It Could Happen Here - CZM Book Club: "The Yellow Wallpaper" by Charlotte Perkins Gilman, Part Two

Episode Date: February 18, 2024

Margaret reads you the second part of a classic feminist horror story about the madness caused by patriarchy.See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Hi, I'm Ed Zitron, host of the Better Offline podcast, and we're kicking off our second season digging into tech's elite and how they've turned Silicon Valley into a playground for billionaires. From the chaotic world of generative AI to the destruction of Google search, Better Offline is your unvarnished and at times unhinged look at the underbelly of tech brought to you by an industry veteran with nothing to lose. Listen to Better Offline on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, wherever else you get your podcasts from. On Thanksgiving Day, 1999, five-year-old Cuban boy Elian Gonzalez was found off the coast of Florida. And the question was,

should the boy go back to his father in Cuba? Mr. Gonzalez wanted to go home and he wanted to take his son with him. Or stay with his relatives in Miami. Imagine that your mother died trying to get you to freedom. Listen to Chess Peace, the Elian Gonzalez story

on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Hey, I'm Jacqueline Thomas, the host of a brand new Black Effect original series, Black Lit, the podcast for diving deep into the rich world of Black literature. Black Lit is for the page turners,

for those who listen to audiobooks while running errands or at the end of a busy day. From thought-provoking novels to powerful poetry, we'll explore the stories that shape our culture. Listen to Black Lit on the Black Effect Podcast Network, iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. AT&T, connecting changes everything.

Calls on media. everything. Cool Zone Media. Book club, book club, book club, book club, book club, book club, book. Okay, okay. So, welcome to Cool Zone Media Book Club. I'm your host, Margaret Kiljoy. And today, you are my guest. You, dear listener. Very Victorian to say, dear reader. But it's listener, if you want to be pedantic about what noun version of a verb you are, dear listener. This week, we're continuing what we started last week. This isn't going to make any sense to you. You have to go back and listen to part one of the yellow wallpaper for part two to make any sense.

But where we last left our hero, she was going fucking crazy staring at the wallpaper in the nursery of a fancy house that her husband rented for her. It is so hard to talk with John about my case because he is so wise and because he loves me so. But I tried it last night. It was moonlight. The moon shines in all around just as the sun does. I hate to see it sometimes. It creeps so slowly and always comes in by one window or another. John was asleep and I hated to waken him,

so I kept still and watched the moonlight on that undulating wallpaper till I felt creepy. The faint figure behind seemed to shake the pattern, just as if she wanted to get out. I got up softly and went to feel and see if the paper did move, and when I came back, John was awake. What is it, little girl, he said. Don't go walking about like that. You'll get cold. I thought it was a good time to talk,

so I told him that I was really not gaining here and that I wished he would take me away. Why, darling, said he, our lease will be up in three weeks, and I can't see how to leave before. The repairs are not done at home, and I can't see how to leave before. The repairs are not done at home and I cannot possibly leave town just now. Of course, if you were in any danger, I could and would, but you really are better, dear, whether you can see it or not. I am a doctor, dear, and I know. You are gaining flesh and color. Your appetite is better. I really feel much easier about you. I don't weigh a bit more, said I, nor as much, and my appetite may be better in the evening when you are here, but it is worse in the morning when you are away. Bless her little heart, said he with a big hug.

She shall be as sick as she pleases, but now let's improve the shining hours by going to sleep and talk about it in the morning. And you won't go away? I asked gloomily. Why, how can I, dear? It is only three weeks more and then we will take a nice little trip out a few days while Jenny is getting the house ready. Really, dear, you are better. Better in body, perhaps, I began and stopped short for he sat up straight and looked at me with such a stern, reproachful look that I could not say another word.

My darling, said he, I beg of you, for my sake and for our child's sake, as well as for your own, that you will never for one instant let the idea enter your mind. There is nothing so dangerous, so fascinating to a temperament like yours. It is a false and foolish fancy. Can you not trust me as a physician when I tell you so? So of course, I said no more on that score, and we went to sleep before long. He thought I was asleep first, but I wasn't. I lay there for hours, trying to decide whether that front pattern and the back pattern really did move together or separately. On a pattern like this, by daylight, there is a lack of sequence, a defiance of law,

that is a constant irritant to a normal mind. The color is hideous enough and unreliable enough and infuriating enough, but the pattern is torturing. You think you have mastered it, but just as you get well underway and following, it turns a back somersault and there you are. It slaps you in the face, knocks you down, and tramples upon you. It is like a bad dream. The outside pattern is a florid arabesque reminding one of a fungus.

