Author Archives: Jennifer Butler Basile

Louis Jordan
music

Sticking to the Fringes

My eight year old daughter likes the stations on the edges of satellite radio.

You know the stations at the far end of your presets that you chose, with music you like, but not the stuff you listen to all the time. The ones you usually land on when the regulars don’t have any good options.

It has become part of our morning routine for her to seek one of these out.

First, there was the affinity for the channel playing downtempo electronic and deep house. Maybe she wanted to start off her days in a relaxing way. Maybe she just needs more chill in her life.

Then there was a brief stint with Smokey Robinson’s emceed soul station.

She was bummed when they replaced 40s Junction with holiday favorites, but her jazz and standards came back.

Which leaves me in the car, after she climbs the steps onto the bus, listening to Buddy Clark and the Andrews Sisters, orchestral early Sinatra, Bing Crosby and Louis Jordan. (I am actually excited at how much Louis Jordan there is)

Some of it didn’t age well. Misguided lyrics or culturally inappropriate band names.

All of it speaks to the atmosphere of the time.

The yearning to be reunited with loved ones after the war. The desire to forget all worries in a night of dancing on the town. The hope that the one you love will return your affection.

The lyrics tell a story or hint at one just beyond the notes. Like the “great big mouse eating an onion and crying like a baby” that gave us pause in The Three Flames’ version of “Open the Door, Richard” – absurdity that’s just perfect for an eight year old’s imagination. And made me deep dive into the background of the black vaudeville skit which gave birth to the song.

It makes me dream of the dance halls of my grandmother’s youth. It makes me wonder about the artists of color who were forced to compromise their craft for crowd recognition. It makes me long for a time when the music was bigger than the artist.

What will our songs say about us?

We can only hope that eight year olds keep sticking to the fringes.

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Mother vs. Self
Writing

An Ocean State Story of My Own

My grandmother was a connoisseur of the written word.

She devoured it voraciously.

Oftentimes, seeing her car in the library parking lot, I would find her among the stacks or bump into her in the lobby, fist full of the next adventure to be had.

As my own love of writing deepened in high school, she began to share what she deemed stellar examples of its use. A clipping of newspaper, a strong Op Ed, a well-executed essay.

She’d come of age in the glory days of the Providence Journal, her own brother disappearing into its whole block of a building for work each day. It was a stalwart of journalism and professional writing.

Naturally, then, I came to appreciate those writers and articles she’d send. With my parents referencing Ken Weber’s hiking guide nearly every weekend, I became interested in the sparse yet beautifully evocative language of his nature columns. I fancied myself ‘the next Ken Weber’ as I detailed my own rambles. And as an adult, I discovered more of my own writers.

G. Wayne Miller was a name I was accustomed to seeing in the by-lines of the Journal. When he did an ongoing series about mental health in 2014, I followed closely. How encouraging to see a close-up view of the many facets of mental illness and its treatment in our state. When he retired from the Journal in 2022, I was glad for his accomplishment; sad for the loss of such thoughtful coverage.

Through the wonders of LinkedIn, I stayed abreast of his work with Ocean State Stories (housed within Salve Regina University’s Pell Center). Imagine my surprise and delight when he reached out to me recently to be the subject of one of the Q&A features on their site.

Q & A with Jennifer Butler Basile

When your writing comes of age with a steady diet of talented writers, fed to you by loved ones, part of the literary fabric of Rhode Island – and then one reaches out to you . . . it’s as if fairy dust has burst from the folds of clipped newsprint.

Thank you, Wayne, for taking the time to read my work and offering the space for me to share it. Your care and attention to mental health already impressed me. Your encouragement of fellow writers means perhaps even more.

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Amarita Getty Images via Canva
Living, Poetry

Ode to a Dinner Roll

Going gluten free has taken away the joy of a dinner roll.

What is it about that plump pillow of yeasty goodness

that inspires joy

that conjures childhood holiday dinners

Fresh white linens nestled into the silvery swoop of a bread bowl,

cradling the warm treasure inside.

Peeling the paper thin square from its side,

folding it into my mouth where it immediately melts,

before pressing a cool smear of butter

against its warm surface

leaving enough of a layer

so the salty bite stands on its own for just a beat before

it melds together in all its glutinous glory.

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Canva Witsanu Patipatamak
motherhood, Survival

Exposed

I’m always late.

Not because I’m an asshole.

But my best intentions to leave and arrive in a timely fashion just never seem to progress as intended.

Sometimes a progression of stuff that you just can’t make up stacks up and against and over each other and makes for a royal shit show.

