Twenty-Eight Hours with the Boy and the LA Book Festival

Corrie had a long-planned camping trip away from the four of us boys, and as the date came up, anxieties did so as well. Hers mostly, as I was sure I could handle it (overconfidence is no stranger here), and the Boy had no idea what was going on.

With Corrie all packed up and ready to go, she said her goodbyes and I held Cass as he watched her descend the stairwell and shut the door, and then we watched from the window as she drove away. He whimpered a little as she left, but after the car was gone, we got back to normal: playing and having a good time.

That was only an interlude, since I was getting ready to embark on a trip to USC to bring the Boy to his---and miy own---first book festival.

Originally I had planned on taking the trains, but this would prove just too inconvenient in a practical sense. Stupid lack of infrastructure. I would have to take the Blue line all the way to the Staples Center and switch to the Expo line, a combination of at least 85 minutes which could easily be 110 minutes. That's all well and good for a single adult head with a buzz and something to read, but with a 10 month old in tow?

That idea fizzled during committee.

The drive wasn't so bad and the parking price wasn't as bad as I'd expected, so that was that. The return trip would be early enough that parking would be acceptable, which helped matters.

I used the stroller, which for our family is a rarity. We use our Ergo carrier and wear the Boy on a constant basis around Long Beach: we walk everywhere anyway and the stroller, while compact, is still a bit of a burden in bulk and sizing at the restaurant establishments we frequent.

Also, the stroller allowed me to show off my Pynchon shirt.

I've always heard that USC is in the 'Hood, that it's the bastion of "A-Way-Out-Ness" in South Central South LA. Having seen their lovely campus and the surrounding environs I'm not sure I agree with that designation. Maybe times have improved the area, but everything is north of 40th street, possible 38th. Maybe in 1920 this was considered "far" south of downtown, but these days I usually think of the fifty blocks from 70th to Imperial Highway as the heart of South LA. (Residents there won't ever read this, but I'm sure they'd take issue with that statement. Sorry everybody...I now it's bad and rough all over the central, blight-affected zones of this metropolitan mess...)

Anyway, we parked and started on our mission: have an adventure and celebrate books. We passed a lonely socialist table on our way to the big outdoor convention-styled booths area that was manned by a single black dude. I wanted to chat with him, and agreed to do it on our way out. I had planned not to spend a copious amount of time out, this far from home, because I essentially wanted to take it easy with the Boy.

Eventually we made it to the rows and rows of vendors. The first place I stopped at and struck up a conversation with was the Atheists United booth. I eventually picked up a book written by the lady with whom I had been speaking that touched on a very specific thing I had been contemplating recently: the state of being of the black atheist and a critical view of African American religiosity and generally conservative social views.

From there we made our way to lots of other booths, chatting briefly with authors, publishers, C-Span workers, fans of the printed word... I found a large place with a good deal on books. "Brand new books! Two for fifteen bucks!" the man barked, over and over. I came over and started perusing, but the stroller was difficult to maneuver in and the shelving on the uneven grass where it had been set up. They had a book on American anti-intellectualism, a copy of Michael Pollan's In Defense of Food, and lots of other things.

In the end, I put back the items I'd chosen. Wasn't I the champion of the under-served book writer, a champion of writers who attempt to speak the truth despite it not being necessarily commercially viable? Having just bought a small-batch printing of a book about black atheism, I decided to only go find either used books or books I wouldn't be finding anywhere else.

The opportunity to buy another book presented itself on the way out. Passing back by the Socialist's lonely table I found it manned by two gentleman, neither them the first black dude I'd wanted to talk to. No matter. I purchased a book about women's long fight for freedom and equality.

Here they are together:

In between those two moments, I purchased a gift for my dad as well as a the slipcase edition of Congressman John Lewis's graphic novel history March. Lewis himself was there signing copies, and as Cass and I stopped for a shady seat to grab a Cheerio-and-puree pouch snack, I realized that the nearby lines for signings seemed long, and that I should probably head out once the snack was over to get a start on avoiding fussiness. I think I heard them say that John Lewis was out for lunch at the time anyway.

In the two weeks since then, and having read about half of the March trilogy I have to say: if I'd known the details of John Lewis's story I would have waited all goddamned day in line, screaming baby or happy baby, just so I could say "Cassius Starling met AMERICAN HERO John Lewis."

And John Lewis is an AMERICAN HERO. Go buy the trilogy and read it. Please. Please.

A number of people throughout our time at the festival complimented Cass on his cuteness and adorability, which was expected. BUT NOBODY MENTIONED MY PYNCHON T-SHIRT. Not a single person.

I mentioned that to Corrie, and she said, "What? What kind of book festival was this?"

Once home, and the nap not taking, we ate some more, and then I had to start dinner. Eventually he went down for bed with no hiccups. He woke when I went to bed hours later, but I nursed him with the sippy-cup and he was asleep in moments.

The next day went without incident until Corrie's return, and I felt pretty accomplished. Beforehand, I could have explained to a stranger every little thing I would be doing with the Boy, but it wasn't until I was alone with him that I realized the stress of being the only person at that moment that is making sure this other, littler person is thriving. That heaviness, that reality...that I wasn't so prepared for.

And Corrie does it everyday.

Upon being told of mamma's impending return: