My mother arrived yesterday bearing a box full of Korean food stuff. This island is paradise, indeed. However, the dearth of Asian foods offered is, for an Asian girl, quite shocking. For many years, there were two Chinese restaurants, one that looked dirtier and dingier than the most greasy Chinese fast food place in any other city. The other in Edgartown looked less dirty, but was always empty. I still don't know how either place stays in business since both still exist. We never ventured into either place until one July 4th when we were desperate to feed our son and went into the one that was cleaner. The meal was not memorable other than the fact the food was like food in most Chinese restaurants--greasy.
A few years ago, we noticed 'sushi chefs' being placed in various restaurants with menus offering fried seafood and French fries. I was skeptical, but was desperate for something Asian, so I went to the seafood store to order a spicy tuna roll made by the Vietnamese chef. It wasn't offensive, but the price was steep enough for it to be as good as anything on the menu of Chef Morimoto's restaurant. This year marked another turning point for the island, as it catches up with the rest of the world, with the first Thai restaurant opening on Circuit Avenue. Again, the food isn't memorable, but will suffice when I'm starved for something with a bit of spice.
My mom brought enough food with spice to tie me over till I get off the island. My son, who prefers Korean food, is beside himself with the anticipation of what my mother has brought to feed her only grandson. She is making him Kim Bap, the Korean version of sushi. I used to buy this in any supermarket in Korea town, but will now have to make for him since New York's Korea town is one short block on 32nd.
It is breathtaking to watch your mother shower your child with so much affection. In some ways, it is a relief to have her attentions focused on someone other than me. Her unadulterated joy in her grandson has healed any, and all, wounds that we may have inflicted on each other as we negotiated the challenging terrain of mothers and daughters. I'm grateful she's alive and healthy enough to enjoy this time with my son, for them to create memories together. I can see the wonder in her eyes as she watches me 'mother' my child--a role that is hard for her to connect with her baby. There is, of course, some judgment about how I do it. But all in all, I think she is amazed and proud that I am an attentive parent.
Most of us spend our lives trying to undo whatever patterns and traditions our parents foisted on us, for better or worse. If your relationship with your parents was fraught with drama, then the need to undo it all can consume all of your focus. This need to redo, rather than undo, takes on new significance when you have your own child. They say raising a child is a way for us to redo our childhoods, making up for whatever we felt had been lacking. The Boomer generation has spent their entire adulthood, most profoundly noticeable in the raising of their children, demolishing the strictures of their rules laden upbringing. Whether such a thorough demotion has produced a happier outcome still remains to be seen. Their children may now spend their adulthood trying to create more rules and boundaries in an attempt to gain some control over their lives.
For me, my child's entrance has brought such a yearning to recreate the special memories of my own childhood. And this island was one piece in that need. My parent's participation is another piece since I never knew either set of grandparents. My son will, without doubt, spend his life trying to undo or redo whatever we had done. This island may be the only part of his life that he may want to replicate for his own kids--notice the use of the plural here since I'm always hoping he'll have a large brood for me to shower with love. That's what is so ironic about all of this. Grandparenting seems to be the time when you relinquish all of your expectations and just revel in loving, something parenting doesn't allow. So, I'm grateful to have given my parents this opportunity to be grandparents since it is a way for them to forgive themselves of whatever disappointments they may have about their own parenting of me--their child.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Monday, July 30, 2007
Clambake at Eastville Beach
My friend from grad school arrived with his brood--two boys, wife--on Thursday. He and his family have been coming to see us here since our very first summer. It was the perfect excuse for he and I to get together, something that seemed impossible to do when I was in LA. It has been 8 years since we met during our fist semester at grad school and we became friends, much in the way friendships get established--dinners, lunches, thoughtful conversations, sharing of our many ups and downs, and sharing in the celebrations of our lives.
What is wonderful about our relationship is how much our two families blend so well together. He and my husband like each other. I adore his wife. Our kids love one another and play well together. Everyone knows what a unique experience this is for each member of the family to get along with their counterpart in another family. There is nothing worse than to push my husband to get along with the spouse of a good friend of mine when they, so obviously, don't have anything in common other than the friendship between their wives. What's worse than the spousal rejection is that of your child. We have had painful situations where our child couldn't get along with the child of the couple that we adored. And whose child was just a brat, putting a strain on the burgeoning friendship.
Again, it is that combination of timing and chemistry that determines how any of this will happen. Our boys, despite seeing one another only once a year, have this very strong bond. Each are individually so different from the other, but they negotiate these differences without the use of physical fights or temper tantrums. At this point, this annual yearly ritual on the Vineyard is as much for us, the adults, as it is now for our kids. The departure is always sad, a few tears shed, although this time there were promises of trips to visit during the year, all so manageable from Boston to New York.
We usually finish off the weekend with a catered clambake at Eastville Beach, a strip of sand that looks out on to the harbor of Vineyard Haven. We take the food, all of it delicious, to the beach where we throw down large blankets, sand toys, and coolers of wine. The kids wander by the water's edge, setting up games of badminton or just throwing rocks out into the water. It is something my son talks about endlessly during the year, and something he asks to do once we get to the Vineyard.
This year's festivities were cut short by a mishap, a trip to the emergency room, and lots of parental guilt as well as guilt by our friends. Thankfully, it was nothing dire, each of us with enough sense to enjoy the last evening despite it happening. This event, more than the years of affection, showed me how special this friendship was to our lives. These last four days will become another small piece in the mosaic of our two families.
I always dream of growing old with my husband. And there are friends in my life that make me wish for the same thing, to grow old with these people, so that we mark our friendship in decades, not just years.
What is wonderful about our relationship is how much our two families blend so well together. He and my husband like each other. I adore his wife. Our kids love one another and play well together. Everyone knows what a unique experience this is for each member of the family to get along with their counterpart in another family. There is nothing worse than to push my husband to get along with the spouse of a good friend of mine when they, so obviously, don't have anything in common other than the friendship between their wives. What's worse than the spousal rejection is that of your child. We have had painful situations where our child couldn't get along with the child of the couple that we adored. And whose child was just a brat, putting a strain on the burgeoning friendship.
Again, it is that combination of timing and chemistry that determines how any of this will happen. Our boys, despite seeing one another only once a year, have this very strong bond. Each are individually so different from the other, but they negotiate these differences without the use of physical fights or temper tantrums. At this point, this annual yearly ritual on the Vineyard is as much for us, the adults, as it is now for our kids. The departure is always sad, a few tears shed, although this time there were promises of trips to visit during the year, all so manageable from Boston to New York.
We usually finish off the weekend with a catered clambake at Eastville Beach, a strip of sand that looks out on to the harbor of Vineyard Haven. We take the food, all of it delicious, to the beach where we throw down large blankets, sand toys, and coolers of wine. The kids wander by the water's edge, setting up games of badminton or just throwing rocks out into the water. It is something my son talks about endlessly during the year, and something he asks to do once we get to the Vineyard.
This year's festivities were cut short by a mishap, a trip to the emergency room, and lots of parental guilt as well as guilt by our friends. Thankfully, it was nothing dire, each of us with enough sense to enjoy the last evening despite it happening. This event, more than the years of affection, showed me how special this friendship was to our lives. These last four days will become another small piece in the mosaic of our two families.
I always dream of growing old with my husband. And there are friends in my life that make me wish for the same thing, to grow old with these people, so that we mark our friendship in decades, not just years.
Friday, July 27, 2007
LA -- So Far Away
It's now nearly a month since we departed LA for good, just three days shy of that one month mark. The time has passed swiftly, despite spending our days idling away on the beach. The water is now warmer. The days longer as the sun sets well past 8:00 PM. I've spoken to two friends from LA since leaving. All of the emotions associated with life in LA is packed away, almost neatly. I haven't yet reached the state of nostalgia or sentimentality, but each day brings new emotional distance, a distance I had craved and now have. The pull of glancing backwards is almost gone. I know our New York apartment is getting organized as my husband opens and unpacks boxes after work. He now views his life entirely as a New Yorker, LA now just a part of his past. I, for obvious reasons, can't say the tether to my previous life is that easily severed. I am still between places, between lives.
I am cherishing my time here on the Vineyard. It is the perfect antidote for the frenzy and emotional turbulence of the past few months. This island, our family oasis, is what any doctor would have prescribed. But it is still strange to be so in between lives. It is as if my life is a perfect triangle, LA, the Vineyard, and New York. And I've only made it from one point to the second with a wait before completing the triangle. Yet each year on this island brings another level of ties to this place as more faces from the beach now bear names, sometimes even phone numbers getting exchanged, promises for drinks made. One of those familiar faces now with a name searched for my son on the beach. She found me and asked us to come sing 'happy birthday' for her daughter's 6th birthday. Each of us was given a perfectly made cupcake with pink frosting and a maraschino cherry on top. It is these moments of connection that weds our family to this island, our family now becoming part of this legacy of those who summer here.
All of our mail, forwarded from LA to New York, now arrives bearing yellow stickers with our new address. I've received a stack of New Yorkers waiting to be read. Each of this is a daily reminder that our lives are unfolding in this new place, in this new era, so to speak.
I am cherishing my time here on the Vineyard. It is the perfect antidote for the frenzy and emotional turbulence of the past few months. This island, our family oasis, is what any doctor would have prescribed. But it is still strange to be so in between lives. It is as if my life is a perfect triangle, LA, the Vineyard, and New York. And I've only made it from one point to the second with a wait before completing the triangle. Yet each year on this island brings another level of ties to this place as more faces from the beach now bear names, sometimes even phone numbers getting exchanged, promises for drinks made. One of those familiar faces now with a name searched for my son on the beach. She found me and asked us to come sing 'happy birthday' for her daughter's 6th birthday. Each of us was given a perfectly made cupcake with pink frosting and a maraschino cherry on top. It is these moments of connection that weds our family to this island, our family now becoming part of this legacy of those who summer here.
