Gone with the wind

 Gone with the wind

I’ve been reflecting upon Gone with the wind, the Pulitzer Prize novel by Margaret Mitchell and the movie, which was a rapid version of the book, which was much more enjoyable. One of the things about the movie conveniently ignored today, is the great love that flowed both ways, even despite Scarlett’s often very unlovable ways. It’s as if the narrative in all things racial must be white bad, white fault, white oppressing. 

I wrote yesterday of Angeline, our maid, and how she loved me as her son, held me in the same esteem as her own children, wasn’t in any way ashamed to be seen with me, a spoiled little white boy. And I loved her as well. No, the narrative should be, it was only a job to her, you were enslaving her, you must apologize. 

One of the reasons so much is Going with the wind today is the focus is on such things as justice, revenge, hatred, animosity, all things divisive, and nothing of a love for a mammy and her petulant Scarlet.