{"product_id":"love-in-condition-yellow-isbn-9780807073308","title":"Love in Condition Yellow","description":"\u003ci\u003eGo on a date with a soldier turned police officer? Me? And discuss Gandhi’s experiments with truth with a gun-toting Republican?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e The last thing Berkeley-dwelling peace activist Sophia Raday expected was to fall in love with a straightlaced Oakland police officer. As someone who had run away from cops dressed in riot gear at protests, Sophia was ambivalent, to say the least, at the prospect of dating Barrett, who was not only a cop but also a West Point graduate, an Airborne Ranger, and a major in the Army Reserve. \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e During their courtship the two argued about many of the matters that divide the United States, things like drug policy and race relations. Startled by the freedom she found in a relationship of differences, by the challenge of sparring with Barrett, and by his steadfast acceptance of her, Sophia unwittingly fell in love. Then, just when Sophia believed her family was starting a new chapter with the birth of their son, came September 11.  Barrett’s belief that he must always stay in Condition Yellow—the terminology coined by his favorite \u003ci\u003eGuns \u0026amp; Ammo \u003c\/i\u003ewriter for a state of alert in which you realize your life is in danger and you may need to \u003ci\u003eshoot \u003c\/i\u003esomeone—was suddenly in the forefront of their lives. Sophia and Barrett began to confront, on a very personal level, their differing viewpoints on polarizing values like fear, duty, family, and patriotism.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e When Barrett’s military duties escalated along with the country’s, Sophia found herself in the surprising position of military wife, living on an army base during the 2004 elections, and struggling to find peace with herself and her husband in this new world. It was a struggle that would continue up to the point of Barrett’s deployment to Iraq. \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eLove in Condition Yellow \u003c\/i\u003enot only provides a vivid, poignant portrait of this unusual union, but also tells the larger story of how love doesn’t necessarily come from sameness, and peace doesn’t necessarily come from agreement. | One: Spark\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Two: Reconnaissance\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Three: Cultural Exchange\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Four: Behind Enemy Lines\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Five: Individual Liberties\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Six: Constructive Engagement\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Seven: Allegiance\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Eight: State of Alert\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Nine: Preemption\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Ten: Casualties\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Eleven: Culture Wars\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Twelve: Drive On, Soldier, Drive On\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Thirteen: Quagmire\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Fourteen: Hearts and Minds | [In] this ultimate bipartisan love story . . . the most important thing Raday has culled from her relationship is that it is not essential to agree with your partner to be emotionally close.—Jessica Yadegaran, \u003ci\u003eOakland Tribune\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A lovely book filled with stunning, substantial prose.\"—Kayt Sukel, \u003ci\u003eLiterary Mama\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A refreshing and penetrating look at how respect and willingness to compromise can span seemingly unbridgeable gaps in a marriage founded on differences more than commonalities.\"—Deborah Donovan, \u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Raday has a solid sense of humor, an ear for dialogue and an eye for telling detail. . . . [She] honestly and perceptively explores the strains of a peacenik\/warrior relationship.\"—\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"\u003ci\u003eLove in Condition Yellow\u003c\/i\u003e takes us on a true adventure: into a marriage that is both riven and strengthened by political differences that run nearly as deep as those that divide our country.\"—Julia Scheeres, author of \u003ci\u003eJesus Land\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"\u003ci\u003eLove in Condition Yellow\u003c\/i\u003e tells the tale of two opposites. . . . Their relationship is unique; as their love grows closer, America drives itself further apart. . . . A work of true romance.\"—\u003ci\u003eMidwest Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"[This] story will entrance anyone who has ever wondered if love can last between two people with fundamentally contrasting beliefs.\"—\u003ci\u003eLibrary Journal\u003c\/i\u003e | \u003cb\u003eSophia Raday \u003c\/b\u003elives in Berkeley, California, with her soldier\/police officer husband, their two children, a bipartisan dog, and assorted firearms. A founding editor of \u003ci\u003eLiterary Mama\u003c\/i\u003e, Raday has published work in antholo­gies and the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times.\u003c\/i\u003e | My cousin George frowns at me. “Did you ever call\u003cbr\u003e my friend Barrett? Remember I told you he went into the\u003cbr\u003e Reserves and then became a cop in Oakland?”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e I am instantly wary. Lowering my wineglass from my lips, I put\u003cbr\u003e one hand against the textured plaster wall to steady myself. I have\u003cbr\u003e prepared myself to talk about politics, about the Dayton Accords,\u003cbr\u003e Rabin’s assassination, or the budget impasse. But George’s question\u003cbr\u003e is going in an even more unpleasant direction, a direction that could\u003cbr\u003e lead into my love life in general. I want to avoid that at all costs. In\u003cbr\u003e fact, my mom had to cajole me into attending this party, assuring\u003cbr\u003e me no one would notice the redness around my nose and the way\u003cbr\u003e my eyelids are slightly swollen.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e I stall, mumbling, “What? Barrett? Oh yeah . . .” and glance\u003cbr\u003e around my cousin Molly’s house. Is there some way I can derail\u003cbr\u003e this conversation from its inevitable terminus? The house is eclectically\u003cbr\u003e decorated with my aunt’s modern paintings and my nieces’\u003cbr\u003e artwork; the Christmas tree, strung with cranberry garlands and\u003cbr\u003e popcorn, gives off its heady smell of pine. I want to chitchat and\u003cbr\u003e drink my glass of wine in peace, avoiding the tangle in my chest. So\u003cbr\u003e what if I am over thirty and not married? So what if I got dumped\u003cbr\u003e yet again?\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e I point out a woodblock near me, gray clouds against gold and\u003cbr\u003e auburn mounds. “George, is this Taos? When did your mom do\u003cbr\u003e this?”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e George waves away the art, saying, “I gave you Barrett’s number,\u003cbr\u003e right? Did you ever call him?”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e I shake my head. Yes, George gave me Barrett’s number a while\u003cbr\u003e ago, probably at another family holiday party. I’ve heard about Barrett\u003cbr\u003e for over a decade now, ever since he was a cadet at West Point\u003cbr\u003e with George. When Barrett was in the Ranger battalion, his apartment\u003cbr\u003e was furnished with only a bed, a box as a nightstand, and a\u003cbr\u003e nine-millimeter pistol. He once dragged a manhole cover home with\u003cbr\u003e him after a night of drinking. Perhaps the favorite family story\u003cbr\u003e involves Barrett yelling at a superior officer at Walter Reed when\u003cbr\u003e George was in the hospital there with a brain tumor. As a plebe at\u003cbr\u003e West Point, George had headaches and dizzy spells for weeks, but\u003cbr\u003e none of the authorities took it seriously. Instead they accused him\u003cbr\u003e of trying to weasel out of boxing. An inebriated Barrett expressed\u003cbr\u003e the whole family’s frustration, yelling at a superior officer: “That’s\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003emy \u003c\/i\u003ebuddy in there! The one with the brain tumor! Don’t tell \u003ci\u003eme\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I can’t see him! You all who thought he was faking, why should I\u003cbr\u003e listen to you? You all didn’t even believe he was sick!”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e I hear George saying I should just give Barrett a call. Really.\u003cbr\u003e Not for a date or anything, just for fun. But I know that’s just subterfuge.\u003cbr\u003e I know my cousin is doing a mental calculation of my age\u003cbr\u003e and wondering what’s wrong with Sopapilla, as he affectionately\u003cbr\u003e calls me. Where’s the boyfriend? Where’s the husband-to-be? My\u003cbr\u003e stomach muscles catch as George pulls a pen out of his shirt pocket\u003cbr\u003e and grabs a notepad from Molly’s bookshelf.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e George and I spent a lot of time together about ten years ago\u003cbr\u003e when he was assigned to Fort Ord as a first lieutenant. On the weekends,\u003cbr\u003e George and another lieutenant would meet me and my best\u003cbr\u003e friend Missey in Tahoe. We’d ski together during the day and argue\u003cbr\u003e politics late into the evening. George and Jake were soldiers; Missey\u003cbr\u003e and I were peace activists; Reagan was president. We argued about\u003cbr\u003e the arms race and the U.S. opposition to the Sandinistas in Nicaragua\u003cbr\u003e and revolutionary groups in El Salvador. But somehow we\u003cbr\u003e always seemed to end up at Vietnam. I think the maddest George\u003cbr\u003e ever got at me was when I bemoaned the loss of our soldiers there.\u003cbr\u003e “We sent those kids over there to die, and for what? What do we say\u003cbr\u003e to those mothers and wives and children? Sorry, we thought this\u003cbr\u003e was a domino but it wasn’t? Oops?”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e That was the first time George jabbed his finger menacingly at\u003cbr\u003e me, his words flying out accompanied by small units of spit. “Don’t\u003cbr\u003e you \u003ci\u003eever \u003c\/i\u003e( jab) \u003ci\u003eever \u003c\/i\u003e(spit) say that a soldier’s death is a waste (jab,\u003cbr\u003e jab). \u003ci\u003eNo soldier’s \u003c\/i\u003e(spit) \u003ci\u003eservice is ever \u003c\/i\u003e( jab) \u003ci\u003ewasted \u003c\/i\u003e( jab, spit).”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Our most recent major argument, a few years ago now, involved\u003cbr\u003e the Gulf War. I had posted a handmade “No Blood for Oil” sign\u003cbr\u003e on my car. At a dinner with George and my mom, I tried to voice\u003cbr\u003e my objections to our invasion of Kuwait, my belief that we should\u003cbr\u003e have tried economic sanctions first. A cigarette bouncing dangerously\u003cbr\u003e from two accusatory fingers, George hissed at me, “George\u003cbr\u003e Bush drew a line in the sand, you hear me? He drew a line in the\u003cbr\u003e sand and backed it up! Now that’s leadership! That’s what this nation\u003cbr\u003e needs!”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Taking my hand off the wall, I push it out palm forward toward\u003cbr\u003e George in a gentle protest, in the universal sign for “Back off, I can\u003cbr\u003e handle this.” Has he forgotten who I am? What does he think—that\u003cbr\u003e I’m going to discuss Gandhi’s experiments with truth with his guntoting\u003cbr\u003e Republican friend?\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e I may no longer get arrested at the Nevada Test Site or at divestment\u003cbr\u003e protests. And it’s been years since I scaled Moffett Field’s\u003cbr\u003e barbed-wire fence with a friend to spray-paint “Work for Peace”\u003cbr\u003e across the “Be all you can be” recruitment billboard. But that\u003cbr\u003e doesn’t mean I have given up on social justice. Okay, I’m not married.\u003cbr\u003e But that doesn’t mean I’ll date just \u003ci\u003eanybody. \u003c\/i\u003eIt doesn’t mean\u003cbr\u003e I’ve suddenly given up all my core beliefs!\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Besides, I am still hoping that Nathan—the guy I’ve been seeing\u003cbr\u003e up till recently—will come around. Nathan is the kind of guy\u003cbr\u003e I can picture myself marrying: men’s group attending, Robert Bly\u003cbr\u003e reading, naked in the woods drumming. Nathan and I look so good\u003cbr\u003e on paper. We like the outdoors, traveling, reading. We are both\u003cbr\u003e seekers, do a lot of yoga, read about Tibetan Buddhism. We \u003ci\u003eshould\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e work. So why don’t we?\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Just before our recent disastrous trip to Nepal, Nathan invited\u003cbr\u003e me to go see Thich Nhat Hanh at the Berkeley Community Theatre.\u003cbr\u003e We were both enchanted by the Vietnamese monk’s soft-spoken\u003cbr\u003e simple admonitions to find peace within and let it radiate out. Present\u003cbr\u003e moment, wonderful moment. When you are mindful, you see\u003cbr\u003e into the true nature of things, how a flower comes from soil, from\u003cbr\u003e decay. This is the sort of spirituality I expect to share with a partner.\u003cbr\u003e Maybe our getting back together will be the flower that blossoms\u003cbr\u003e from the garbage of our recent journey together.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Keenly aware of approaching family members, I whisper to\u003cbr\u003e George that I appreciate the thought. Any normal person would\u003cbr\u003e get that subtle signal that I am not interested. \u003ci\u003eLook, I appreciate the\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003ethought. \u003c\/i\u003eBut not George.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Tell you what,” he bellows, “here’s his number. I’ll tell him to\u003cbr\u003e call you, too.” Brandishing the slip of paper.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e It’s time to change the subject. Pronto. I cast about desperately,\u003cbr\u003e finally hearing myself say, “Hey, what do you think of the Dayton\u003cbr\u003e Accords?”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e George says, “C’mon, it’s not a date. I just want you two to\u003cbr\u003e meet, that’s all.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Maybe if I just take the damn paper, George will stop broadcasting\u003cbr\u003e to the whole party that Sophia can’t find a man.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Barrett? Are you talking about Barrett? He’s cute!” Molly’s\u003cbr\u003e daughter Mallory exclaims.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “I always liked the B-man too. He’s definitely got a special\u003cbr\u003e something,” Cousin Matthew adds.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Despite my embarrassment, I realize this is an odd triangulation.\u003cbr\u003e Thirteen-year-old Mallory thinks Barrett’s cute and my thirty-oneyear-\u003cbr\u003e old gay cousin thinks he has \u003ci\u003eje ne sais quoi. \u003c\/i\u003eHmm.","brand":"Beacon Press","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46305287438565,"sku":"NP9780807073308","price":16.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780807073308.jpg?v=1767731874","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/love-in-condition-yellow-isbn-9780807073308","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}