There have been two books on the market lately that both have to do with a white guy coming upon an African-American street person, and the effect this has on both lives. I thought it might be neat to read both and compare them.
The two books are, Same Kind of Different as Me, by Ron Hall and Denver Moore (and Lynn Vincent), and The Soloist by Steve Lopez.
I read SKODAM first; it's the story of a rich, make that, very rich, white art dealer whose wife goads him into working at the homeless shelter after he outs his affair and she forgives him. At this point in their lives, she can pretty much call the shots.
While he is (reluctantly) working there, a black guy about the same age comes through the food line and the wife announces this is the guy she has seen in a dream. "You're supposed to be his friend," she says.
So White Guy attempts to befriend him. It takes a long time and finally they make friends and the black guy learns how to trust. The white guy does too, but in different ways. The black guy comes to know Christ and everything is peachy for a short while.
In the end, the wife dies and the two men are left mourning her.
The book is okay.
I most enjoyed the first half of the book, which tells, in alternating chapters, the stories of the black guy's childhood, and white guy's childhood.
The black guy grew up poor, I mean, really poor. He never attended school a day in his life. Never stepped inside one. This was the sixties, not the thirties, or the nineteenth century. His family and everyone he knew, were sharecroppers, working someone else's land in a borrowed house and working an acre or two that was loaned to them. At the end of the year, they would hypothetically be paid for the crops they raised for the other guy, but since they could not read or write or calculate, he always told them they did not turn any profit, and could not be paid.
The white guy says he grew up poor, too, although I could not reconcile his homemade flour-sack clothing with 'having to attend the cheapest college in the state.'
I did like the wife, though, when he made his first million and called her from the showroom floor of the Jaguar dealership. He excitedly told her he was about to buy a red Jag convertible. She told him to tell that salesman, 'never mind,' right now and get himself home. She wasn't about to have such an ostentatious show of wealth parked in front of her house every night.
Hmm. No wonder he had an affair. I mean, I loved what she said and all, but, hey, don't men like, hold a grudge about this kind of thing?
So, back to the book.
I did not like how they were kind of cocky, like, we are coming into this homeless shelter and we'll make their lives all right, they'll learn to eat with manners and live in a real house and look people in the eye when they speak.
Can't we just help for the sake of helping, and not be about changing people? Some people are there because they want to be, and some are mentally ill, and, we can't just assume that our way of life is for everyone. Some may want it, some may not.
Sort of like saying the whole world needs to be a democracy. It might not be for everyone.
I never understood how the friendship was such a big thing that she had this dream from God about it. I could see it if they had some effect on lots of people, if some foundation were chartered that made a huge difference in the world, but that's not really what happened.
So. . . It's clear that it's ghost-written, and the writing is okay. I mean, just okay. Barely. When the wife dies, the sound of violins leaps off the page and I could hardly hear myself think.
The Soloist was written by Steve Lopez, a columnist for the LA Times. He is a seasoned writer, and it shows. His punchy style and rhythm get more said in a paragraph than most ppl can say in a page-and-a-half.
He happens upon a street person in downtown LA on his lunch hour. The guy is playing a 2-stringed violin, and despite its drawbacks, sounds pretty darn great. Turns out he had gone to Julliard.
The writer smells a story. He realizes he has to warm up to the guy, and takes his time, even though it's hard. By the time he gets a story out of it, he has just fallen crazy about the guy and wants to help him just because he cares for him.
He goes through all sorts of self-questioning, like, "Am I helping him for the right reasons?" "What right do I have to presume what is best for him?" and "Am I jeopardizing him by giving him expensive instruments to carry on the street?"
He handles these issues with grace and wisdom and not a small amount of humor. These guys become real friends. The salvation here is not from Jesus, but it is spiritual just the same.
If the guy in Soloist had not written his concerns about presuming too much, I may never have realized how condescending the first book was.
Overall, I -- by far -- liked the soloist much better, and highly recommend it. Now that I've finished it, I may check out the movie.
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