If you can imagine a toadstool in joints, an interminable string of toadstools, budding and sprouting in endless convolutions. Why? That is something like it. That is, sometimes. There is one marked peculiarity about this paper, a thing nobody seems to notice but myself, and that is that it changes

as the light changes. When the sun shoots in through the east window, I always watch for that first long straight ray. It changes so quickly that I can never quite believe it. That is why I watch it always. By moonlight, the moon shines in all night when there is a moon. I wouldn't know it was the same paper. At night, in any kind of light, in twilight, candlelight, lamplight, and the worst of all, by moonlight, it becomes bars. The outside pattern, I mean, and the woman behind it, is as plain as can be. I didn't realize for a long time what the thing was that showed behind that dim sub-pattern, but now I am quite sure. It is a woman.

By daylight she is subdued, quiet. I fancy it is the pattern that keeps her so still. It is so puzzling and keeps me quiet by the hour. I lie down ever so much now. John says it is good for me and to sleep all I can. Indeed, he started the habit by making me lie down for an hour after each meal. It is a very bad habit, I am convinced, for you see, I don't sleep. And that cultivates deceit, for I don't tell him I'm awake, oh no. The fact is, I'm getting a little afraid of John. He seems very queer sometimes, and even

Jenny has an inexplicable look. It strikes me occasionally, just as a scientific hypothesis, that perhaps it is the paper. I have watched John, when he did not know I was looking, come into the room suddenly on the most innocent excuses, and I've caught him several times looking at the paper, and Jenny too. I caught Jenny with her hands on it once. She didn't know I was in the room, and when I asked her in a quiet, very quiet voice, with the most restrained manner possible, what she was doing with the paper, she turned around as if she had been caught stealing and looked quite angry, asked me why I should frighten her so. Then she said that the paper stained everything it touched, that she found yellow smooches all over my clothes and John's, and she wished we would be more careful. Did not that sound innocent?

But I know she was studying the pattern, and I am determined that nobody shall find it out but myself. Life is very much more exciting now than it used to be. You see, I have something more to expect, to look forward to, to watch. I really do eat better and am more quiet than I was. John is so pleased to see me improve. He laughed a little the other day and say I seem to be flourishing in spite of the wallpaper. I turned it off with a laugh. I had no intention of telling him it was because of the wallpaper. He would make fun of me. He might even want to take me away. I don't want to leave now until I've found it out. There is a week more and I think that will be enough. Enough for the sick ad break time go. Hola mi gente, it's Honey German and I'm bringing you Gracias, Come Again.

The podcast where we dive deep into the world of Latin culture, musica, peliculas, and entertainment with some of the biggest names in the game. If you love hearing real conversations with your favorite Latin culture, musica, peliculas, and entertainment with some of the biggest names in the game. If you love hearing real conversations with your favorite Latin celebrities, artists, and culture shifters, this is the podcast for you. We're talking real conversations with our Latin stars, from actors and artists to musicians and creators sharing their stories, struggles, and successes. You know it's going to be filled with chisme laughs and all the vibes that you love. filled with chisme laughs and all the vibes that you love. Each week, we'll explore everything from music and pop culture to deeper topics like identity, community, and breaking down barriers in all sorts of industries.

Don't miss out on the fun, el té caliente, and life stories. Join me for Gracias Come Again, a podcast by Honey German, where we get into todo lo actual y viral. Listen to Gracias Come Again on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Hi, I'm Ed Zitron, host of the Better Offline podcast, and we're kicking off our second season digging into how tech's elite has turned Silicon Valley

into a playground for billionaires. From the chaotic world of generative AI to the destruction of Google search, Better Offline is your unvarnished and at times unhinged look at the underbelly of tech from an industry veteran with nothing to lose. This season, I'm going to be joined by everyone from Nobel-winning economists to leading journalists in the field, and I'll be digging into why the products you love keep getting worse

and naming and shaming those responsible. Don't get me wrong, though. I love technology. I just hate the people in charge and want them to get back to building things that actually do things to help real people. I swear to God things can change if we're loud enough. So join me every week to understand