As I breathlessly explained to my daughter’s Girl Scout leader why we were late to one activity last year, “it’s been one of those days”.

She said, “I feel like that’s everyday for you.”

I felt my face stiffen. It often betrays that initial ego reaction you’d usually like to keep under wraps.

She said it with a warm smile and a laugh. She did not mean it as a dig.

My face was more my own sober realization that, while our life may not be, very often our logistics are a shit show.

I do often rush into a room, feeling (and quite possibly sweating) as if I’ve just run a marathon. More pressing than my pulse is the urge to explain. If that old woman with the disapprovingly dipped eyelids knew the gauntlet we’d just run to get here, she’d be impressed we were only x minutes late.

There was the teen who refused to get out of bed. The kid who hid the hairbrush. The one who needed help with socks.

A forgotten book.

You didn’t get my coat?

Shut up

Stop it

I don’t know what to wear

We’re leaving in five minutes?

And that’s when we’re all headed to the same place.

Forget multiple work schedules, sport schedules, driving abilities and available cars.

And compliance is always on a sliding scale with six bars.

I have always been such a good control freak. A logistics queen. Responsible. Trustworthy. With follow-through like we the people. I was never the harried hot mess mom with a shoe full of kids.

Now it seems like everyday is one of those days.

As I said, this woman had not remarked in judgement. And I should not be concerned with the opinions of others. And we do deal with a lot on a daily basis.

I guess I just didn’t want my struggle to be so public.

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motherhood, Perspective

Full Circle

My big kid is home from college.

While her younger sisters have all returned to previously scheduled programming (albeit sleepy and missing vacation), she is still home for a few more weeks.

Most of her days are filled with making back money spent on tuition and checking in with friends from home, but she found herself with an open weekday yesterday. I had already scurried off to an oil change appointment when she awoke, receiving a text as I packed up the work I’d brought with me.

“When will you be home?”

“15 min. Why?”

“I’m bored.”

Having her home, even as a grown woman child, has brought me back to the younger days: of mine as a mother and her as a kid. When home was truly home base. Where we spent a majority of our time. Possibly in pjs – or maybe princess dresses. Where the living room became ball pit, blanket fort, vet clinic.

When it was all on me to occupy and entertain them – and fight to find time for myself.

We ended up clearing the living room floor to lay out yoga mats, her muscles tense and tight from standing all day at work (and yes, I realize the irony as I type that about a 20 year-old, but I will not one up her discomfort with my old ailments. My tongue is clamped between the teeth of my allowing her own experience in her own body. With age comes at least the attempt at maturity. And it is important to maintain our musculature at any age. I digress . . . ). She doesn’t usually do yoga on her own and I have a Pinterest board full of yin yoga routines, but I wasn’t sure she’d want to do the slow reflective yoga of middle age. I knew I was not all in for an energetic round of sun salutations. (God, this says so much about our stages of life). We popped on YouTube and I selected a Flow for Beginners video. Figured we could meet somewhere in the middle.

I was amused to find that both of us grunted and groaned as we assumed different poses.

“I got your Ujjayi breath,” I thought as I exclaimed.

Bones popped in their sockets and muscles shredded tension as they screamed.

“I didn’t realize how tense I actually was,” she said.

“Looks like you could’ve used yin yoga,” I said.

Ironically, I had a scheduled free online drawing class immediately after our session. Always my sketcher/doodler, I figured she could do that with me like we’d done yoga together.

And here is where it really became like the good old days.

While I collected my materials, set up the laptop, and grabbed a cup of tea, she took up residence on the couch with her phone (instead of a tablet of old) and watched videos at full volume. First, I entreated her to come draw. Next, I told her to turn down the volume. Finally, I fended her off as she bugged me.

Here’s how that went . . .

It wasn’t as bad as doing yoga with toddlers (yes, I’ve done that, too), but it certainly brought back memories. And while she certainly got my goat, as she’s wont to do and you can tell by the look in my eyes, the whole evolution told me a lot about where I’m at.

That I’m still learning how to make time for myself. That I’m better at it than I was. That it’s a continual process, not a height to be achieved. That kids can be annoying at any age (yours or theirs). That kids will still need you at any age. That I can look back at that time I found incredibly tough and realize I did things right, we had fun, and they felt love.

All because my twenty year-old first born got bored.

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word cloud
Living

An Inside Job

Am I the only one who finds the relentless stream of self-improvement programs this time of year depressing?

