Books: The house at the end of the road

Another memoir, a different subject, but one that again resonates with questions about the literal truth, and a potential fictional mask. While Ralph Eubanks writes The Story of Three Generations of An Interracial Family in the American South, I myself ponder the external veracity of the memoir but bow to the inner conviction of its truth.

Whether in the South or the North, interracial relationships, especially marriages, were illegal until the late 60s. Furthermore, any child born within an interracial relationship, regardless of the fairness of their skin, was pronounced black (Negroes).

And the author's conclusion that we have reached a place in American society where colour doesn't matter is to discount all the racial murmurings that surround us daily, and those loud noises we have been hearing since President Obama took office.

Rarely do I hear the President referred to as white, interracial or even that old word, "mulatto," but rather he is our first black President.

My memories of the South as a student in the 60s, my personal experiences that crossed colour barriers convince me that Mr. Eubanks' recollections, like all memories are constructed as internal devices to shield and serve us in living our lives.

Without some fairytale component added, we might perish from the burden of Hegel's absolutism.

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