what's happening in the tech industry and what could be done to make things better. Listen to Better Offline on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, wherever else you get your podcasts. Check out betteroffline.com. angel. I mean, he looks so fresh. And his name, Elian Gonzalez, will make headlines everywhere. Elian Gonzalez. Elian. Elian. Elian. Elian. Elian Gonzalez. At the heart of the story is a young boy and the question of who he belongs with. His father in Cuba. Mr. Gonzalez wanted to go home

and he wanted to take his son with him. Or his relatives in Miami. Imagine that your mother died trying to get you to freedom. At the heart of it all is still this painful family separation. Something that as a Cuban, I know all too well. Listen to Chess Peace, the Elian Gonzalez

story, as part of the My Cultura podcast network, available on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. I'm feeling ever so much better. I don't sleep much at night, for it is so interesting to watch developments, but I sleep a good deal during the daytime. In the daytime, it is tiresome and perplexing. There are always new shoots on the fungus and new shades of yellow all over it.

I cannot keep count of them, though I have tried conscientiously. It is the strangest yellow, that wallpaper. It makes me think of all the yellow things I ever saw. Not beautiful ones like buttercups, but old, foul, bad yellow things. But there was something else about the paper. The smell. I noticed it the moment we came into the room, but with so much air and sun, it was not bad. Now we've had a week of fog and rain, and whether the windows are open or not, the smell is here.

It creeps all over the house. I find it hovering in the dining room, skulking in the parlor, hiding in the hall, lying in wait for me on the stairs. It gets into my hair. Even when I go to ride, if I turn my head suddenly and surprise it, there is that smell. Such a peculiar odor, too. I have spent hours in trying to analyze it to find what it smelled like. It is not bad.

At first, and very gentle, but quite the subtlest, most enduring odor I ever met. In this damp weather, it is awful. I wake up in the night and find it hanging over me. It used to disturb me at first. I thought seriously of burning the house to reach the smell. But now I am used to it. The only thing I can think of is that it is like the color of the paper.

A yellow smell. There is a very funny mark on this wall, low down near the mop board. A streak that runs round the room. It goes behind every piece of furniture except the bed. A long, straight, even smooch, as if it had been rubbed over and over. I wonder how it was done and who did it, and what they did it for, round and round and round. Round and round and round. It makes me dizzy. I really have discovered something at last. Through watching so much at night when it changes so, I finally found out. The front pattern does move, and no wonder. The woman

behind shakes it. Sometimes I think there are a great many women behind, and no wonder. The woman behind shakes it. Sometimes, I think there are a great many women behind, and sometimes only one, and she crawls around fast, and her crawling shakes it all over. Then in the very bright spot, she keeps still, and in the very shady spot, she just takes hold of the bars and shakes them hard. And she is all the time trying to climb through. But nobody could climb through that

pattern. It strangles so. I think that is why it has so many heads. They get through and then the pattern strangles them off and turns them upside down and makes their eyes white. If those heads were covered or taken off, it would not be half so bad. I think that woman gets out in the daytime, and I'll tell you why privately. I've seen her. I can see her out of every one of my windows. It is the same woman I know, for she is always creeping, as most women do not creep by daylight. I see her on the long shaded lane, creeping up and down. I see her in those dark grape arbors, creeping all around the garden. I see her on the long road under the trees, creeping along, and when a carriage comes, she hides under the blackberry vines.

I don't blame her a bit. It must be very humiliating to be caught creeping by daylight. I always lock the door when I creep by daylight. I can't do it at night, for I know John would suspect something at once. And John is so queer now that I don't want to irritate him. I wish he would take another room. Besides, I don't want anybody to get that woman out at night but myself. I often wonder if I could see her out of all of the windows at once. But turn fast as I can, I can only see out one at a time. And though I always see her, she may be able to creep faster than I can turn.

I have watched her sometimes away off in the open country, creeping as fast as a cloud shadow in a high wind. If only that top pattern could be got off from the under one. I mean, to try it, little by little. I found out another funny thing, but I shan't tell it this time. It does not do to trust people too much. There are only two more days to get this paper off, and I believe John is beginning to notice. I don't like the look in his eyes.