All of our mail, forwarded from LA to New York, now arrives bearing yellow stickers with our new address. I've received a stack of New Yorkers waiting to be read. Each of this is a daily reminder that our lives are unfolding in this new place, in this new era, so to speak.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Vegetarianism--If Only I didn't Like Meat So Much
During my video viewing, I watched "Fast Food Nation," the little seen movie about the corrupt ways of the Fast Food Chains that spring up faster than weeds in a untended lawn. Vegetarianism is something I never thought much about. Let's face it, I'm a girl who loves steak, hamburgers, lamb chops, veal, and Korean ribs. And like most carnivores, I never let my mind ponder about where meat came from, what living being it had been before arriving on my plate, the perfectly cooked T-Bone steak. It was flesh, of the animal kind, but I didn't let myself picture how this gentle cow grazed in an open field before ending up on my plate.
This movie, in its attempts to open our eyes to the horrors of meat packing factories and fast food chains, goes out of its way to show us the gory route of cow to T-Bone. To say it was wholly unappetizing would be an understatement. It gave me pause about my lip-smacking appreciation for steak. I doubt this one movie could turn me into a Peta member, but it does make you think about the food chain of what we consume and where and how this food arrives, so neatly packaged to our local grocery stores.
And in truth, this applies to all of our food. Slaughter houses, for fowl or meat, are gory and cruel. Whether they are more so now than in the past is what I don't know. But shouldn't we be critical of all the practices taken by food producers? The exploitative practices of agro-business using cheap labor, usually of the undocumented kind, is no more above judgment than the slaughter houses. The agricultural industry is known to be one of the largest consumers of fuel, and emitter of carbon emissions. Yet, it's rare for anyone to protest strawberries.
The process of food production has been corrupted by so many factors. It isn't natural for us to consume watermelon, a summer fruit, all year long. That one watermelon took so much fuel, not to mention the human toll of workers, for it to arrive at your local Ralphs, A & P, or Stop and Shop in December. Yet, none of us give much thought to any of this since we've now gotten accustomed to the conveniance--key word here--of having summer fruits all year long.
For one day, I thought about not eating meat. But for one day only. But if I were to become sanctimonious about meat, shouldn't I be as strident about all food?
This movie, in its attempts to open our eyes to the horrors of meat packing factories and fast food chains, goes out of its way to show us the gory route of cow to T-Bone. To say it was wholly unappetizing would be an understatement. It gave me pause about my lip-smacking appreciation for steak. I doubt this one movie could turn me into a Peta member, but it does make you think about the food chain of what we consume and where and how this food arrives, so neatly packaged to our local grocery stores.
And in truth, this applies to all of our food. Slaughter houses, for fowl or meat, are gory and cruel. Whether they are more so now than in the past is what I don't know. But shouldn't we be critical of all the practices taken by food producers? The exploitative practices of agro-business using cheap labor, usually of the undocumented kind, is no more above judgment than the slaughter houses. The agricultural industry is known to be one of the largest consumers of fuel, and emitter of carbon emissions. Yet, it's rare for anyone to protest strawberries.
The process of food production has been corrupted by so many factors. It isn't natural for us to consume watermelon, a summer fruit, all year long. That one watermelon took so much fuel, not to mention the human toll of workers, for it to arrive at your local Ralphs, A & P, or Stop and Shop in December. Yet, none of us give much thought to any of this since we've now gotten accustomed to the conveniance--key word here--of having summer fruits all year long.
For one day, I thought about not eating meat. But for one day only. But if I were to become sanctimonious about meat, shouldn't I be as strident about all food?
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Camp Counselor Mom
My son had his first sleep over with two girls, which means I had my first sleep over as Mom. They are our friends' daughters, who were only too happy to sleep at our house--or so we thought. I threw burgers on the grill, despite my son's skepticism that I knew how to use the grill. We had a picnic on the floor, topped off with homemade banana splits. We put in a movie, which they watched dressed in their pajamas. I can remember three summers ago when the girls and my son were here in this same house. My son and the youngest girl were just walking, barely talking. Now, they talk, sounding like young adults.
I made them hot chocolate, which they slurped as they watched their movie. Breakfast will be pancakes with sausages and bacon. As overwhelmed as I get with one child, I romanticize the idea of being the Camp Counselor Mom, who has kids running in a and out of the house, mealtimes just one big scream fest. Somehow this idea, as everyone knows, is simply ridiculous. As they say, know thyself, and this self, I, do not have the constitution for such a scene. I could probably hold myself together till the meal was finished, the table a scene of destruction. The end of each day would require this Mom having a healthy cocktail or Xanax, or both.
It's funny how families, except in certain religious groups, have shrunk, so that any family with three kids is considered humongous. I know when I run into families with three or more kids, I find myself marveling at the sheer audacity of the parents and then look at them askance as I think about the work, cost, fatigue, and emotional work to raise such a large brood. Two seems to be the number that everyone strives for, the only child viewed less now than in the past as a condition, choice, made, or made for you, for a host of reasons. I never thought I'd have an only child since I am an only child. But motherhood was more challenging than even I, the realist, pragmatist, had thought possible. Having waited to have our first, by the time I felt ready--emotionally, physically--to have another, it became too late. I'm sure if I put my mind to it, I could have another child. However, the idea of having an infant at the age of 40 seems wrong for me.
It's funny though. As much as I complain about motherhood, my son and I are enjoying our alone time together. There is no Tia, his Dad in New York, only us, in a sense, rediscovering one another. I watch him morphing into an idea of the man he will be. Like all parents, I yearn for him to be shielded from the bruising punches life sometimes offers. But I know that is impossible. And like my parents, and every other parent, I will have to watch him suffer as all of us do.
The girls decided, actually the oldest, that she couldn't spend the entire night here. So, calls were made. Their parents arrived. My son shed tears of disappointment about his first sleepover turning into the, "the worst sleepover--his words," ever. After the girls had left, my son tucked in after reading his bedtime books, I sat down. I didn't have a drink or a Xanax, or both together, but simply sat.
I made them hot chocolate, which they slurped as they watched their movie. Breakfast will be pancakes with sausages and bacon. As overwhelmed as I get with one child, I romanticize the idea of being the Camp Counselor Mom, who has kids running in a and out of the house, mealtimes just one big scream fest. Somehow this idea, as everyone knows, is simply ridiculous. As they say, know thyself, and this self, I, do not have the constitution for such a scene. I could probably hold myself together till the meal was finished, the table a scene of destruction. The end of each day would require this Mom having a healthy cocktail or Xanax, or both.
It's funny how families, except in certain religious groups, have shrunk, so that any family with three kids is considered humongous. I know when I run into families with three or more kids, I find myself marveling at the sheer audacity of the parents and then look at them askance as I think about the work, cost, fatigue, and emotional work to raise such a large brood. Two seems to be the number that everyone strives for, the only child viewed less now than in the past as a condition, choice, made, or made for you, for a host of reasons. I never thought I'd have an only child since I am an only child. But motherhood was more challenging than even I, the realist, pragmatist, had thought possible. Having waited to have our first, by the time I felt ready--emotionally, physically--to have another, it became too late. I'm sure if I put my mind to it, I could have another child. However, the idea of having an infant at the age of 40 seems wrong for me.
It's funny though. As much as I complain about motherhood, my son and I are enjoying our alone time together. There is no Tia, his Dad in New York, only us, in a sense, rediscovering one another. I watch him morphing into an idea of the man he will be. Like all parents, I yearn for him to be shielded from the bruising punches life sometimes offers. But I know that is impossible. And like my parents, and every other parent, I will have to watch him suffer as all of us do.
The girls decided, actually the oldest, that she couldn't spend the entire night here. So, calls were made. Their parents arrived. My son shed tears of disappointment about his first sleepover turning into the, "the worst sleepover--his words," ever. After the girls had left, my son tucked in after reading his bedtime books, I sat down. I didn't have a drink or a Xanax, or both together, but simply sat.
Monday, July 23, 2007
Jesus Camp
Since I have so few cable channels here, I rent videos that I've wanted to see, but never did. I recently rented a documentary entitled, "Jesus Camp." The movie was eye opening, and in truth a bit terrifying. The film follows Evangelical Christian children, ages 7-13, who are devout in their faith and beliefs. The film is set in Missouri, a place I've never visited, and after this movie, highly doubt will be placed on my list of 'must visit'.
The minister in the film is a woman, whose preaching is in the vein of traditional Evangelicals, yet with a message tailored for kids. There is the impassioned rhetoric, lots of Jesus references, lots of talk about the devil, but with the use of props. She feels that kids are the perfect vessels for God's message. Hmmm. Where does one start? I've written about my own faith, and my own practice of my faith. Part of what I appreciate about Catholicism is its rituals, which are theatrical in a quiet way. A Mass is devoid of the drama that other Protestant faiths seem to use in place of rituals, particularly in the Evangelical Churches. No one faints during a Mass unless they are suffering a true medical emergency. Any tears shed by the Parishioners is subdued, not part of the theater of the service.