Not only because their purveyors are capitalizing on someone’s idea of self-worth

Not only because they remind me of my own lack of self-actualization and self-love

— Or maybe that’s what drives my major bone of contention:

That it is never as simple as ten steps, six sessions, and three weeks. 

There is no miracle mini-session that can cure the complex web of what has gotten us to our present state of . . .

And that’s what I think depresses me.

The false hope.

How many times can a title draw you in, only to be left wanting more after a superficial few paragraphs.

When nothing exterior can help, when it’s all an inside job.

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Racism

The Madness of Post-Racism

The Madness Coleman Domingo Netflix

The election of Barack Obama signaled the dawn of post-racism in America. 

And yet here we are, sixteen years later, in the murky half-light of a sun that just can’t break through the clouds. 

Series like The Madness, recently released on Netflix, reflect this atmosphere our nation finds itself in. 

Woke enough to see stories of personal growth fighting alongside and against systemic racism.

Enlightened enough to document and criticize constructs that oppress and limit. 

Yet realistic enough that Muncie Daniels’ living nightmare seems very much a possibility. 

Growing up white in the last few decades of America, fictional TV did (and would) not offer the true experience of people of color.  Eric Estrada offered a palatable Hispanic citizen as an officer of the law.  Robert Guillaume spoke a perfect King’s English as he politely answered the door.  Hollywood very much curated the vision of people of color.  If we did see the struggle of their experience, we certainly didn’t blame ourselves for it. 

We decided we wanted to have as many Black characters as possible in the show. Part of what I think we did in the show, and I think is really cool, is that this is a show anyone can watch and enjoy, and we are treating our Black characters, our primarily Black cast, like most shows treat white characters. They can just be people. They can be themselves because they’re not one of the two Black people in the show [and] have to represent all Black people. They can just be people. 

VJ Boyd, co-showrunner The Madness in The Hollywood Reporter

In The Madness, Muncie Daniels’ struggle is very real.  He must balance internal conflict with the outside forces that threaten to destroy him. 

Muncie Daniels’ situation is amplified and magnified for dramatic effect, but the frustration and helplessness that he feels very early on – in conversation with Kwesi (even before he’s forced to drop his case) and especially in the interrogation room with Philadelphia police – are palpable.  They are meant to be and feel outsized here because often the constructs racism has erected are unscalable.  A person of color may not find himself at the center of a conspiracy master plot, but the exaggerated elicited emotions here serve to prove the effect in any situation where personal actions and the truth don’t necessarily enter into the equation. 

The generational experience also weaves a meaningful thread through this story.  Muncie is haunted by the ghost of his father’s actions.  Isiah, while somewhat of a father figure, also reminds Muncie of his resemblance to his father’s flaws.  Demetrius corrects his father on the terminology of his generation when Muncie tries to say D’s friend lives in the projects.  And while Kallie is also Muncie’s offspring, she is just older than Demetrius to offer a sage outlook on his performance as a father and what his actions and attendance say about him.  The many ages and stages of living in the racial state that each generation did are well represented and contrasted.  The interactions between generations do well to represent the influence and evolution of experience. 

It is refreshing to see a mainstream series accurately reflect what has survived the ‘post-racism’ movement of America.  Unfortunately, there is always another Rodney Kraintz, as he himself posits to Muncie in the final scenes.  There is always a larger, more powerful, and insidious construct pulling the strings behind the scenes. 

Our nation has ticked the needle to a vibration just high enough to reflect the struggle and validate the experience – but not enough to dismantle the attitudes and oppression. 

Great change always begins with the artistic vision and lens, but how do we, as individuals and a nation, change the unjust reality people of color face in our nation?   

We can start by exposing the madness for what it is and not allowing it to activate the madness within us. 

As always, any social commentary of racism and its wide-reaching effects made in this blog are made with full acknowledgment of the fact that they are through the lens of my whiteness. 

Related:

‘The Madness’ Star Colman Domingo Talks Triggering Parallels and Why He Wants a Season 2

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Poetry

Personal Effects II

I wrote a poem about loss.

No one died, but all around me there was empty space with the possibility.

When we worry, when the unknowns build into an ugly catastrophe

it’s easy to be overwhelmed by the gravity of it all.

In the stark cavity created by the spidery black legs of a thinly padded plastic chair and the expanse of institutional white tile below

sat the plastic bag

holding the physical items that tied personality to my baby

The ones she doffed for an anonymous starched gown

that dwarfed her inside

all of the unknown

While I sat staring at the obscenely transparent plastic holding but a small part of her.

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