Autumn has arrived in the country. Temps are down to the low 40's/high 30's at night, the leaves are starting to turn. We fired up the wood-burning stove to usher in the new season (and burn piles of newspaper). Summer clothes have been put away, long underwear and sweaters and thick socks are all out. The last tomato has turned orangish, the last green beans have been picked, and no luck with either the eggplants or the red peppers this year. I pulled up the zucchini and squash plants - sprawling and sagging all over the place like a series of Andy Warhol medusas - and threw them on the compost pile. A new batch of lettuce and snap peas is coming up. Am going to go hunting the neighborhood for piles of manure to dig in for next spring - no, really: me, the truck, and a shovel - so I don't have to buy it in bags from Home Depot. I'm already thinking about what to do differently next year.
Speaking of orangish, hunting season will start up again. Men with guns in orange vests. Ahh, life in a red state (or I guess now PA is more in the pink). And speaking of guns, it has been suggested to me that I learn how to shoot. Not to kill poor Bambi or her mama, but to have some line of self-defense when the barn-burning ATV boys come hooting and hollering and I'm all by my lonesome. This may not be such a crazy idea. I'll think on it.
Spring and fall are the heavy-duty chore seasons in the country. In the next few weeks, we'll need to chop wood and rake leaves and plant any shrubs or trees we want to start blooming in the spring (lilac is my priority this year - although I'm gun shy, so to speak, after Ella's sad passing). Need to get the chimney cleaned out, the furnace serviced, and probably take a look at insulating the pipes that froze last winter. Maybe consider purchasing a snow-blower - not that I have any godly idea what a snow-blower IS or how it WORKS, but it's on my list-of-things-to-research. I also need a good pair of winter boots and probably a heavy-duty winter coat (my city-girl leather coat is not quite what the doctor ordered). Sigh. All the things I put off last winter because I wanted to get a better sense of what I really needed; and now I have to figure out how to afford all of it.
But it's all good. I love autumn so much, it's impossible to express in plain words. No wonder there are so many poems about autumn. Think I'll go dig some up - stay tuned.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Saturday, September 15, 2007
On the Subway: The City's Magnificent Undoing
There's always one: someone on the subway who's shameless about loud-talking, happy for anyone and everyone to hear. Often it's tourists, but not always (local loud-talkers are often young women in pairs, venting about a boss or a boyfriend). Sometimes it's unbearable, this violation of public space, of one's right to a peaceful commute. But there are other times when it's irresistable - eavesdropping, that is.
I'm on the platform at Union Square boarding an uptown 6 train. There is a group of four standing next to me - an older couple, a young guy, and a young gal. The couple and the guy get on the train, the gal is heading off somewhere else. The older woman sits next to me, and the two men stand, forming a triangular conversation - although, it becomes clear that the older man is of few (if any) words.
The woman is the loud-talker. She is a cheerful out-of-towner, probably mid-Western based on the accent, probably from a small town or rural area, based on the dress. The guy is scruffy and skinny, wearing a ratty t-shirt, expensive-looking hipster jeans, and cool thrift store sneakers. I think these are his parents, but it's not clear; they speak to each other more like distant relatives than immediate ones. I learn that the gal and the guy used to work in the same restaurant, but the guy now works in a different restaurant, and the gal quit her job and is leaving the city, back to her hometown, because she was dating the chef and they broke up. The guy's new job is a better job than the one before, perhaps he was a waiter before; now he is something in the realm of a cook. The next part of the conversation goes something like this:
"Why don't you hire her at your restaurant? Poor thing."
"Well, it's not really my restaurant. I mean, if the head chef died or something, I wouldn't like be next in line or anything."
"Aren't you #3? I thought you said you were #3."
"Um, yeah, maybe. I don't know."
"Do you have paid vacation now?"
"Yeah."
"Well that must feel good. Do you know what you'll have off around Christmas?"
"Nah, we won't know until just before."
They go on to talk about an upcoming wedding in the family, which I think is the guy's brother, the couple's other son.
"So are you bringing a date?"
"Nah."
"There will be a lot of single girls there. [Fiancee whose name I didn't catch] has a lot of cousins."
"That would be weird. We'd be, like, related."
"No, not exactly."
The whole conversation was pretty upbeat, but something about it was squirmingly fascinating; I couldn't stop listening. This mother was so eager, so cheerfully eager for her son to be... fixed. #3? #2? #1?* Dating? Married? Planned vacation? The strain of their conversational tone was killing me - so close, and yet so far away. The guy was pleasant and a good city host, but I could just imagine him later, after they left, after their visit was over, lighting up a cigarette, breathing a sigh of relief, calling up a friend (or a therapist) to unload.
People come to the city, and stay, not to be fixed - in any sense of that word. People come, in a sense, for the wild ride of breaking everything open, milling about untethered, so that anything can happen always. It must be awful for all these mothers of lost children, after 18 or 20 years of doing everything to hold these kids together...watching them undo it all.
*I understand that in Bali, there are only four first names. They are not gender-specific, and translated, they are First, Second, Third, Fourth, referring to your birth order.
I'm on the platform at Union Square boarding an uptown 6 train. There is a group of four standing next to me - an older couple, a young guy, and a young gal. The couple and the guy get on the train, the gal is heading off somewhere else. The older woman sits next to me, and the two men stand, forming a triangular conversation - although, it becomes clear that the older man is of few (if any) words.
The woman is the loud-talker. She is a cheerful out-of-towner, probably mid-Western based on the accent, probably from a small town or rural area, based on the dress. The guy is scruffy and skinny, wearing a ratty t-shirt, expensive-looking hipster jeans, and cool thrift store sneakers. I think these are his parents, but it's not clear; they speak to each other more like distant relatives than immediate ones. I learn that the gal and the guy used to work in the same restaurant, but the guy now works in a different restaurant, and the gal quit her job and is leaving the city, back to her hometown, because she was dating the chef and they broke up. The guy's new job is a better job than the one before, perhaps he was a waiter before; now he is something in the realm of a cook. The next part of the conversation goes something like this:
"Why don't you hire her at your restaurant? Poor thing."
"Well, it's not really my restaurant. I mean, if the head chef died or something, I wouldn't like be next in line or anything."
"Aren't you #3? I thought you said you were #3."
"Um, yeah, maybe. I don't know."
"Do you have paid vacation now?"
"Yeah."
"Well that must feel good. Do you know what you'll have off around Christmas?"
"Nah, we won't know until just before."
They go on to talk about an upcoming wedding in the family, which I think is the guy's brother, the couple's other son.
"So are you bringing a date?"
"Nah."
"There will be a lot of single girls there. [Fiancee whose name I didn't catch] has a lot of cousins."
"That would be weird. We'd be, like, related."
"No, not exactly."
The whole conversation was pretty upbeat, but something about it was squirmingly fascinating; I couldn't stop listening. This mother was so eager, so cheerfully eager for her son to be... fixed. #3? #2? #1?* Dating? Married? Planned vacation? The strain of their conversational tone was killing me - so close, and yet so far away. The guy was pleasant and a good city host, but I could just imagine him later, after they left, after their visit was over, lighting up a cigarette, breathing a sigh of relief, calling up a friend (or a therapist) to unload.
People come to the city, and stay, not to be fixed - in any sense of that word. People come, in a sense, for the wild ride of breaking everything open, milling about untethered, so that anything can happen always. It must be awful for all these mothers of lost children, after 18 or 20 years of doing everything to hold these kids together...watching them undo it all.
*I understand that in Bali, there are only four first names. They are not gender-specific, and translated, they are First, Second, Third, Fourth, referring to your birth order.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Fashion Week in the City
A headline yesterday in the Times read: Sept. 11, as a public occasion, has shrunk to life-size. In other words, the general public - distinct from those most directly affected - are beginning to move on. Case in point: this week is Fashion Week in NYC, and there seems to be no particular hesitancy or sense of incongruity about delving into fashion news and activities - something that may have seemed frivolous or offensive a few years ago.
The force of consumerism in the city is one of the most stark contrasts I experience going back and forth to the country. Or perhaps it's more accurate to say that the particular variety of consumerism which is the consumerism of urbanity (and urbaneness) is a far cry from what you might see in the country - a true cultural divide. My neighbor down the road on the dairy farm may have cable TV and browse InStyle at the grocery store. She may be well aware of what Kelly Clarkson is wearing these days and what sort of purse Angelina Jolie carries. But there is no way in heck she's actually going to attempt to buy or wear those items - unlike her big-city rising-professional counterpart.
I feel my alien-ness in this sense when I'm in the city. Maybe it's my nature, a certain tomboy-ness I inherited from my mother; maybe it's the boarding school influence; maybe it was those years in Seattle; maybe country life is actually starting to shape me. (Or, maybe I just can't afford it!) I wouldn't say I'm a slob or a crunchola; or that I don't have a very specific sense of what I like, or an aesthetic interest in appearances. But fashionista, in the NYC urban-girl sense, I am not.
Let me back up: a little over a year ago, my sister re-gifted to me a wedding present - a Calvin Klein linen throw pillow. She said: "Thought you might like the color, but if you don't want it, take it back to Bloomies." So take it back I did (not that I didn't like it, but hey, did I really need a Calvin Klein throw pillow?). I had an inkling that the exchange value would be pretty high for the little 15-inch-square sucker; and I was right. I pocketed the credit on a gift card and put it away for a rainy day.
So last week, the handbag that I left in the country was recovered. But before it was turned in, it was selectively combed through - they took the cash, my cell phone, two out of three credit cards, and my ATM card. My wallet was still in there, but torn. They left the Bloomies gift card.
So yesterday, I thought: That was close. I should use up this credit before I lose it again or it expires. I was in SoHo for work, a few blocks from the downtown Bloomies, so I made a mission out of it. Which turned out to be a truly other-worldy experience. First of all, I was wearing, ahem, clogs (what do you think this is, lady, Berkeley?). Second of all, do you know how much a pair of blue jeans costs these days? Third, apparently, I have the ugliest, most untended skin (blemishes, crow's feet, you name it) for 10 blocks square South of Houston. Fourth, what am I thinking walking around on a rainy day in anything but a fun pair of knee-high Welly boots (pink, polk-a-dot, animal patterns are good) and a short skirt?
Ok, clearly, I doth protest too much. Clearly, I was not one of the popular girls in high school.
The headline of Guy Trebay's Sunday Styles article, kicking off Fashion Week, reads: Admit It. You Love It. It Matters. "Depending on who is doing the talking, fashion is bourgeois, girly, unfeminist, conformist, elitist, frivolous, anti-intellectual and a cultural stepchild barely worth the attention paid to even the most minor arts." He goes on to describe how nay-sayers dismiss fashion as "not an art form or a cultural form but a form of vanity & consumerism." And then of course goes on to make the case for fashion as substantive, as mattering.
Sure, ok, I buy it. Fashion as beauty, fashion as art, fashion as craft, fashion as the extravagance which is often the heart of pleasure. But let's make the distinction here, between clothing design and the fashion industry. Not unlike the distinction between art and the art world, literature and the publishing world, etc. Art is about making, art is about beauty, and innovation, the application of talent and passion and vision. What we wear is no more or less frivolous or useless than what we read, what we behold, what we listen to. Fashion can be experience, can take us away or break open our consciousness just as the other arts can. My personal take is that clothing matters when you, as its wearer, have some kind of authentic relationship with it. When there's a story, or an experience, or something true to you about the thing, its wearing, your attraction and connection with it; as opposed to just filling your closet with what everyone else is wearing, the more expensive the better. (In this conception of fashion, probably way liberal for Mr. Trebay, we could be talking about your Manolos or your Yankees t-shirt or your traditional sari or head wrap or Aloha shirt.)
It's when we get into the realm of commerce that all bets are off. Sales and profit are governed and driven by a completely different set of values. It's in the world of commerce and market competition that fashion (and any art form) can get particularly ugly, can devolve into appropriation and exploitation and vanity vanity vanity. And because fashion, as opposed to say, literature, is so fundamentally intertwined with appearances, bodies, vulgar wealth, it is probably the most susceptible. But then again, not necessarily. Every art industry has its dirt, its surfaces, its vanity.
Anyway, I was quite the rube yesterday at Bloomies. I ended up using the credit for a new wallet, my annual vow to be more organized and responsible with my essentials. It's a nice one, but as I inspected the tag and price, I saw that it was Made In China, and it was a bit less expensive than comparable wallets on the shelf. I asked the young salesgirl if it was real leather. "Oh, yes," she said. "This company is great, they're really good at keeping their prices low," she added enthusiastically. Yes, I thought. I'm sure they are.
The force of consumerism in the city is one of the most stark contrasts I experience going back and forth to the country. Or perhaps it's more accurate to say that the particular variety of consumerism which is the consumerism of urbanity (and urbaneness) is a far cry from what you might see in the country - a true cultural divide. My neighbor down the road on the dairy farm may have cable TV and browse InStyle at the grocery store. She may be well aware of what Kelly Clarkson is wearing these days and what sort of purse Angelina Jolie carries. But there is no way in heck she's actually going to attempt to buy or wear those items - unlike her big-city rising-professional counterpart.
I feel my alien-ness in this sense when I'm in the city. Maybe it's my nature, a certain tomboy-ness I inherited from my mother; maybe it's the boarding school influence; maybe it was those years in Seattle; maybe country life is actually starting to shape me. (Or, maybe I just can't afford it!) I wouldn't say I'm a slob or a crunchola; or that I don't have a very specific sense of what I like, or an aesthetic interest in appearances. But fashionista, in the NYC urban-girl sense, I am not.
Let me back up: a little over a year ago, my sister re-gifted to me a wedding present - a Calvin Klein linen throw pillow. She said: "Thought you might like the color, but if you don't want it, take it back to Bloomies." So take it back I did (not that I didn't like it, but hey, did I really need a Calvin Klein throw pillow?). I had an inkling that the exchange value would be pretty high for the little 15-inch-square sucker; and I was right. I pocketed the credit on a gift card and put it away for a rainy day.
So last week, the handbag that I left in the country was recovered. But before it was turned in, it was selectively combed through - they took the cash, my cell phone, two out of three credit cards, and my ATM card. My wallet was still in there, but torn. They left the Bloomies gift card.
So yesterday, I thought: That was close. I should use up this credit before I lose it again or it expires. I was in SoHo for work, a few blocks from the downtown Bloomies, so I made a mission out of it. Which turned out to be a truly other-worldy experience. First of all, I was wearing, ahem, clogs (what do you think this is, lady, Berkeley?). Second of all, do you know how much a pair of blue jeans costs these days? Third, apparently, I have the ugliest, most untended skin (blemishes, crow's feet, you name it) for 10 blocks square South of Houston. Fourth, what am I thinking walking around on a rainy day in anything but a fun pair of knee-high Welly boots (pink, polk-a-dot, animal patterns are good) and a short skirt?
Ok, clearly, I doth protest too much. Clearly, I was not one of the popular girls in high school.
The headline of Guy Trebay's Sunday Styles article, kicking off Fashion Week, reads: Admit It. You Love It. It Matters. "Depending on who is doing the talking, fashion is bourgeois, girly, unfeminist, conformist, elitist, frivolous, anti-intellectual and a cultural stepchild barely worth the attention paid to even the most minor arts." He goes on to describe how nay-sayers dismiss fashion as "not an art form or a cultural form but a form of vanity & consumerism." And then of course goes on to make the case for fashion as substantive, as mattering.
Sure, ok, I buy it. Fashion as beauty, fashion as art, fashion as craft, fashion as the extravagance which is often the heart of pleasure. But let's make the distinction here, between clothing design and the fashion industry. Not unlike the distinction between art and the art world, literature and the publishing world, etc. Art is about making, art is about beauty, and innovation, the application of talent and passion and vision. What we wear is no more or less frivolous or useless than what we read, what we behold, what we listen to. Fashion can be experience, can take us away or break open our consciousness just as the other arts can. My personal take is that clothing matters when you, as its wearer, have some kind of authentic relationship with it. When there's a story, or an experience, or something true to you about the thing, its wearing, your attraction and connection with it; as opposed to just filling your closet with what everyone else is wearing, the more expensive the better. (In this conception of fashion, probably way liberal for Mr. Trebay, we could be talking about your Manolos or your Yankees t-shirt or your traditional sari or head wrap or Aloha shirt.)
It's when we get into the realm of commerce that all bets are off. Sales and profit are governed and driven by a completely different set of values. It's in the world of commerce and market competition that fashion (and any art form) can get particularly ugly, can devolve into appropriation and exploitation and vanity vanity vanity. And because fashion, as opposed to say, literature, is so fundamentally intertwined with appearances, bodies, vulgar wealth, it is probably the most susceptible. But then again, not necessarily. Every art industry has its dirt, its surfaces, its vanity.
Anyway, I was quite the rube yesterday at Bloomies. I ended up using the credit for a new wallet, my annual vow to be more organized and responsible with my essentials. It's a nice one, but as I inspected the tag and price, I saw that it was Made In China, and it was a bit less expensive than comparable wallets on the shelf. I asked the young salesgirl if it was real leather. "Oh, yes," she said. "This company is great, they're really good at keeping their prices low," she added enthusiastically. Yes, I thought. I'm sure they are.
Elegy for Ella
Ok, friends, it's official: Ella the Orchid is, sadly, expired. I hung on to her - cut down to the stubs of her stems - for probably much longer than any realistic person would. And I've waited to write about it, because, well, I suppose I've been mourning her loss. It pains me, it really does - in a way that makes me feel like I may be a serious freak.
Anyway, today is as good a day as any to write about mourning and loss. I'm in the city but haven't noticed anything particularly different or strange other than the "official" memorials and ceremonials. But then again, I've been inside for much of the day. My connection to the events of 9/11 are pretty abstract: I was living in Seattle at the time, and I didn't know anyone personally who died in the attacks. I called my friend S. and miraculously got through to her cell phone; she was walking uptown from the Federal Court Building, describing the scene to me in real time. But it definitely did not feel real.
I do not, generally, feel worried or unsafe in New York City. I do, on the other hand, feel nervous when I am in the country by myself, when there's nothing but me and a dirt road and 30 acres of farm land surrounding and two guys on ATVs driving by, slowly, eyeing my house. I wonder how many people actually, in their guts, walk around feeling afraid after 9/11. I wonder if there is a difference between the fear levels of city people and country people. People vote and take passionate political stances based on this, and so I wonder how conscious this fear really is, if at all. I wonder how much (and the nature of any) unconscious fear I myself carry with me when I'm in the city.
But back to mourning... I have thought about trying again, with a new orchid plant. But I think maybe I'm not ready yet. Not just yet.
Anyway, today is as good a day as any to write about mourning and loss. I'm in the city but haven't noticed anything particularly different or strange other than the "official" memorials and ceremonials. But then again, I've been inside for much of the day. My connection to the events of 9/11 are pretty abstract: I was living in Seattle at the time, and I didn't know anyone personally who died in the attacks. I called my friend S. and miraculously got through to her cell phone; she was walking uptown from the Federal Court Building, describing the scene to me in real time. But it definitely did not feel real.
I do not, generally, feel worried or unsafe in New York City. I do, on the other hand, feel nervous when I am in the country by myself, when there's nothing but me and a dirt road and 30 acres of farm land surrounding and two guys on ATVs driving by, slowly, eyeing my house. I wonder how many people actually, in their guts, walk around feeling afraid after 9/11. I wonder if there is a difference between the fear levels of city people and country people. People vote and take passionate political stances based on this, and so I wonder how conscious this fear really is, if at all. I wonder how much (and the nature of any) unconscious fear I myself carry with me when I'm in the city.
But back to mourning... I have thought about trying again, with a new orchid plant. But I think maybe I'm not ready yet. Not just yet.
Thursday, September 6, 2007
On Vulnerability: Two Night Rides
I.