As a Christian, watching this movie made me question how my own Christianity differed so greatly from everyone that this movie followed. My Christianity, as I've been taught, is about compassion, forgiveness, acceptance, and stewardship. It is not about judgment, exhortations against 'sinners'--basically everyone that doesn't believe what I believe, sanctimony, political savvy, and proselytizing. It was terribly distressing to see how faith is being used as the leverage against all those things that make a society diverse, stimulating, and challenging, namely all the arts, and personal freedoms. Watching the fervor in kids so young was eye opening. Also, I had no idea that "speaking in tongues" was something that actually happened, and apparently with some frequency in Evangelical churches. I'd always thought this was something that happened in medieval times and certainly not today in the 21st Century and in a place like Missouri.
This "camp" was a far cry from the church retreats I attended where breaking the rules was part of the expectation as we boarded buses headed for those woodsy camps. These church retreats were where I had some of the most fun, involving boys, sneaking in beers, and pranks against one another. In truth, I actually can't remember any of the religious lessons we were there to learn. The only signs that this was a religious week were the hour daily mass and the prayers said before each meal. The rest of our time was spent having fun, breaking up for volleyball games, swimming, and listening to cassette tapes of the newest music on boom boxes. We weren't listening to Christian Rock, but instead we were obsessed with Michael Jackson's album, Thriller. I think we also listened to tons of Journey--it was the early 80's--and Foreigner.
The funniest moment of the documentary was when the preacher admonished the kids for reading Harry Potter since he, the character, was a sorcerer, and therefore doing the work of the Devil. Frightening, isn't it? These kids read Christian books, listen to Christian music--who knew there was Christian rap? Their entire world, and particularly cultural world, is experienced through this very narrow lens of Christianity. They are not allowed to dance unless it is expressly for God. One little girl talked about how she loves to dance--to really bad Christian music--but how she has to make sure she's not dancing for vanity, but dancing with God's consent. She was a mere 8 or 9 years old, her world already defined in the narrowest definition of what is virtuous and what is not. Most home schooled kids are Evangelicals, their parent's way of insuring their kids' piety by controlling what they learn. Creationism, anyone? Global warning--most of these families drive large, gas guzzling SUV's--is fictional propaganda created by "liberals." There is no Global warning, instead all of the severe weather is God's work as punishment for a world filled with 'sinners'. I believe our President, whom they adore and admire, used this same argument as he went about demolishing any environmental gains we had made as a country. Although, he, I'm afraid, is less moved by faith as by the big pockets of special interests. So, as these Christians pray, bring on the hurricanes, bring on the drought, bring on the flooding, bring it all on because when the world explodes--isn't that what the Old Testament says basically--they will be saved or be guaranteed their entrance into the Holy Land while the rest of us will be extinguished.
As a parent, I doubt I will allow my son to listen to all the explicit rap, especially that are misogynistic and violent. I am also the mean mommy monitor about movies since I find so few of them appropriate in the messages I want him to be exposed to. We already know he will not be allowed video games or his own computer. When I think about it, I spend most of my time limiting his exposure to a culture that is saturated in bad taste, violence, gender stereotypes, and hyper sexuality. Hmmm. Am I that different from those Evangelical parents, who have decided that nothing popular culture has to offer is in line with their beliefs? So, my beliefs are shaped less by my Christian faith as it is by feminism, humanism, and an aesthetic snobbishness, yet I censor like all those people I deemed, "Crazy."
Perhaps this religious fervor that has taken hold in the center of our country is in response to all the excesses of our current culture? As rules about previous social taboos gets relaxed, particularly in media, the greater the divide. I am a person of faith, but also an artist. I am liberal, yet find myself censoring everything my child views, reads, and buys. Does that mean I'm merely steps away from looking for a church that offers protection from all that seems wrong with our world? And a teeny step away from speaking in tongues?
The minister in the film is a woman, whose preaching is in the vein of traditional Evangelicals, yet with a message tailored for kids. There is the impassioned rhetoric, lots of Jesus references, lots of talk about the devil, but with the use of props. She feels that kids are the perfect vessels for God's message. Hmmm. Where does one start? I've written about my own faith, and my own practice of my faith. Part of what I appreciate about Catholicism is its rituals, which are theatrical in a quiet way. A Mass is devoid of the drama that other Protestant faiths seem to use in place of rituals, particularly in the Evangelical Churches. No one faints during a Mass unless they are suffering a true medical emergency. Any tears shed by the Parishioners is subdued, not part of the theater of the service.
As a Christian, watching this movie made me question how my own Christianity differed so greatly from everyone that this movie followed. My Christianity, as I've been taught, is about compassion, forgiveness, acceptance, and stewardship. It is not about judgment, exhortations against 'sinners'--basically everyone that doesn't believe what I believe, sanctimony, political savvy, and proselytizing. It was terribly distressing to see how faith is being used as the leverage against all those things that make a society diverse, stimulating, and challenging, namely all the arts, and personal freedoms. Watching the fervor in kids so young was eye opening. Also, I had no idea that "speaking in tongues" was something that actually happened, and apparently with some frequency in Evangelical churches. I'd always thought this was something that happened in medieval times and certainly not today in the 21st Century and in a place like Missouri.
This "camp" was a far cry from the church retreats I attended where breaking the rules was part of the expectation as we boarded buses headed for those woodsy camps. These church retreats were where I had some of the most fun, involving boys, sneaking in beers, and pranks against one another. In truth, I actually can't remember any of the religious lessons we were there to learn. The only signs that this was a religious week were the hour daily mass and the prayers said before each meal. The rest of our time was spent having fun, breaking up for volleyball games, swimming, and listening to cassette tapes of the newest music on boom boxes. We weren't listening to Christian Rock, but instead we were obsessed with Michael Jackson's album, Thriller. I think we also listened to tons of Journey--it was the early 80's--and Foreigner.
The funniest moment of the documentary was when the preacher admonished the kids for reading Harry Potter since he, the character, was a sorcerer, and therefore doing the work of the Devil. Frightening, isn't it? These kids read Christian books, listen to Christian music--who knew there was Christian rap? Their entire world, and particularly cultural world, is experienced through this very narrow lens of Christianity. They are not allowed to dance unless it is expressly for God. One little girl talked about how she loves to dance--to really bad Christian music--but how she has to make sure she's not dancing for vanity, but dancing with God's consent. She was a mere 8 or 9 years old, her world already defined in the narrowest definition of what is virtuous and what is not. Most home schooled kids are Evangelicals, their parent's way of insuring their kids' piety by controlling what they learn. Creationism, anyone? Global warning--most of these families drive large, gas guzzling SUV's--is fictional propaganda created by "liberals." There is no Global warning, instead all of the severe weather is God's work as punishment for a world filled with 'sinners'. I believe our President, whom they adore and admire, used this same argument as he went about demolishing any environmental gains we had made as a country. Although, he, I'm afraid, is less moved by faith as by the big pockets of special interests. So, as these Christians pray, bring on the hurricanes, bring on the drought, bring on the flooding, bring it all on because when the world explodes--isn't that what the Old Testament says basically--they will be saved or be guaranteed their entrance into the Holy Land while the rest of us will be extinguished.
As a parent, I doubt I will allow my son to listen to all the explicit rap, especially that are misogynistic and violent. I am also the mean mommy monitor about movies since I find so few of them appropriate in the messages I want him to be exposed to. We already know he will not be allowed video games or his own computer. When I think about it, I spend most of my time limiting his exposure to a culture that is saturated in bad taste, violence, gender stereotypes, and hyper sexuality. Hmmm. Am I that different from those Evangelical parents, who have decided that nothing popular culture has to offer is in line with their beliefs? So, my beliefs are shaped less by my Christian faith as it is by feminism, humanism, and an aesthetic snobbishness, yet I censor like all those people I deemed, "Crazy."
Perhaps this religious fervor that has taken hold in the center of our country is in response to all the excesses of our current culture? As rules about previous social taboos gets relaxed, particularly in media, the greater the divide. I am a person of faith, but also an artist. I am liberal, yet find myself censoring everything my child views, reads, and buys. Does that mean I'm merely steps away from looking for a church that offers protection from all that seems wrong with our world? And a teeny step away from speaking in tongues?
Saturday, July 21, 2007
Babysitter--Cultural Contrast
Three summers ago, we lucked into a babysitter, really a 'Mommy's Helper' on Martha's Vineyard. She was 14, here for the summer. Her paternal grandparents owned many acres on Chappaquiddick--unfortunately known for Edward Kennedy's alcoholic-induced fatal car wreck, the event that relegated him forever to the Senate. Each of the grandkids came for the summers to work, to go to the beach, to spend time with their grandparents. So, she came to us to be with our son as we went to the beach. And she's come back ever since as our summer sitter. She is now 16, going on 17, but with the maturity of someone far older.
The contrast of her against the usual nanny in LA is something worth commenting on. She is blond, blue-eyed, All American, and from Utah. Her father and mother became Mormon, and this religious faith has served as the foundation for their family. She indulges in all the teenage pursuits of dating, text messaging, and worrying about her weight, but without the precociousness of most teens that are exposed to far too much too soon. She is a wonderful combination of emotional maturity, yet untouched by boredom bred from privilege. College looms on the horizon, so most of our conversations are about how to get her academic life organized so the application process is not hellish. Her life, I imagine, will meander with some disappointments, but in the end will be much like most of ours: school, career, marriage, and kids. Her goal of becoming a pediatrician feels right when I watch her patiently listening to my son prattling on or demanding she go in the water again for the hundredth time that day. She will have opportunities that she won't even realize are gifts until it is much too late, a difficult lesson each of us learns.
