke fire, coming up. I could not get my breath,Icouldnotbelieve thathe was reallydoing thistome. I keptsaying, what haveI done?What have I done! Andhe would not answer and then heshouted, veryloud, it was like a gun goingoff, 'Mais tulesais,salopi You know verywellTAnd nobodyknew whathe meant,but itwas just as though we wereback In thattheatrelobby again, where we met, you remember? Everybodyknew that Guillaume was rightandIwas wrong,thatI haddonesome- thing awful. Andhewentto thecash register and took out some money — butI knew thathe knew that there wasnot much money in the cash registerat suchan hour— andpushedit at meand said. Takeit!Take it! Betterto give itto you thanhaveyou stealit from meat night! Now go!'And, oh,the faces in that bar,you should have seen them. They were so wise and tragic andthey knew that now they knew every- thing, thatthey had always known it, and they were so glad that they had never had anything to do withme. *Ah! Les encules!The dirty sons of bitches! Les gonzessesTHe was weeping again, with rage this time. 'Then, at last, I struck him and then many hands gxabbedme and now I hardly know what happened, but by

• From Barclay's Guide to the New Testament (2008)

  So he sends Onesimus back. No one knew better than Paul how great a risk he was taking. A slave was not a person but a living tool. A master had absolute power over his slaves. `He can box their ears or condemn them to hard labour - making them, for instance, work in chains upon his lands in the country, or in a sort of prison-factory. Or, he may punish them with blows of the rod, the lash or the knot; he can brand them upon the forehead, if they are thieves or runaways, or, in the end, if they prove irreclaimable, he can crucify them.' The Roman lawyer and satirist Juvenal draws the picture of the mistress who will beat her maid servant at her whim and of the master who `delights in the sound of a cruel flogging, deeming it sweeter than any siren's song', who is never happy `until he has summoned a torturer and he can brand someone with a hot iron for stealing a couple of towels', `who revels in clanking chains'. Slaves were continually at the mercy of the whims of a master or a mistress. What made it worse was that the slaves were deliberately repressed. There were in the Roman Empire 6o,ooo,ooo of them, and the danger of revolt was constantly to be guarded against. A rebellious slave was promptly eliminated. And, if a slave ran away, at best he would be branded with a red-hot iron on the forehead, with the letter F - standing for fugitivus, runaway - and at the worst he would be put to death by crucifixion. Paul was well aware of all this and that slavery was so ingrained into the ancient world that even to send Onesimus back to the Christian Philemon was a considerable risk. Paul's Appeal So Paul gave Onesimus this letter. He makes a pun on Onesimus' name. Onesimus in Greek literally means profitable. Once Onesimus was a useless fellow, but now he is useful (verse i i ). Now, as we might say, he is not only Onesimus by name, he is also Onesimus by nature. Maybe Philemon lost him for a time in order to have him forever (verse 15). He must take him back, not as a slave but as a Christian brother (verse 16). He is now Paul's son in the faith, and Philemon must receive him as he would receive Paul himself. Emancipation Such, then, was Paul's appeal. Many people have wondered why Paul says nothing in this letter about the whole matter of slavery. He does not condemn it; he does not even tell Philemon to set Onesimus free; it is still as a slave that he would have him taken back. There are those who have criticized Paul for not seizing the opportunity to condemn the slavery on which the ancient world was built.

• From The Selected Works of Audre Lorde

  How can we ever, ever forget the faces of those young Black american soldiers, their gleaming bayonets drawn, staking out a wooden shack in the hills of Grenada? What is our real work as Black women writers of the diaspora? Our responsibilities to other Black women and their children across this globe we share, struggling for our joint future? And what if our sons are someday ordered into Namibia, or Southwest Africa, or Zimbabwe, or Angola? Where does our power lie and how do we school ourselves to use it in the service of what we believe? Sitting with Black women from all over the earth has made me think a great deal about what it means to be indigenous, and what my relationship as a Black woman in North America is to the land-rights struggles of the indigenous peoples of this land, to Native American Indian women, and how we can translate that consciousness into a new level of working together. In other words, how can we use each other’s differences in our common battles for a livable future? All of our children are prey. How do we raise them not to prey upon themselves and each other? And this is why we cannot be silent, because our silences will come to testify against us out of the mouths of our children. November 21, 1985 New York City It feels like the axe is falling. There it is on the new CAT scan—another mass growing in my liver, and the first one is spreading. I’ve found an anthroposophic doctor in Spring Valley who suggests I go to the Lukas Klinik, a hospital in Switzerland where they are conducting the primary research on Iscador, as well as diagnosing and treating cancers. I’ve known something is wrong from the returning pains and the dimming energies of my body. My classes have been difficult, and most days I feel like I’m going on sheer will power alone which can be very freeing and seductive but also very dangerous. Limited. I’m running down. But I’d do exactly what I’m doing anyway, cancer or no cancer.

• From Barclay's Guide to the New Testament (2008)

  Asia Minor, not Rome If i Peter is a baptismal sermon and a pastoral letter in time of persecution, where is its place of origin? If the letter is not Peter's, there is no need to connect it with Rome, and in any event it appears that the Roman church did not know or use i Peter. Let us put together certain facts. (i) Pontus, Galatia, Cappadocia, Asia and Bithynia (i : i ) are all in Asia Minor and all centred in Sinope. (2) The first person to quote extensively from i Peter is Polycarp, Bishop of Smyrna - and Smyrna is in Asia Minor. (3) Certain phrases in i Peter immediately turn our thoughts to parallel phrases in other parts of the New Testament. In i Peter 5:13, the church is called `your sister church ... chosen together with you', and in 2 John 13 the church is described as an `elect sister'. First Peter 1:8 speaks of Jesus Christ: `Although you have not seen him, you love him; and even though you do not see him now, you believe in him and rejoice with an indescribable and glorious joy.' This turns our thoughts very naturally to Jesus' saying to Thomas in the Fourth Gospel: `Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe' (John 20:29). First Peter urges the elders to tend, that is, to shepherd, the flock of God (i Peter 5:2). That turns our thoughts to Jesus' instruction to Peter to feed his lambs and his sheep (John 21:15-17), and to Paul's farewell instruction to the elders of Ephesus to keep watch over the flock over which the Holy Spirit has made them guardians (Acts 20:28). All this is to say that the memories which i Peter awakens are of the Fourth Gospel, the Letters of John and of Paul at Ephesus. The Fourth Gospel and the Letters of John were most probably written at Ephesus - and Ephesus is in Asia Minor. It seems that, in the case of i Peter, all roads lead to Asia Minor. The Occasion of the Publication of i Peter Assuming that i Peter has its origin in Asia Minor, can we suggest an occasion for its writing? It was written at a time of persecution. We know from Pliny's letters that in Bithynia about AD there was a serious persecution of the Christians, and Bithynia is one of the provinces named in the address. We may well conjecture that it was to give courage to the Christians that i Peter was issued. It may be that at that time someone in a church in Asia Minor came upon these two documents and sent them out under the name of Peter. This would not be looked upon as forgery.