It is 9:30 in the evening, and I have just realized that I (stupidly) left my bag in a town 20 miles from home. 30 hours have elapsed since the leaving, and yet, I (stupidly) have it in my head that I should drive out there and see if it's still there, in the park where I left it. Wallet, phone, keys, checkbook, everything is in there. You're driving, J. says.
9:30 in the evening in farm country is late. If you are waking up at 3:30 or 4am, bedtime has long passed. 9:30 in the evening in farm country is also dark. Living in the city, you forget about dark. You forget about deserted. The roads are windy and narrow, I am worried about wildlife. I drive like an old lady (without a license, which is in the lost bag), leaning forward, hands on 3 and 9. Dark, windy roads, no docs, no money. J. is dozing off. You think: God, we are really wolf-bait out here in the universe. We are alone, it is dark, we are essentially unknown. I am an "undocumented" Oriental girl out here in the pitch black, I have no identity, nothing to verify my existence.
And then, running out into the middle of the road... a wolf. No, sorry, no, not a wolf. A fox. Shit. I break hard and swerve and semi-close my eyes. "Did I hit it? Did I hit it?" "No, he made it," J. says. Phew. My heart is beating hard. Then, "Wait, are you just saying that?" "Did you hear a thump under the tires?" No. No, I did not hear a thump under the tires.
In town, no bag. (No flashlight, either. Stupidly.) No one is around, nothing is open. The state trooper knows nothing about local police matters. We drive back.
II.
It is 9:30 in the evening, and we are coming out of the movie theatre downtown. We've just seen THE FRENCH CONNECTION, which I've never seen, and I'm a sucker for a good late '60's car chase (although this one made me, literally, nauseous). It's been a while since I've been "out" in the city at night, among the urban throng, the young and viviacious and stylish. It is anything but dark out, it is bright and busy and noisy. Feels sort of weird.
We get on the bike. The motorbike, that is. Forgetting that we'd be commuting back this way, I am wearing (stupidly) slip-on sandals and a skirt. Oh, well. I put on my helmet, hike it up and get on. It's crazy out for a Wednesday night, we think it's because of the cabbies strike; they're protesting the installation of GPS in all NYC taxis - invasion of privacy, etc., they want to be able to be off the books, off the charts. The streets are full of taxis with fares, they're taking people (off the books) and likely charging high flat rates. Everyone's ornery. It's a little scary.
We speed up 6th Ave then head east at Columbus Circle to Central Park West. I'm holding on tight, tighter than usual. I wonder if J. will cut across the park at 96th, or go through Harlem. He decides on the latter.
The phone rings. I reach into the backpack pocket and pull it out, I see that it's the # of the local PA police I've been calling about my lost bag. J. asks do I want to answer it (do I want him to pull over). We're in East Harlem, on a side street, so I'm thinking nah, um, that's ok.
"Nah, that's ok."
Back in the Bronx, the phone rings again, same number. Kindly Officer P. informs me that they've recovered my bag, the cash is gone but everything else seems to be there. Could he fed-ex it to me, I can't really drive out there without a driver's license, and I'm kind of marooned here without any docs? Yes, he says, he can fed-ex it, it's not standard procedure, but it seems clear it's my bag, and he's got a friend who can do the fed-exing off the books, so yeah, no problem m'am, you have a good night now.
I sleep better tonight, not realizing until morning how poorly I've been sleeping the last few.
It is 9:30 in the evening, and I have just realized that I (stupidly) left my bag in a town 20 miles from home. 30 hours have elapsed since the leaving, and yet, I (stupidly) have it in my head that I should drive out there and see if it's still there, in the park where I left it. Wallet, phone, keys, checkbook, everything is in there. You're driving, J. says.
9:30 in the evening in farm country is late. If you are waking up at 3:30 or 4am, bedtime has long passed. 9:30 in the evening in farm country is also dark. Living in the city, you forget about dark. You forget about deserted. The roads are windy and narrow, I am worried about wildlife. I drive like an old lady (without a license, which is in the lost bag), leaning forward, hands on 3 and 9. Dark, windy roads, no docs, no money. J. is dozing off. You think: God, we are really wolf-bait out here in the universe. We are alone, it is dark, we are essentially unknown. I am an "undocumented" Oriental girl out here in the pitch black, I have no identity, nothing to verify my existence.
And then, running out into the middle of the road... a wolf. No, sorry, no, not a wolf. A fox. Shit. I break hard and swerve and semi-close my eyes. "Did I hit it? Did I hit it?" "No, he made it," J. says. Phew. My heart is beating hard. Then, "Wait, are you just saying that?" "Did you hear a thump under the tires?" No. No, I did not hear a thump under the tires.
In town, no bag. (No flashlight, either. Stupidly.) No one is around, nothing is open. The state trooper knows nothing about local police matters. We drive back.
II.
It is 9:30 in the evening, and we are coming out of the movie theatre downtown. We've just seen THE FRENCH CONNECTION, which I've never seen, and I'm a sucker for a good late '60's car chase (although this one made me, literally, nauseous). It's been a while since I've been "out" in the city at night, among the urban throng, the young and viviacious and stylish. It is anything but dark out, it is bright and busy and noisy. Feels sort of weird.