Her life is, and will be, vastly different than the life of our Tia's pre-pubescent daughter, who already shows the lapses in educational opportunities and exposure that will relegate her to a life that will always be paces behind that of our summer sitter. The inequity is, I'm afraid, what our country has become.
I say this, knowing that even for our summer sitter, she faces challenges, perhaps not as steep as our Tia's daughter, but challenges nonetheless. OK. Let's put it in perspective, her desire to attend an elite, or semi-elite university is a far cry from a child, whose own educational future is dubious. If our Tia's daughter survives the current expectation of Latino students to drop out, or worse, to become young mothers, she may be able to propel herself to SMC, dreaming of getting to a Cal State for a BA, all of which will take her an average of five years, but more likely six or seven. Her BA from a fifth tier level school, if our current trend holds true, will enable her to get a job in some service department of a major company. She will be the voice on the other end of the phone when we call about our credit card bills or subscriptions. We will immediately recognize the accent as "Hispanic or Latino." If she's computer savvy, she may end up as Tech support, her voice among all of those with accents that are foreign, all evoking the exoticism of a world remote and distant. Her life will be different, hopefully an improvement from her parent's, but in the end, still on the outside margins to the epicenter of power and privilege of our society.
For our summer sitter, her dreams of university, beyond the state university most of her siblings attended, is achievable as long as she is able to maintain her grades. This jump from public university to private will be what determines whether her life will be middle class or better. Again, her life will still be paces ahead of our Tia's daughter, for the most obvious reasons, even as a Mormon.
The East Coast, unlike its Left Coast counterpart, is full of young children being pushed around its streets by West Indian nannies. These women, dark brown in color, are replicating our country's legacy of Black women raising white children. For us, this seismic shift, is something we are wrapping our heads around. The one advantage of being in LA was that our child's consciousness was taught, for better or worse, that those who 'served' him and others like him were Latino or Filipino. And so, for the first five years of his life, he has been shielded from our country's legacy of the Black woman as caretaker. Now, that is all changing as we move to New York where most babysitters in the city are women from islands far away, whose voices have the lilt of aqua colored waters.
Knowing all of the complexities of this is around the corner, I am hugely relieved and grateful for our summer sitter. Her time with our son has been invaluable in the conscious or unconscious information kids take in, especially at this age. He has understood that babysitters are many colors, ages, and sizes. They serve different functions, depending on the person and situation. His relationship with his Tia, who was more like his second mother, was that of parent and child. His relationship with his Summer sitter is that of friends. Yes, there is the gender stereotype that we are reinforcing since all of them are women. We did have a Manny for a brief period, but I'm afraid it was too brief to have made a difference. So, if we could just find the perfect Manny--Mary Poppins as a Man--then life would be perfect.
The contrast of her against the usual nanny in LA is something worth commenting on. She is blond, blue-eyed, All American, and from Utah. Her father and mother became Mormon, and this religious faith has served as the foundation for their family. She indulges in all the teenage pursuits of dating, text messaging, and worrying about her weight, but without the precociousness of most teens that are exposed to far too much too soon. She is a wonderful combination of emotional maturity, yet untouched by boredom bred from privilege. College looms on the horizon, so most of our conversations are about how to get her academic life organized so the application process is not hellish. Her life, I imagine, will meander with some disappointments, but in the end will be much like most of ours: school, career, marriage, and kids. Her goal of becoming a pediatrician feels right when I watch her patiently listening to my son prattling on or demanding she go in the water again for the hundredth time that day. She will have opportunities that she won't even realize are gifts until it is much too late, a difficult lesson each of us learns.
Her life is, and will be, vastly different than the life of our Tia's pre-pubescent daughter, who already shows the lapses in educational opportunities and exposure that will relegate her to a life that will always be paces behind that of our summer sitter. The inequity is, I'm afraid, what our country has become.
I say this, knowing that even for our summer sitter, she faces challenges, perhaps not as steep as our Tia's daughter, but challenges nonetheless. OK. Let's put it in perspective, her desire to attend an elite, or semi-elite university is a far cry from a child, whose own educational future is dubious. If our Tia's daughter survives the current expectation of Latino students to drop out, or worse, to become young mothers, she may be able to propel herself to SMC, dreaming of getting to a Cal State for a BA, all of which will take her an average of five years, but more likely six or seven. Her BA from a fifth tier level school, if our current trend holds true, will enable her to get a job in some service department of a major company. She will be the voice on the other end of the phone when we call about our credit card bills or subscriptions. We will immediately recognize the accent as "Hispanic or Latino." If she's computer savvy, she may end up as Tech support, her voice among all of those with accents that are foreign, all evoking the exoticism of a world remote and distant. Her life will be different, hopefully an improvement from her parent's, but in the end, still on the outside margins to the epicenter of power and privilege of our society.
For our summer sitter, her dreams of university, beyond the state university most of her siblings attended, is achievable as long as she is able to maintain her grades. This jump from public university to private will be what determines whether her life will be middle class or better. Again, her life will still be paces ahead of our Tia's daughter, for the most obvious reasons, even as a Mormon.
The East Coast, unlike its Left Coast counterpart, is full of young children being pushed around its streets by West Indian nannies. These women, dark brown in color, are replicating our country's legacy of Black women raising white children. For us, this seismic shift, is something we are wrapping our heads around. The one advantage of being in LA was that our child's consciousness was taught, for better or worse, that those who 'served' him and others like him were Latino or Filipino. And so, for the first five years of his life, he has been shielded from our country's legacy of the Black woman as caretaker. Now, that is all changing as we move to New York where most babysitters in the city are women from islands far away, whose voices have the lilt of aqua colored waters.
Knowing all of the complexities of this is around the corner, I am hugely relieved and grateful for our summer sitter. Her time with our son has been invaluable in the conscious or unconscious information kids take in, especially at this age. He has understood that babysitters are many colors, ages, and sizes. They serve different functions, depending on the person and situation. His relationship with his Tia, who was more like his second mother, was that of parent and child. His relationship with his Summer sitter is that of friends. Yes, there is the gender stereotype that we are reinforcing since all of them are women. We did have a Manny for a brief period, but I'm afraid it was too brief to have made a difference. So, if we could just find the perfect Manny--Mary Poppins as a Man--then life would be perfect.
Friday, July 20, 2007
Victorian Houses--Being Nosey
Yesterday, the Cottager's Association held their annual tours of the Victorian cottages that dominates in Oak Bluffs. Of course I went. Was there any doubt I would miss out on an opportunity to go nosing around someone else's house? And these cottages, some dating to the 1800's are interesting in design and history. The Cottager's Association is an affiliation of African-American women, who are trying to preserve the relevance and history of these cottages--where many African-American families have owned homes.
One cottage felt more like a doll house, each room stifling in its miniature size. Some of these cottages have been lovingly restored, bringing 21st century amenities, yet preserving the bones of the house. I felt claustrophobic just standing in one of the teeny bedrooms, which is saying a great deal since I love Hobbit-like places. I walked from house to house, traipsing after a group of older women. I don't know why I always find myself participating in activities with those who are long past menopause. What this says about me, I'm not really sure. Hydrangeas, one of my favorite flowers, thrives here on the island. They are as much a part of this landscape as the woods, beaches, and lagoons. The flowers are that perfect bluish violet, the blooms clustered around a bush of green leaves. They decorate many front porches, another standard element of an island home where people sit and rock on their rockers. I tried to grow some hydrangeas in Los Angeles, but found the flowers looked anemic in color and vibrancy. They needed less sunlight and more water, which is either too plentiful or not plentiful enough in LA.
One friend left the island yesterday. I drove her and her many luggages to the ferry where we gave each other a quick hug. It's unlikely I will see her before next summer, although now that I'm on the East coast that may not be the case. Another friend, one from LA, who has summered her since childhood, arrives today. It is a steady stream of 'hello's' and 'goodbyes.'
The days are quiet here. They say those who come to the Vineyard are experts in the art of doing nothing. And this I would have to say is very much the reality. Metaphorically it's somehow significant that this island is the the connection to my life in LA and to my new life in New York. It's not as if I'm in a holding pattern here, but instead feels like my time here is the bridge between the past and the future.
I haven't spent much time gazing backwards. Yet, I'm not peering forward really, simply luxuriating in days that have very little shape or pull. Every so often, I am reminded of this new life taking shape, things getting sorted, as calls to the new pharmacy on 19th street, a Walgreens, instead of the Rite Aid on Western, gets made. I understand the significance of departing this island by driving our car off instead of having to take a plane. But none of it feels truly real.
When I was in LA, there were times when my loneliness was profoundly acute. Even though I was surrounded by many friends and acquaintances, the ache inside prevented me from enjoying my life. The isolation I felt would always come during the middle of the day, which is strange since for some people the melancholy occurs at the time of the day when the sun hasn't set, yet the day's end is imminent, when life's rhythm seems to slow. I bring this up because on the island, I spend more hours alone, yet that ache inside has not formed in the bottom of my stomach. The solitude here feels more like a cocoon, shielding me from whatever turbulent waters are just ahead. I'm certain this landscape that is so breathtaking would be quite bleak during the winter months when the island empties to a mere 30,000 inhabitants. But somehow the aloneness of being on this island feels more natural than the sadness and loneliness I felt in a city teeming with cars and people.