And I heard him ask Jenny a lot of professional questions about me. She had a very good report to give. She said I sleep a good deal in the daytime. John knows I don't sleep very well at night. For all I am so quiet. He asked me all sorts of questions too, and pretended to be very loving and kind, as if I couldn't see through him. Still, I don't wonder he acts so, sleeping under this paper for three months. It only interests me, but I feel sure John and Jenny are secretly affected by it. Hurrah! This is the last day, but it is enough. John is to stay in town overnight and won't be out until this evening. Jenny wants to sleep with me, the sly thing, but I told her I should undoubtedly rest better for a night all alone.

That was clever, for really I wasn't alone a bit. As soon as it was moonlight and that poor thing began to crawl and shake the pattern, I got up and ran to help her. I pulled and she shook, and I shook and she pulled and before morning we had peeled off yards of that paper, a strip about as high as my head and half around the room. And then when the sun came and that awful pattern began to laugh at me, I declared I would finish it today. But not before we finished the last ad break, which is now. But not before we finish the last ad break, which is now. Hi, I'm Ed Zitron, host of the Better Offline podcast, and we're kicking off our second season digging into how tech's elite

has turned Silicon Valley into a playground for billionaires. From the chaotic world of generative AI to the destruction of Google search, Better Offline is your unvarnished and at times unhinged look at the underbelly of tech from an industry veteran with nothing to lose. This season, I'm going to be joined by everyone from Nobel-winning economists to leading journalists in the field, and I'll be digging into why the products you love keep getting worse and naming and shaming those responsible. Don't get me wrong, though. I love technology. I just hate the people in charge and want them to get back to building things that actually do things to help real people.

I swear to God things can change if we're loud enough. So join me every week to understand what's happening in the tech industry and what could be done to make things better. Listen to Better Offline on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, wherever else you get your podcasts. Check out betteroffline.com. to favorite Latin celebrities, artists, and culture shifters, this is the podcast for you. We're talking real conversations with our Latin stars, from actors and artists to musicians and creators, sharing their stories, struggles, and successes. You know it's going to be filled with chisme laughs and all the vibes that you love.

Each week, we'll explore everything, from music and pop culture, to deeper topics like identity, community, and breaking down barriers in all sorts of industries. Don't miss out on the fun, el té caliente, and life stories. Join me for Gracias Come Again, a podcast by Honey German, where we get into todo lo actual y viral. Listen to Gracias Come Again on the iHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. On Thanksgiving Day, 1999, a five-year-old boy floated alone in the ocean. He had lost his mother trying to reach Florida from Cuba. He looked like a little angel. I mean,

he looked so fresh. And his name, Elian Gonzalez, will make headlines everywhere. Elian Gonzalez. Elian. Elian. Elian. Elian. Elian. Elian Gonzalez. At the heart of the story is a young boy and the question of who he belongs with. His father in Cuba. Mr. Gonzalez wanted to go home and he wanted to take his son with him. Or his relatives in Miami.

Imagine that your mother died trying to get you to freedom. At the heart of it all is still this painful family separation. Something that as a Cuban, I know all too well. Listen to Chess Peace, the Elian Gonzalez story, as part of the My Cultura podcast network, available on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. We go away tomorrow, and they are moving all my furniture down again to leave things as they were before. Jenny looked at the wall in amazement, but I told her merrily that I did it out of pure spite at the vicious thing. She laughed and said she wouldn't mind doing it herself,

but I must not get tired. How she betrayed herself that time. But I am here, and no person touches this paper but me, not alive. She tried to get me out of the room. It was too patent. But I said it was so quiet and empty and clean now that I believed I would lie down again and sleep all I could and not to wake me even for dinner. I would call when I woke. So now she is gone and the servants are gone and the things are gone and there is nothing left but that great bedstead nailed down with the canvas mattress we found on it.

We shall sleep downstairs tonight and take the boat home tomorrow. I quite enjoy the room. Now it is bare again. How those children did tear about here. This bedstead is fairly gnawed. But I must get to work. I have locked the door and thrown the key down into the front path. I don't want to go out and I don't want to have anybody come in until John comes. I want to astonish him.

I've got a rope up here that even Jenny did not find. If that woman does get out and tries to get away, I can tie her. But I forgot I could not reach far without anything to stand on. The bed will not move. I tried to lift and push it until I was lame, and then I got so angry I bit off a little piece of one corner. But it hurt my teeth. Then I peeled off all the paper I could reach standing on the floor. It sticks horribly, and the pattern just enjoys it. All those strangled heads and bulbous eyes and waddling fungus growths just shriek with derision. I'm getting angry enough to do something desperate.