We get on the bike. The motorbike, that is. Forgetting that we'd be commuting back this way, I am wearing (stupidly) slip-on sandals and a skirt. Oh, well. I put on my helmet, hike it up and get on. It's crazy out for a Wednesday night, we think it's because of the cabbies strike; they're protesting the installation of GPS in all NYC taxis - invasion of privacy, etc., they want to be able to be off the books, off the charts. The streets are full of taxis with fares, they're taking people (off the books) and likely charging high flat rates. Everyone's ornery. It's a little scary.
We speed up 6th Ave then head east at Columbus Circle to Central Park West. I'm holding on tight, tighter than usual. I wonder if J. will cut across the park at 96th, or go through Harlem. He decides on the latter.
The phone rings. I reach into the backpack pocket and pull it out, I see that it's the # of the local PA police I've been calling about my lost bag. J. asks do I want to answer it (do I want him to pull over). We're in East Harlem, on a side street, so I'm thinking nah, um, that's ok.
"Nah, that's ok."
Back in the Bronx, the phone rings again, same number. Kindly Officer P. informs me that they've recovered my bag, the cash is gone but everything else seems to be there. Could he fed-ex it to me, I can't really drive out there without a driver's license, and I'm kind of marooned here without any docs? Yes, he says, he can fed-ex it, it's not standard procedure, but it seems clear it's my bag, and he's got a friend who can do the fed-exing off the books, so yeah, no problem m'am, you have a good night now.
I sleep better tonight, not realizing until morning how poorly I've been sleeping the last few.
Monday, September 3, 2007
Monday with the Sunday Times
Kind of like Tuesdays With Morrie?
There is no delivery on my road (mail, newspaper, etc.), so the acquisition of print media requires a 3-mile excursion to the general store. During the summer months, we are advised to call ahead on Saturday (weekenders buy 'em up fast) and reserve one. Rocky kindly obliges.
It's the quintessential city-people ritual out here, no one else is buying it (no City section, however; we get the Westchester Edition up here). What can I say. I have pangs about it, especially as it takes me a good 2-3 days to get through it, and it's my primary source of news; surely I am missing something, missing everything, in terms of the gamut of valid media perspectives. I have the sort of brain that has a small hard-drive, i.e. I cannot, like some I know, accumulate mounds upon tons of information (J. reads a million different newspapers and periodicals, plus TV news and morning shows and news blogs and Charlie Rose and...). I just can't. Media stresses me out, frankly, the sheer volume. I used to read 3-4 different print sources (plus a couple online sources), but it all just piled up and I couldn't keep up. So now: the Sunday Times it is (and radio; radio I can do).
Anyway, here's a gem from the Book Review: Jim Lewis reviewed Denis Johnson's new novel, Tree of Smoke. I will be reading Tree of Smoke, without a doubt, as I have been a DJ fan since his early books of poetry. But read the review: it's one of the most compelling, invested book reviews I've read in a long time. It tells us as much about the reviewer as the reviewed, but not in a solipsistic way, not in that I'm-writing-about-someone-else-but-really-I-want-to-point-the- attention-on-myself kind of way. Lewis's enthusiasm is an enthusiasm for the deep pleasure, the wonder, of strange, original, "inescapable" writing - major works that matter.
There is no delivery on my road (mail, newspaper, etc.), so the acquisition of print media requires a 3-mile excursion to the general store. During the summer months, we are advised to call ahead on Saturday (weekenders buy 'em up fast) and reserve one. Rocky kindly obliges.
It's the quintessential city-people ritual out here, no one else is buying it (no City section, however; we get the Westchester Edition up here). What can I say. I have pangs about it, especially as it takes me a good 2-3 days to get through it, and it's my primary source of news; surely I am missing something, missing everything, in terms of the gamut of valid media perspectives. I have the sort of brain that has a small hard-drive, i.e. I cannot, like some I know, accumulate mounds upon tons of information (J. reads a million different newspapers and periodicals, plus TV news and morning shows and news blogs and Charlie Rose and...). I just can't. Media stresses me out, frankly, the sheer volume. I used to read 3-4 different print sources (plus a couple online sources), but it all just piled up and I couldn't keep up. So now: the Sunday Times it is (and radio; radio I can do).
Anyway, here's a gem from the Book Review: Jim Lewis reviewed Denis Johnson's new novel, Tree of Smoke. I will be reading Tree of Smoke, without a doubt, as I have been a DJ fan since his early books of poetry. But read the review: it's one of the most compelling, invested book reviews I've read in a long time. It tells us as much about the reviewer as the reviewed, but not in a solipsistic way, not in that I'm-writing-about-someone-else-but-really-I-want-to-point-the- attention-on-myself kind of way. Lewis's enthusiasm is an enthusiasm for the deep pleasure, the wonder, of strange, original, "inescapable" writing - major works that matter.