One cottage felt more like a doll house, each room stifling in its miniature size. Some of these cottages have been lovingly restored, bringing 21st century amenities, yet preserving the bones of the house. I felt claustrophobic just standing in one of the teeny bedrooms, which is saying a great deal since I love Hobbit-like places. I walked from house to house, traipsing after a group of older women. I don't know why I always find myself participating in activities with those who are long past menopause. What this says about me, I'm not really sure. Hydrangeas, one of my favorite flowers, thrives here on the island. They are as much a part of this landscape as the woods, beaches, and lagoons. The flowers are that perfect bluish violet, the blooms clustered around a bush of green leaves. They decorate many front porches, another standard element of an island home where people sit and rock on their rockers. I tried to grow some hydrangeas in Los Angeles, but found the flowers looked anemic in color and vibrancy. They needed less sunlight and more water, which is either too plentiful or not plentiful enough in LA.
One friend left the island yesterday. I drove her and her many luggages to the ferry where we gave each other a quick hug. It's unlikely I will see her before next summer, although now that I'm on the East coast that may not be the case. Another friend, one from LA, who has summered her since childhood, arrives today. It is a steady stream of 'hello's' and 'goodbyes.'
The days are quiet here. They say those who come to the Vineyard are experts in the art of doing nothing. And this I would have to say is very much the reality. Metaphorically it's somehow significant that this island is the the connection to my life in LA and to my new life in New York. It's not as if I'm in a holding pattern here, but instead feels like my time here is the bridge between the past and the future.
I haven't spent much time gazing backwards. Yet, I'm not peering forward really, simply luxuriating in days that have very little shape or pull. Every so often, I am reminded of this new life taking shape, things getting sorted, as calls to the new pharmacy on 19th street, a Walgreens, instead of the Rite Aid on Western, gets made. I understand the significance of departing this island by driving our car off instead of having to take a plane. But none of it feels truly real.
When I was in LA, there were times when my loneliness was profoundly acute. Even though I was surrounded by many friends and acquaintances, the ache inside prevented me from enjoying my life. The isolation I felt would always come during the middle of the day, which is strange since for some people the melancholy occurs at the time of the day when the sun hasn't set, yet the day's end is imminent, when life's rhythm seems to slow. I bring this up because on the island, I spend more hours alone, yet that ache inside has not formed in the bottom of my stomach. The solitude here feels more like a cocoon, shielding me from whatever turbulent waters are just ahead. I'm certain this landscape that is so breathtaking would be quite bleak during the winter months when the island empties to a mere 30,000 inhabitants. But somehow the aloneness of being on this island feels more natural than the sadness and loneliness I felt in a city teeming with cars and people.
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Rainy Summer Days
We finally had a bit of rain yesterday. I realized how much I love summer rain. Unlike the torrential downpours we had in LA during the "colder" months, a summer rain feels like the pause between songs on an album when you know that the silence will soon come to an end, bringing with it something new. The rain is not cold, so that riding your bike outside or going for a run doesn't feel unusual. The day started off cloudy with the darkness getting more ominous as the afternoon wore on. The anticipation is as enjoyable as the rain itself. People gathered in town, wandering in and out of shops that sell stuffed toys in the shape of lobsters, mugs with drawings of lighthouses, and salt water taffy in boxes. My son, our babysitter--who is my summer daughter, really--and I went to town for pizza and fried clam strips. The few raindrops fell from the sky as we left, making our way to the car. The library was full of kids spending the rainy afternoon reading, looking for diversions. Once home, my son and his sitter made a fort in his room with his blankets. In a culture where kids and parents are inundated with things that promises so much, it's amazing how something as simple as a fort made with a blanket is enough to make a young boy so happy.
The rain stopped by early evening, the darkness bringing lightning and the low rumbling of thunder. I've gotten used to how dark it gets here, the streets unmarred by street lights. And how quiet it is during the nights, the silence broken by the crunch of tires on gravel as a car travels down our street. I know many people here still leave their doors unlocked, car keys in the ignition. I'm too much of a city girl to go that far. And I know this island is slowly changing, the talk of occasional robberies cropping up each season.
This morning the rain is no longer falling, although the day is overcast with the occasional peaks of sun through the clouds. My son, who is now dressing himself in the mornings has decided to wear his Darth Vader cape to summer camp. When I asked him why, he said he wanted to surprise his friends with his costume. Such a simple idea is what makes a child happy. A lump formed in my throat as I realized how quickly such simplicity will be complicated by factors that none of us have any control over. And that this time next year, he will be less likely to be satisfied by a fort made with blankets or wearing a store bought cape to summer camp. In the end, it is my job to protect his joy in such things. Whether I'm up to such a monumental task is one I ask every day.
The rain stopped by early evening, the darkness bringing lightning and the low rumbling of thunder. I've gotten used to how dark it gets here, the streets unmarred by street lights. And how quiet it is during the nights, the silence broken by the crunch of tires on gravel as a car travels down our street. I know many people here still leave their doors unlocked, car keys in the ignition. I'm too much of a city girl to go that far. And I know this island is slowly changing, the talk of occasional robberies cropping up each season.
This morning the rain is no longer falling, although the day is overcast with the occasional peaks of sun through the clouds. My son, who is now dressing himself in the mornings has decided to wear his Darth Vader cape to summer camp. When I asked him why, he said he wanted to surprise his friends with his costume. Such a simple idea is what makes a child happy. A lump formed in my throat as I realized how quickly such simplicity will be complicated by factors that none of us have any control over. And that this time next year, he will be less likely to be satisfied by a fort made with blankets or wearing a store bought cape to summer camp. In the end, it is my job to protect his joy in such things. Whether I'm up to such a monumental task is one I ask every day.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Lobster Dinners--Summer Friends
My friend, a summer friend really, has had us over to dinner for the last two nights since she is leaving tomorrow. We had met three years ago when my son was a toddler. In fact, we met in the kids play area of Logan Airport, a haven during those lay overs from the Vineyard to our connecting flights back to LA. She and I spoke briefly that day. A year later, she saw us at the Flying Horses, the carousel in our town, and reintroduced herself. She admitted rather sheepishly that she had taken a picture of my son without my knowledge that day because he looks so much like her sister. Well, that summer we got to know one another. Each summer brings a new level of knowledge about ourselves and our lives. During the year, we keep in touch via email. It is the perfect summer friendship with no expectations or responsibilities other than seeing one another once we get on to the island.
We've been here long enough to have amassed a small circle of summer friends. These relationships don't require much tending during the year when all of us resume our normal lives. Yet, they are as much a part of this landscape of trees and sea. We meet at the beach, our conversations one long strand. Each of us remember tidbits about each other's lives, each year adding a bit more to our connection. It is much like the friendships you make during summer camp, but obviously we are adults, or so we pretend.
The table last night was covered in newspaper. The lobsters in a big bowl. Our menu was a hodge podge of stuff each of us had in our fridge. Our kids ate, ran outside, and played. It's funny how all of those worries for the safety of our children gets relaxed when we're here. In LA, I would never have thought about letting our son be outside by himself unless it was in our yard, which was gated, and therefore protected. Last night, the adults sat and talked, drinking our wine as our kids' shrieks and voices came in through the screen door. I know all of this is a far cry from what it will be like in New York City. But it is yet another element of our summers here, as much as those lobster dinners that we enjoy.
We've been here long enough to have amassed a small circle of summer friends. These relationships don't require much tending during the year when all of us resume our normal lives. Yet, they are as much a part of this landscape of trees and sea. We meet at the beach, our conversations one long strand. Each of us remember tidbits about each other's lives, each year adding a bit more to our connection. It is much like the friendships you make during summer camp, but obviously we are adults, or so we pretend.
The table last night was covered in newspaper. The lobsters in a big bowl. Our menu was a hodge podge of stuff each of us had in our fridge. Our kids ate, ran outside, and played. It's funny how all of those worries for the safety of our children gets relaxed when we're here. In LA, I would never have thought about letting our son be outside by himself unless it was in our yard, which was gated, and therefore protected. Last night, the adults sat and talked, drinking our wine as our kids' shrieks and voices came in through the screen door. I know all of this is a far cry from what it will be like in New York City. But it is yet another element of our summers here, as much as those lobster dinners that we enjoy.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Cable On--Oh, What I've Been Missing
Our cable got turned on yesterday. The few days of not being plugged into that black box came to a careening stop. And because I'm like everyone else when faced with the banalities that are offered hourly from that box, I sat down to flip channels--all ten of them--to find something entertaining. And what did I find? None other than VICTORIA BECKHAM, the former Spice Girl, who has spun herself off as style setter, wife of the very famous footballer, and now best friend of Katie Holmes. Yes, I do read that gossip rag, US Weekly, like everyone else to keep up the many downs of Britney Spears, Lindsay Lohan, Paris Hilton, and Nicole Richie. Now, seeing that Bobble Head of a woman--no woman's head should be so much bigger than her teeny body, minus the unnaturally big boobs--being chauffeured around in a black SUV as she shops for an appropriate home, and meets with 'dignitaries' of Hollywood, well, what can I say? It was beyond compelling, it was more like a Farce.
Isn't it telling that a woman who was mocked, ridiculed, and made fun of in her own country--a place full of absurdities--is now being feted, petted, and treated like royalty in LA? The best part of the show was when she would speak directly into the camera to us, her barely concealed lower-middle class accent saying pithy things about her sons and her husband. Great television, I'm telling you.
I know summer is when the networks are off season, getting ready for that onslaught the public will suffer when they trot out their new shows, all promised as the new, "Friends," new "Seinfeld," or just plain new something. But really! I know it's bad when that maniacal chef, Gordon Ramsey, who does seem to froth at the mouth, is the most entertaining thing on. Granted, we don't have many channels here, in fact, it's almost like when I was growing up with the three networks and the two other channels.