To jump out the window would be admirable exercise, but the bars are too strong to even try. Besides, I wouldn't do it. Of course not. I know well enough that a step like that is improper and might be misconstrued. I don't like to look out the windows even. There are so many of those creeping women, and they creep so fast. I wonder if they all come out of the wallpaper as I did. But I am securely fastened now by my

well-hidden rope. You don't get me out in the road there. I suppose I shall have to get back behind the pattern when it comes night and that is hard. It is so pleasant to be out in this great room and creep around it as I please. I don't want to go outside. I won't, even if Jenny asks me to. For outside, you have to creep on the ground, and everything is green instead of yellow. But here I can creep smoothly on the floor, and my shoulder just fits in that long smooch around the wall, so I cannot lose my way.

Why, there's John at the door. It is no use, young man, you can't open it. How he does call and pound. Now he's crying for an axe. It would be a shame to break down that beautiful door. John, dear, said I in the gentlest voice. The key is down by the front steps under a plantain leaf. That silenced him for a few moments. Then he said, very quietly indeed, Open the door, my darling. I can't, said I. The key is down by the front door under a plantain leaf.

And then I said it again several times, very gently and slowly, and said it so often that he had to go and see, and he got it, of course, and came in. He stepped short by the door. What is the matter, he cried. For God's sake, what are you doing? I kept on creeping, just the same, but I looked at him over my shoulder. I've got out at last, said I, in spite of you and Jane, and I've pulled off most of the paper, so you can't put me back. Now why should that man have fainted? But he did, and right across my path by the wall, so that I had to creep over him every time. That's the end of the yellow wallpaper, the story. And so I want to talk about the story

really quick. Clearly, I really like it. It really sticks in my mind, you know, much like the wallpaper itself. It's actually fairly effective how much it captures that experience. Charlotte Perkins Gilman, the author, she herself spent three months on rest cure, which is what this is called, this way of torturing women where you tell them that they're not allowed to do any work or creative pursuits and that they have to lay in bed. And it's a different thing than when people require bed rest because of physical injuries. She was forbidden from writing and doing things in order to cure her from postpartum depression. After three months of that, she was

like, you know what, fuck this. I'm not fucking doing this. And then a little bit later, she wrote the yellow wallpaper about her experience and she sent it to the doctor who had told her to do this whole rest cure thing, basically as a fuck you. He ended up like continuing to go on to, you know, set up institutions for the rest cure to cure women or whatever for, but what, what Charlotte did, she went and found a woman doctor instead, which is hard. You're talking about the 1890s, right? 1880s maybe. And this woman doctor was like, you know, maybe when you're depressed, like exercise and meeting people and stuff like that is better for you than the rest cure. And lo and behold,

it was. And Charlotte Perkins Gilman got better. There was this thing that people talked about a lot at the time, hysteria, which honestly, truly basically means women having opinions of the disease. And the cure was submission to men, submission to society, submission to patriarchal society. Like it was a medicalized thing. Rest cure was about submission. It was a way to, you know, stop being nervous because you just accept that you don't have any control over your own life. That's bad, but you probably didn't need my subjective opinion about that. Probably came to a similar conclusion. Dear listener, I've read some scholarly stuff about this.

This story gets taught a lot in schools and things like that. I tend to disagree with most scholars of literature when they look for intense symbolism in every story. I think that symbolism is sometimes intentional. I mean, like, obviously there's the, like, there's a woman behind the paper, it's the bars, you know, like that's not very subtle. Right. But overall, I would argue that symbolism is generally created in the sort of primordial goo of writing. And okay. The example I want to use, I listened to a lot of black metal and black metal is frankly one

of the genres of music that is closest to white noise right it is a a lot of very heavily distorted things that uh blend into each other and tend to have low production values and the thing is is that you can hear phantom melodies inside black metal and these were not written they're they're generated by the noise and i think most symbolism works that way i think most symbolism it's real in that we imagine it but it wasn't put there it comes out of the creation itself which i really like thinking about because then it gets like meta as shit because it acts like the yellow wallpaper, right? The patterns in the noise become meaningful and matter. And I think symbolism itself is the patterns in the noise. And if you think too much about them,