Saturday, September 1, 2007
Race, Racism, & Racialism
I recently made a confession of a racist attitude to some folks at a gathering. Korean D. and Cuban R. (married couple), and Chinese C. and Filipino S. (another married couple) and I were talking about a raucous sidewalk BBQ that occurred outside D. and R.'s apartment building in a Dominican neighborhood uptown. They were pissed, because it was floor-shaking, head-banging loud (salsa music and sub-woofers) and it was clearly not a permit-ted event. R. called the PO-lice, who came and broke it up.
We were talking about racial groups, and racial-group habits. Loudness is something we often attribute, consciously or unconsciously, to certain racial groups. Of course, there are generalizations and there are specifics, and the damage is most severe when we lapse into generalizations-only thinking, which then manifests in our behavior; and depending on the context and our reach of influence (if you are, say, the Presidenet of the United States, or a Supreme Court Justice; or even a corporate executive or a community leader), these behaviors can be globally catastrophic.
(There is no talking or thinking about city and country and suburb without talking about race. The lens of race is second-nature to most people of color, I dare say; typically a more conscious effort for White folk. This is what I mean by racialism. In this country, you know that you are not White, and that White is a category of power (or at least "centrality"), before you know your ABCs.)
I had had a couple of drinks by this time in the evening, so my discretion was apparently compromised. I guess I'd been thinking about my dirty life, and I confessed that I was most bothered by people who throw their garbage around. And, I added, I am convinced that this is not a social class thing - poor does not equal dirty - this is a cultural thing.
I recently read that there are steep fines in Singapore for littering (and chewing gum).* Japan is of course known for its immaculate subway system and urban sanitation in general. I have also been very struck by my experiences in Korea over the years.
The local Korean bath house is one of my favorite outings when I visit. There are hot spring mineral baths and saunas and steam rooms and jet therapy and shower areas where men and women and children of all ages (grandparents and grandchildren together are a common sight) take the time to relax and thoroughly self-care. The shower areas include stools for sitting, abrasive washcloths, and hand-held shower heads (showering is a sit-down affair for Koreans, time to scrub and rinse and massage with care). The bath house ritual is good for the skin, the circulation, the heart, and the soul. There is also, at the end of your wet-and-moist therapy, an opportunity to visit the sleep rooms - big, dry open spaces with heated floors, pillows, and complementary cotton pajamas (the bath areas are single-sex, and all are naked).
A day at the bath house costs about six American dollars and is a once or twice weekly habit for many Koreans. The sleep rooms are open all night, and the poor and homeless will sometimes sleep here (men with night jobs, for example, will come for a few hours rest). They do not take advantage, i.e. somehow it is understood that one night of recuperation at a time is the limit. But it's also understood that everyone is entitled to be clean - deeply, thoroughly clean and rested. The old women who clean the subways and station areas do so with incredible industriousness; there is no question about whether the working-class and poor who rely on public transportation "deserve" a clean ride or not.
It's an opinion I seem to hold pretty firmly in my mind somewhere - that black and brown people have messier, dirtier cultural habits. It's a half-baked, un-evolved thought, of which I am partially ashamed and yet partially feel is a reasonable question to pose - i.e. why this seems to be the case, how the perception is formed in the first place, and how it might be corrected; because I don't think I am the only one to think it (my passionately anti-racist black pastor back in Seattle told the story of his father referring to Mexicans as Messi-kins), and perhaps current immigration controversies would look differently if these perceptions did not exist.
I think about my lack of exposure to the home countries of Latin and Central Americans, my sketchy understanding of immigration patterns and the way racism eats away at people, generation-by-generation (I think of K., an African American matriarch who keeps an immaculate household and herself complains about young black people's lack of self-respect and sense of civic duty), the overall limitations of a middle-class viewpoint. In the Philippines, poor children forage in garbage dumps regularly. In India, lack of sewage and clean water systems is a persistent national crisis. This morning, an article in The NY Times about Palestinian children trolling trash piles for items they can sell in order to eke out "a living," and an article in the Times Mag about environmental injustice, i.e. high pollution levels in poor communities: "...disproportionately high pollution levels continue to plague poor communities, and race often correlates with which populations are hit the hardest: African-Americans, for instance, are 79 percent more likely than whites to live in areas where air-pollution levels pose health risks..." These are clearly not "cultural" habits. And yet even with these bits of knowledge, my under-the-skin reaction to garbagy streets is still there, i.e. my people would never live like this.
Clean and dirty are complicated. Don't elect me to office (maybe don't even be my friend), at least until I can get my head on right about this. Ironic, isn't it, that a large portion of the house-cleaning workforce in the tidy suburbs are Latin and Central American immigrants. Maybe some cultures simply do have different standards when it comes to cleanliness, maybe they simply have different priorities, perfectly valid ones, which other people need to understand and accept. J. is Chinese American; my mother seems to think that the Chinese (among the East Asians) are kinda "dirty." J. gives me a hard time about showering every day. "Why d'ya gotta shower every day? What's wrong with smelling your own smell once in a while, letting the body's natural oils do their job. Soap is not even good for your skin, and shampoo will make your hair fall out eventually. Shower when you're actually dirty." Hmm...how European.
*an article today about Singapore reveals a complex social-economic history and environment which led to the no-littering policies. There are some cultures, or sub-cultures, which seem to embrace the notion of "look the part," i.e. if you want to be lifted out of poverty and third-class citizen status, then look like you do, clean up. Very Booker T. Washington, I guess.