What's so fascinating and also a terrible commentary on our current culture is how these "reality" based shows have taken over our national psyche. What about watching inane people doing inane things is important enough for us to sit for an hour? Very few of us could, or would, sit through an hour documentary on any number of important subjects, but a show where Victoria Beckham struts through one mansion of ridiculous proportions, well, that's a whole other proposition entirely. This reality show about Victoria Beckham is a new breed, indeed. You know I'm dying, absolutely dying, to watch Paula Abdul's newest addition to the growing shelf of stimulating shows. I think the tide turned to this strange voyeurism we are currently suffering when everyone watched, "Being Bobby Brown," another classic.
Tonight, since I have the option, I may or may not turn on the tube to see what other stimulating shows are on the air. Or I may just turn on C-Span and watch those law makers standing in twos and threes, their heads together as they gossip, I'm certain this is what they do when the microphones are turned off, about John McCain's Presidential campaign imploding.
Isn't it telling that a woman who was mocked, ridiculed, and made fun of in her own country--a place full of absurdities--is now being feted, petted, and treated like royalty in LA? The best part of the show was when she would speak directly into the camera to us, her barely concealed lower-middle class accent saying pithy things about her sons and her husband. Great television, I'm telling you.
I know summer is when the networks are off season, getting ready for that onslaught the public will suffer when they trot out their new shows, all promised as the new, "Friends," new "Seinfeld," or just plain new something. But really! I know it's bad when that maniacal chef, Gordon Ramsey, who does seem to froth at the mouth, is the most entertaining thing on. Granted, we don't have many channels here, in fact, it's almost like when I was growing up with the three networks and the two other channels.
What's so fascinating and also a terrible commentary on our current culture is how these "reality" based shows have taken over our national psyche. What about watching inane people doing inane things is important enough for us to sit for an hour? Very few of us could, or would, sit through an hour documentary on any number of important subjects, but a show where Victoria Beckham struts through one mansion of ridiculous proportions, well, that's a whole other proposition entirely. This reality show about Victoria Beckham is a new breed, indeed. You know I'm dying, absolutely dying, to watch Paula Abdul's newest addition to the growing shelf of stimulating shows. I think the tide turned to this strange voyeurism we are currently suffering when everyone watched, "Being Bobby Brown," another classic.
Tonight, since I have the option, I may or may not turn on the tube to see what other stimulating shows are on the air. Or I may just turn on C-Span and watch those law makers standing in twos and threes, their heads together as they gossip, I'm certain this is what they do when the microphones are turned off, about John McCain's Presidential campaign imploding.
Monday, July 16, 2007
Summer Reading
Summer reading, the required books we had to read during our breaks as students, is still something we, as adults, attempt to do during the summer months, as if somehow the days between June through August are any less hectic and stressful as the days during any other months. But this ritual of gathering books, usually much too ambitious than can be accomplished, is something all of us does consciously, much like getting ourselves mentally prepared to put on that bathing suit.
My summer reading has been eclectic, staring with a book I picked up during my conference in Aspen. I, like everyone else I know, read, devoured, savored, Ian McEwan's newest book. This wisp of a book is filled with the full emotional weight of a love that is lost forever because of the foibles of our nature--pride, unspoken words, hidden gestures, naivety, and the childish belief that you can recover what is lost.
I am now slogging my way through an annoying book, "Ten Days in the Hills," which is set in the hills of Pacific Palisades and Bel Air. The writing is not the problem, but rather the days the author describes. It is her attempt to provide a glimpse during the first ten days of the Iraq War, the war used as a pretext for the suspension of life for these assembled characters. None of it is believable, in the sense that the start of this particular war was so devastating for each of us to have barricaded ourselves within our houses. I don't recall the start of this particular war feeling ominous, really. I didn't see many of us fighting to prevent it from becoming a reality. Rather, it felt like each of us accepted it as a fait accompli. I think our passivity about this war was more a result of our country's collective shock over 9-11. It's only as the war has become what it is today, a terrible mistake, that people have become less passive about what is happening.
The characters are Hollywood types, or rather, people who live in and peripherally around The Industry. I guess if I hadn't left LA just a few weeks ago, I might be a bit more forgiving of this book. Each of these characters embodies one or more annoying characteristic of Angelenos. They are privileged, shielded from the ugliness down below those hills, and a caricature of the many types of LA people. The houses where the book is set is a character as much as any of the people speaking within the endless quotation marks. In many ways, the author did a remarkable job of describing characters, whose lives are untouched, unblemished by the vagaries of life lived below those eerily quiet hills. All of it feels much like a movie set, a replica of the real thing, all to be taken apart when the last frame of the movie is shot. Even their 'conversations'--and believe me, the entire book is one long conversation-- feels vaguely familiar, an assemblage of chatty talk lifted from various movies where the characters try hard to be seen as thinking, intellectual, and cerebral. It's as if the "Big Chill," got mixed with any of Woody Allen's movies, except there are no references to Kierkegaard. The worst insult about this book is the length. It is a very large book, and despite the size, the scope of what this author has to say is so slight. Funny, isn't it? Ian McEwan accomplishes within pages, about the size of one chapter in this tome, what this author is not able to in endless pages.
My compulsion about starting a book and finishing it is preventing me from giving up. Really, if I could dump it, I would. But my crazy, finish it at all costs nature is making me read on, regretting ever spending money on the hard cover, no less. I'm already looking ahead to what I will read next. After this fluffy ridiculous book, I am ready to sink my teeth into something that will give me pause, make me reflect, savor each sentence as one does a perfect summer berry.
Our cable at our house got shut off. It's fascinating what happens when you are no longer held hostage by the Box. Instead of the comatose viewing of endless PBS shows our child was doing earlier, he is now playing with his action heroes, his imagination engaged. Instead of getting our news from the local stations, we listen to NPR on the radio as I prepare breakfast. And after my son has drifted off to sleep, I sit and listen to music as I needlepoint. It as if we had transplanted back to the 19th century when women sat by the fireplace doing their needlework. The first few days without cable threw us into a bit of a panic. But as I thought about my son playing instead of numbing his brain by watching Clifford the Big Red Dog, I thought it might not be a bad idea to not have cable for the rest of the summer. I'm sure I will be singing a different tune at the end of this week if it doesn't get turned on. But it is still reassuring to know that one can survive, even thrive without being so plugged to the endless stream of dribble--otherwise known as television. I do admit I am missing some compelling new episodes of those obese kids Shaquille O'Neal is trying to whip into shape. But I'm sure that show will end up at some Video Store, so that I can view the entire season in one sitting.
My summer reading has been eclectic, staring with a book I picked up during my conference in Aspen. I, like everyone else I know, read, devoured, savored, Ian McEwan's newest book. This wisp of a book is filled with the full emotional weight of a love that is lost forever because of the foibles of our nature--pride, unspoken words, hidden gestures, naivety, and the childish belief that you can recover what is lost.
I am now slogging my way through an annoying book, "Ten Days in the Hills," which is set in the hills of Pacific Palisades and Bel Air. The writing is not the problem, but rather the days the author describes. It is her attempt to provide a glimpse during the first ten days of the Iraq War, the war used as a pretext for the suspension of life for these assembled characters. None of it is believable, in the sense that the start of this particular war was so devastating for each of us to have barricaded ourselves within our houses. I don't recall the start of this particular war feeling ominous, really. I didn't see many of us fighting to prevent it from becoming a reality. Rather, it felt like each of us accepted it as a fait accompli. I think our passivity about this war was more a result of our country's collective shock over 9-11. It's only as the war has become what it is today, a terrible mistake, that people have become less passive about what is happening.
The characters are Hollywood types, or rather, people who live in and peripherally around The Industry. I guess if I hadn't left LA just a few weeks ago, I might be a bit more forgiving of this book. Each of these characters embodies one or more annoying characteristic of Angelenos. They are privileged, shielded from the ugliness down below those hills, and a caricature of the many types of LA people. The houses where the book is set is a character as much as any of the people speaking within the endless quotation marks. In many ways, the author did a remarkable job of describing characters, whose lives are untouched, unblemished by the vagaries of life lived below those eerily quiet hills. All of it feels much like a movie set, a replica of the real thing, all to be taken apart when the last frame of the movie is shot. Even their 'conversations'--and believe me, the entire book is one long conversation-- feels vaguely familiar, an assemblage of chatty talk lifted from various movies where the characters try hard to be seen as thinking, intellectual, and cerebral. It's as if the "Big Chill," got mixed with any of Woody Allen's movies, except there are no references to Kierkegaard. The worst insult about this book is the length. It is a very large book, and despite the size, the scope of what this author has to say is so slight. Funny, isn't it? Ian McEwan accomplishes within pages, about the size of one chapter in this tome, what this author is not able to in endless pages.
My compulsion about starting a book and finishing it is preventing me from giving up. Really, if I could dump it, I would. But my crazy, finish it at all costs nature is making me read on, regretting ever spending money on the hard cover, no less. I'm already looking ahead to what I will read next. After this fluffy ridiculous book, I am ready to sink my teeth into something that will give me pause, make me reflect, savor each sentence as one does a perfect summer berry.