they drive you crazy. I don't think that's what the story is about. It's not about symbolism, but it's absolutely about how if you stare at the wall long enough, you'll go fucking crazy. And I don't read too much into it as like, you don't need a symbolism representing patriarchy. The story itself, the actual prison she is in is the patriarchy, right? I spent the first year and a half of COVID living in a tiny cabin in the woods. And after months of isolation, I would stare at the rafters and i would i would swear they were moving and i would swear that the way that they related to each other would change you know and that they were trying to tell me something and actually one of the things i would

remind myself is i was like i've read the fucking yellow wallpaper i know it's fucking happening and so i don't think this is like a a symbolic description i think that this is an accurate description of what charlotte herself experienced under her patriarchal rest cure diagnosis yeah the effects of the yellow wallpaper just the literal description of what it feels like to be laid up like that anyone Anyone who knows me and my history stuff from my podcast, Cool People Did Cool Stuff, saving myself the plug at the end by doing it here, knows that I love drawing spurious red yarn connections on the Great Wall of History. You know, like that meme, the guy with the red yarn, that's me. And so I'm going to say,

in 1892, Gilman published the yellow wallpaper. And this is one of the first weird tales, like weird fiction tales in American literature after Edgar Allan Poe, who had been writing about 50 years earlier, but this like slow descent to madness type thing, right? Three years later, Robert W. Chambers published his book, The King in Yellow, which is another weird fiction classic. And it is generally seen as a direct precursor to the most influential horror author of the 20th century, H.P. Lovecraft, whose whole thing was cosmic horror and the slow descent into madness. And his whole other thing was being a racist piece of shit, but that's beside the point. So you got the yellow wallpaper, and then a couple years later,

you got The king in yellow. Why is yellow in both of them? I think it's because of the influence on one on the other. There's a few people mentioning this in various places, but it's a little bit spurious. But in which case, I can be like,

oh, H.P. Lovecraft, Cosmic Horror, all that shit comes out of a real good writer who spent three months locked up on rest cure i'm not locked up but you know like stuck in bed on rest cure i'm not the only person to draw this connection but i love that lovecraft's whole thing if you felt like you could say it was birthed by a woman dealing with patriarchy and lovecraft himself did praise the yellow wallpaper decades later in an essay he wrote in the 1920s. And the family named Gilman appears in two of his stories.

And that may or may not be a coincidence. Or you can stare at the wall of red yarn and realize that behind it, there's a woman and she's trapped there. Maybe you are that woman. Maybe you're trapped behind the wall of red yarn. Or maybe it's me. I'm the woman. I'm just going to end the episode now. Next week, I'll be back with another story for Cool Zone Media Book Club. Thanks for listening. It Could Happen Here is

a production of Cool Zone Media. For more podcasts from Cool Zone Media, visit our website, coolzonemedia.com or check us out on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you listen to podcasts. You can find sources

for It Could Happen Here updated monthly at coolzonemedia.com slash sources. Thanks for listening. Hi, I'm Ed Zitron, host of the Better Offline podcast, and we're kicking off

our second season digging into Tex Elite and how they've turned Silicon Valley into a playground for billionaires. From the chaotic world of generative AI to the destruction of Google search, Better Offline is your unvarnished and at times unhinged look

at the underbelly of tech brought to you by an industry veteran with nothing to lose. Listen to Better Offline on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, wherever else you get your podcasts from. On Thanksgiving Day 1999, five-year-old Cuban boy Elian Gonzalez was found off the coast of Florida. And the question was, should the boy go back to his father in Cuba?

Mr. Gonzalez wanted to go home and he wanted to take his son with him. Or stay with his relatives in Miami. Imagine that your mother died trying to get you to freedom. Listen to Chess Peace, the Elian Gonzalez story on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts or wherever you get your podcasts. Hey, I'm Jack Peace Thomas, the host of a brand new Black Effect original series, Black Lit, the podcast for diving deep into the rich world of

Black literature. Black Lit is for the page turners, for those who listen to audiobooks while running errands or at the end of a busy day. From thought-provoking novels to powerful poetry, we'll explore the stories that shape our day. From thought-provoking novels to powerful poetry, we'll explore the stories that shape our culture. Listen to Black Lit on the Black Effect Podcast Network,

iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. AT&T, connecting changes everything.