We were talking about racial groups, and racial-group habits. Loudness is something we often attribute, consciously or unconsciously, to certain racial groups. Of course, there are generalizations and there are specifics, and the damage is most severe when we lapse into generalizations-only thinking, which then manifests in our behavior; and depending on the context and our reach of influence (if you are, say, the Presidenet of the United States, or a Supreme Court Justice; or even a corporate executive or a community leader), these behaviors can be globally catastrophic.
(There is no talking or thinking about city and country and suburb without talking about race. The lens of race is second-nature to most people of color, I dare say; typically a more conscious effort for White folk. This is what I mean by racialism. In this country, you know that you are not White, and that White is a category of power (or at least "centrality"), before you know your ABCs.)
I had had a couple of drinks by this time in the evening, so my discretion was apparently compromised. I guess I'd been thinking about my dirty life, and I confessed that I was most bothered by people who throw their garbage around. And, I added, I am convinced that this is not a social class thing - poor does not equal dirty - this is a cultural thing.
I recently read that there are steep fines in Singapore for littering (and chewing gum).* Japan is of course known for its immaculate subway system and urban sanitation in general. I have also been very struck by my experiences in Korea over the years.
The local Korean bath house is one of my favorite outings when I visit. There are hot spring mineral baths and saunas and steam rooms and jet therapy and shower areas where men and women and children of all ages (grandparents and grandchildren together are a common sight) take the time to relax and thoroughly self-care. The shower areas include stools for sitting, abrasive washcloths, and hand-held shower heads (showering is a sit-down affair for Koreans, time to scrub and rinse and massage with care). The bath house ritual is good for the skin, the circulation, the heart, and the soul. There is also, at the end of your wet-and-moist therapy, an opportunity to visit the sleep rooms - big, dry open spaces with heated floors, pillows, and complementary cotton pajamas (the bath areas are single-sex, and all are naked).
A day at the bath house costs about six American dollars and is a once or twice weekly habit for many Koreans. The sleep rooms are open all night, and the poor and homeless will sometimes sleep here (men with night jobs, for example, will come for a few hours rest). They do not take advantage, i.e. somehow it is understood that one night of recuperation at a time is the limit. But it's also understood that everyone is entitled to be clean - deeply, thoroughly clean and rested. The old women who clean the subways and station areas do so with incredible industriousness; there is no question about whether the working-class and poor who rely on public transportation "deserve" a clean ride or not.
It's an opinion I seem to hold pretty firmly in my mind somewhere - that black and brown people have messier, dirtier cultural habits. It's a half-baked, un-evolved thought, of which I am partially ashamed and yet partially feel is a reasonable question to pose - i.e. why this seems to be the case, how the perception is formed in the first place, and how it might be corrected; because I don't think I am the only one to think it (my passionately anti-racist black pastor back in Seattle told the story of his father referring to Mexicans as Messi-kins), and perhaps current immigration controversies would look differently if these perceptions did not exist.
I think about my lack of exposure to the home countries of Latin and Central Americans, my sketchy understanding of immigration patterns and the way racism eats away at people, generation-by-generation (I think of K., an African American matriarch who keeps an immaculate household and herself complains about young black people's lack of self-respect and sense of civic duty), the overall limitations of a middle-class viewpoint. In the Philippines, poor children forage in garbage dumps regularly. In India, lack of sewage and clean water systems is a persistent national crisis. This morning, an article in The NY Times about Palestinian children trolling trash piles for items they can sell in order to eke out "a living," and an article in the Times Mag about environmental injustice, i.e. high pollution levels in poor communities: "...disproportionately high pollution levels continue to plague poor communities, and race often correlates with which populations are hit the hardest: African-Americans, for instance, are 79 percent more likely than whites to live in areas where air-pollution levels pose health risks..." These are clearly not "cultural" habits. And yet even with these bits of knowledge, my under-the-skin reaction to garbagy streets is still there, i.e. my people would never live like this.
Clean and dirty are complicated. Don't elect me to office (maybe don't even be my friend), at least until I can get my head on right about this. Ironic, isn't it, that a large portion of the house-cleaning workforce in the tidy suburbs are Latin and Central American immigrants. Maybe some cultures simply do have different standards when it comes to cleanliness, maybe they simply have different priorities, perfectly valid ones, which other people need to understand and accept. J. is Chinese American; my mother seems to think that the Chinese (among the East Asians) are kinda "dirty." J. gives me a hard time about showering every day. "Why d'ya gotta shower every day? What's wrong with smelling your own smell once in a while, letting the body's natural oils do their job. Soap is not even good for your skin, and shampoo will make your hair fall out eventually. Shower when you're actually dirty." Hmm...how European.
*an article today about Singapore reveals a complex social-economic history and environment which led to the no-littering policies. There are some cultures, or sub-cultures, which seem to embrace the notion of "look the part," i.e. if you want to be lifted out of poverty and third-class citizen status, then look like you do, clean up. Very Booker T. Washington, I guess.
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