Our cable at our house got shut off. It's fascinating what happens when you are no longer held hostage by the Box. Instead of the comatose viewing of endless PBS shows our child was doing earlier, he is now playing with his action heroes, his imagination engaged. Instead of getting our news from the local stations, we listen to NPR on the radio as I prepare breakfast. And after my son has drifted off to sleep, I sit and listen to music as I needlepoint. It as if we had transplanted back to the 19th century when women sat by the fireplace doing their needlework. The first few days without cable threw us into a bit of a panic. But as I thought about my son playing instead of numbing his brain by watching Clifford the Big Red Dog, I thought it might not be a bad idea to not have cable for the rest of the summer. I'm sure I will be singing a different tune at the end of this week if it doesn't get turned on. But it is still reassuring to know that one can survive, even thrive without being so plugged to the endless stream of dribble--otherwise known as television. I do admit I am missing some compelling new episodes of those obese kids Shaquille O'Neal is trying to whip into shape. But I'm sure that show will end up at some Video Store, so that I can view the entire season in one sitting.
Saturday, July 14, 2007
News Bias--The West Coast as Dante's Inferno
It is fascinating to see how each region portrays news events occurring in other parts of the country. It does give you pause to see the inherent bias--all for ratings--in the news, so that maybe the rabid Iraqis with fists up in the, air chanting for the downfall of America, covered nightly are not representative of the entire country.
For instance, the New England stations' descriptions about the West Coast fires feels like a post-modern rendering of Dante's Inferno. And yet, I know if I were in LA, the fires would be raging, covered assiduously and portentously by Paul Moyer--one of the most idiotic anchors ever--but the sense of foreboding and danger would feel far removed from the tree-lined street where we lived. Like everything else, 'those fires' raged somewhere else, places I've never been or had any desire to go. It's also fascinating how my allegiance has shifted--not a big surprise given my disdain for Los Angeles, the idea of, the reality of, the place itself. Whenever we get a snippet of the coverage of the West Coast fires, I watch it as everyone else across the country must watch it--mild interest, some clucking of the tongue in sympathy, but no more emotional investment since it is far removed from the reality of my current life.
And the fires is all I hear about--oh, yes, there is the new pay out by the Los Angeles Archdiocese for the sexual molestation cases, apparently the largest in the country. I'm certain LA news stations would cover the heat on the East Coast, making the rising temperatures and humidity seem as devastating as fires, drought, and mud slides--the cycles of doom that passes for weather in Los Angeles. The coverage would show fire hydrants opened, water spraying into car-lined streets as kids, mostly brown in hue, jumped and splashed, seeking relief from the oppressive heat. These pictures of urban life would be played and replayed across the nation, so that all anyone saw or remembered about the heat wave is that kids, mostly poor, living in high rises where poverty is stacked, sometimes 24 or 48 floors high, use water reserved for disasters as entertainment. Again, bias? Or not?
The news coverage in New England is much like local news everywhere else, inane, sometimes silly, and provincial. You know it's been a slow news day when a fallen tree on a house somewhere in Massachusetts warrants a segment. The anchors are not as tanned, their faces not as smooth as their counterparts in Los Angeles. Any reference to world news is always focused on how poorly the Iraq war is going, again showing those unforgettable pictures of Iraqis foaming at the mouth in rage against their occupiers--us.
This perspective of viewing the way our own country views the other parts of our own nation is telling. We are a nation of multiple views, perspectives, peoples. Regionalism reigns, and should given the sheer size of our country. If we were a country the size of Denmark then our national identity would be easily described, easily categorized. So, I turn on the news each day, noting how we, each region, tells the stories about our own country.
For instance, the New England stations' descriptions about the West Coast fires feels like a post-modern rendering of Dante's Inferno. And yet, I know if I were in LA, the fires would be raging, covered assiduously and portentously by Paul Moyer--one of the most idiotic anchors ever--but the sense of foreboding and danger would feel far removed from the tree-lined street where we lived. Like everything else, 'those fires' raged somewhere else, places I've never been or had any desire to go. It's also fascinating how my allegiance has shifted--not a big surprise given my disdain for Los Angeles, the idea of, the reality of, the place itself. Whenever we get a snippet of the coverage of the West Coast fires, I watch it as everyone else across the country must watch it--mild interest, some clucking of the tongue in sympathy, but no more emotional investment since it is far removed from the reality of my current life.
And the fires is all I hear about--oh, yes, there is the new pay out by the Los Angeles Archdiocese for the sexual molestation cases, apparently the largest in the country. I'm certain LA news stations would cover the heat on the East Coast, making the rising temperatures and humidity seem as devastating as fires, drought, and mud slides--the cycles of doom that passes for weather in Los Angeles. The coverage would show fire hydrants opened, water spraying into car-lined streets as kids, mostly brown in hue, jumped and splashed, seeking relief from the oppressive heat. These pictures of urban life would be played and replayed across the nation, so that all anyone saw or remembered about the heat wave is that kids, mostly poor, living in high rises where poverty is stacked, sometimes 24 or 48 floors high, use water reserved for disasters as entertainment. Again, bias? Or not?
The news coverage in New England is much like local news everywhere else, inane, sometimes silly, and provincial. You know it's been a slow news day when a fallen tree on a house somewhere in Massachusetts warrants a segment. The anchors are not as tanned, their faces not as smooth as their counterparts in Los Angeles. Any reference to world news is always focused on how poorly the Iraq war is going, again showing those unforgettable pictures of Iraqis foaming at the mouth in rage against their occupiers--us.
This perspective of viewing the way our own country views the other parts of our own nation is telling. We are a nation of multiple views, perspectives, peoples. Regionalism reigns, and should given the sheer size of our country. If we were a country the size of Denmark then our national identity would be easily described, easily categorized. So, I turn on the news each day, noting how we, each region, tells the stories about our own country.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Flaky LA--Fact or Fiction?
Flaky, not as in dandruff or a perfect homemade pie crust, but as in those people you know never to invite for a sit down dinner since no one can predict whether or not they would show up.
LA is known as the Flaky capital of the country, if not the world. I'm wondering how much of this is pure myth or how much of it is, in fact, reality? And sitting 3000 miles away in the heart of New England Pilgrims--those sturdy, dependable types-- well, now seems like the appropriate time to reflect on this stereotype of Angelenos.
Now, I'm not purposefully going out of my way to give credence to this stereotype of LA, thereby letting everyone think that all those who are natives, all 100 people, are to blame for this awful presumption. In fact, the most flaky individuals that I have met during my time there are those who have come from places like Kansas (yes, I've met two people from Kansas). It is as if once the cross the state line, they morph into the myth of an LA person where flighty, flaky, laid-back, and a little dim are accouterments along with the surfboard and convertible . You know the kind that talks about the healing properties of crystals with as much seriousness as if they were discussing world hunger. The few natives I've met are either incredibly proper, the perfect disciple of Emily Post, while the others were more like what you would expect. One native, who was crazy in that LA way, told me with a straight face that she and her husband fasted for 76 days, and that it was a transforming experience. Try to picture me not breaking out in laughter at her seriousness and the sheer lunacy of what she was saying.
The most important lesson I've learned about life in LA is never to expect the requisite RSVP. It is almost a disease here where people rarely, if ever, actually call or respond to invitations of the paper variety, and certainly not the Evites that people now like to use. We found this behavior very trying when we were planning our wedding, which was a sit down dinner, each head accounted for in dollars and cents. I remember having to call a few people directly to ask whether or not they were going to attend--they were, of course, but assumed I knew that. Annoying? Of course. After these few experiences, I decided to put on the invitations: Regrets Only. Even taking away the onus of having to call to say they will attend never made a huge impact since those who weren't coming never made the call to send their regrets.
What, you ask, makes people so inconsiderate? Well, where does one start? There is the excessive narcissism, with a capital N, that defines LA. This city is the capital of, "You have a problem, well, let me tell you about my bigger problem." It is the place where normal social mores have been relaxed to the point of a coma. Nothing is discreet, modesty is not a virtue, and showing and telling take the most explicit forms--the culmination of which is the Valley being home to the porn capital of the world. It is a city of individuals who are all blond, and all that implies by the stereotype of blonds, by choice.
Again, I have to stress that the 'natives' should not be to blame for these characteristics since I have met people from places like Boston or St. Louis who outdo the native Angelenos in vapidness, self-centeredness, materialism, and flakiness.
Martha's Vineyard, despite it being a vacation haven, seems and behaves like the New England of the Puritans. It is modest, discreet, grounded, and a bit Puritanical in its mores. People here have the restraint typical of this region where small talk with a stranger is truly about the weather--if they talk to you at all. In fact, this is the place where a person will engage in small talk of the most impersonal variety after they have seen you a number of times--usually over a few years. It isn't that they are impolite and rude, but just that there is none of that weird kismet between strangers, where they act, behave like best friends, despite barely knowing one another. And once they do speak, there is no intimate disclosure about family dysfunctions, finances--the success or failures-- or anything else that would reveal one's life to a stranger.
Now that I am so far removed from LA, I can reflect on what all of these differences mean to me, but to the way life gets lived. I think it will take me time, perhaps years, to unpack my time in LA. I don't know if I will ever be nostalgic about any of it. Only time will reveal whether I will miss those conversations about fasting, religious practices that are a hybrid of only the best aspects of all religions, raw food as a diet that helps you to be healthy, certain crystals that helps heal ailments, homeopathy as the only medical opinion that matters, where to go for an African drumming circle, invitations to Al Franken's fund raiser, and impassioned conversations about global warming--the cause du jour--with a woman, chugging water out of a plastic bottle, who drove to the lunch in her Range Rover, who doesn't see the irony about any of it.
LA is known as the Flaky capital of the country, if not the world. I'm wondering how much of this is pure myth or how much of it is, in fact, reality? And sitting 3000 miles away in the heart of New England Pilgrims--those sturdy, dependable types-- well, now seems like the appropriate time to reflect on this stereotype of Angelenos.
Now, I'm not purposefully going out of my way to give credence to this stereotype of LA, thereby letting everyone think that all those who are natives, all 100 people, are to blame for this awful presumption. In fact, the most flaky individuals that I have met during my time there are those who have come from places like Kansas (yes, I've met two people from Kansas). It is as if once the cross the state line, they morph into the myth of an LA person where flighty, flaky, laid-back, and a little dim are accouterments along with the surfboard and convertible . You know the kind that talks about the healing properties of crystals with as much seriousness as if they were discussing world hunger. The few natives I've met are either incredibly proper, the perfect disciple of Emily Post, while the others were more like what you would expect. One native, who was crazy in that LA way, told me with a straight face that she and her husband fasted for 76 days, and that it was a transforming experience. Try to picture me not breaking out in laughter at her seriousness and the sheer lunacy of what she was saying.
The most important lesson I've learned about life in LA is never to expect the requisite RSVP. It is almost a disease here where people rarely, if ever, actually call or respond to invitations of the paper variety, and certainly not the Evites that people now like to use. We found this behavior very trying when we were planning our wedding, which was a sit down dinner, each head accounted for in dollars and cents. I remember having to call a few people directly to ask whether or not they were going to attend--they were, of course, but assumed I knew that. Annoying? Of course. After these few experiences, I decided to put on the invitations: Regrets Only. Even taking away the onus of having to call to say they will attend never made a huge impact since those who weren't coming never made the call to send their regrets.
What, you ask, makes people so inconsiderate? Well, where does one start? There is the excessive narcissism, with a capital N, that defines LA. This city is the capital of, "You have a problem, well, let me tell you about my bigger problem." It is the place where normal social mores have been relaxed to the point of a coma. Nothing is discreet, modesty is not a virtue, and showing and telling take the most explicit forms--the culmination of which is the Valley being home to the porn capital of the world. It is a city of individuals who are all blond, and all that implies by the stereotype of blonds, by choice.
Again, I have to stress that the 'natives' should not be to blame for these characteristics since I have met people from places like Boston or St. Louis who outdo the native Angelenos in vapidness, self-centeredness, materialism, and flakiness.
Martha's Vineyard, despite it being a vacation haven, seems and behaves like the New England of the Puritans. It is modest, discreet, grounded, and a bit Puritanical in its mores. People here have the restraint typical of this region where small talk with a stranger is truly about the weather--if they talk to you at all. In fact, this is the place where a person will engage in small talk of the most impersonal variety after they have seen you a number of times--usually over a few years. It isn't that they are impolite and rude, but just that there is none of that weird kismet between strangers, where they act, behave like best friends, despite barely knowing one another. And once they do speak, there is no intimate disclosure about family dysfunctions, finances--the success or failures-- or anything else that would reveal one's life to a stranger.
Now that I am so far removed from LA, I can reflect on what all of these differences mean to me, but to the way life gets lived. I think it will take me time, perhaps years, to unpack my time in LA. I don't know if I will ever be nostalgic about any of it. Only time will reveal whether I will miss those conversations about fasting, religious practices that are a hybrid of only the best aspects of all religions, raw food as a diet that helps you to be healthy, certain crystals that helps heal ailments, homeopathy as the only medical opinion that matters, where to go for an African drumming circle, invitations to Al Franken's fund raiser, and impassioned conversations about global warming--the cause du jour--with a woman, chugging water out of a plastic bottle, who drove to the lunch in her Range Rover, who doesn't see the irony about any of it.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Car Nostalgia--Hard to Imagine
I hate to admit it, but I've been missing my car. I know, how contradictory is it to miss a car when all I do is vehemently complain about driving? Although it seems implausible, I have been missing the suburban Mom Mobile, which was being driven cross country these last couple of weeks. The pangs for my car didn't start until a few days ago when I got tired of the rental we've been driving since arriving on the Vineyard. Then the fixation on the arrival of my car took hold. It doesn't help that every other car on the island is the same model, so that every turn seemed to bring, yet another, reminder that my car was somewhere between LA and Woods Hole.
I can say with some relief that the car arrived, albeit late, in one piece. I drove it over to Vineyard Haven to drop off my son's play date. Yes, I do drive on the Vineyard. But let me stress that the average driving speed on the island is 35 miles per hour. Everyone drives like an old person, so the driving is perfectly suited for my octogenarian style.
The weather today was muggy and hot. The heat here is different than the stinging heat from the sun in LA. Although the humidity can be oppressive, all of us know that a thunderstorm will take that humidity away. It's fascinating what happens to kids when their days are ruled by the changes in weather. When it is a rainy day, my son knows that he will not be going to the beach. And that all activities will take place indoors, most likely at the library and the carousel. I can remember rainy summer days when you were trapped indoors, coming up with things to do. It is these days when the hours seem to stretch in front that your mind, or rather, your imagination is given time to flourish. Unlike our current over-involved parenting, my parents and the parents of all my friends did very little to offer us diversions for those rainy days. Instead, we were told to keep ourselves busy. For me, I usually spent those days reading whatever book I was engrossed in. And when at camp, we would spend the day working on art projects or any other projects that took place inside. The weather-forced interruptions were a pain, but in retrospect I see how invaluable they were to developing all of these other aspects to your growth.
Life in a place where the weather doesn't offer such dramatic changes makes one create these interruptions. While in LA, my son didn't feel the need to savor every moment of a perfect summer day since each day was the same as the day before, and would continue to be for the next four to five months. His days were not ruled by the drift of clouds across the sun. Instead, once the sun came up in the sky, we were certain it would remain there unblemished by a cloud until the sun set at the end of the day. The weather is less a part of the foreground, instead it simply fades away, becoming inconsequential. Some would argue that they don't need the drama of clouds, rain, thunder and wind. But I would argue that a child who learns to deal with the ever-changing fluctuations of weather will learn some invaluable lessons. What they are I'm still sorting out for myself. But there are lessons in there, I'm certain.
I can say with some relief that the car arrived, albeit late, in one piece. I drove it over to Vineyard Haven to drop off my son's play date. Yes, I do drive on the Vineyard. But let me stress that the average driving speed on the island is 35 miles per hour. Everyone drives like an old person, so the driving is perfectly suited for my octogenarian style.
The weather today was muggy and hot. The heat here is different than the stinging heat from the sun in LA. Although the humidity can be oppressive, all of us know that a thunderstorm will take that humidity away. It's fascinating what happens to kids when their days are ruled by the changes in weather. When it is a rainy day, my son knows that he will not be going to the beach. And that all activities will take place indoors, most likely at the library and the carousel. I can remember rainy summer days when you were trapped indoors, coming up with things to do. It is these days when the hours seem to stretch in front that your mind, or rather, your imagination is given time to flourish. Unlike our current over-involved parenting, my parents and the parents of all my friends did very little to offer us diversions for those rainy days. Instead, we were told to keep ourselves busy. For me, I usually spent those days reading whatever book I was engrossed in. And when at camp, we would spend the day working on art projects or any other projects that took place inside. The weather-forced interruptions were a pain, but in retrospect I see how invaluable they were to developing all of these other aspects to your growth.
Life in a place where the weather doesn't offer such dramatic changes makes one create these interruptions. While in LA, my son didn't feel the need to savor every moment of a perfect summer day since each day was the same as the day before, and would continue to be for the next four to five months. His days were not ruled by the drift of clouds across the sun. Instead, once the sun came up in the sky, we were certain it would remain there unblemished by a cloud until the sun set at the end of the day. The weather is less a part of the foreground, instead it simply fades away, becoming inconsequential. Some would argue that they don't need the drama of clouds, rain, thunder and wind. But I would argue that a child who learns to deal with the ever-changing fluctuations of weather will learn some invaluable lessons. What they are I'm still sorting out for myself. But there are lessons in there, I'm certain.
Sunday, July 8, 2007
The Inkwell
We go to a beach called the Inkwell, a nickname that came into existence many years ago. It is a stretch of beach between two jetties where every color permutation of African-Americans come to relax. It is where we have been coming for the past five years, this little stretch of beach facing the Nantucket Sound.
After getting pregnant, I became incredibly nostalgic for the summers of my childhood. In fact, I yearned to feel the tiredness from playing in the salty waters of the Atlantic Ocean the entire day, only coming out to grab a bite of my lunch after countless threats from my mother. I wanted to emulate that carefree spirit of riding my bike along sandy roads for myself, but more importantly I wanted to recreate those traditions for my unborn child. I convinced my husband we needed a summer place--such an East Coast idea--where our child could roam freely, swim all day long, and we could suspend all of our worries associated with raising a child in an urban city, even if only for a few precious weeks. He agreed despite never having had summers remotely like the ones I was aching to replicate. Instead of picking the New Jersey shore, I suggested Martha's Vineyard because of its long history of African-American on the island. So, we came with very little expectation of what it would be like.
The Inkwell was a revelation for us both. It was remarkable to be sitting among so many African-Americans of every color and shape. Families, some who have been coming for generations, sat alongside those of us first-timers. White families sat among all the African-Americans with not a thought to the fact that they were, for a change, a minority. In town, every restaurant worker was not African-American or Latino, but were in fact mostly college students working to cash in on the summer season. There was an egalitarianism on this island, especially in the town of Oak Bluffs that was surprising, to say the least.
To say we fell in love with the freedom we felt is an understatement. For a change, I didn't have to be conscious of the fact that my husband was one of the only black men in this vacation environment. In fact, his color was of little consequence. When a waitress was brusque in the typical manner of a New Englander, I didn't automatically assume it was because I was Asian or my husband was black. I just assumed she was a life-long New Englander with very little time for niceties. When I sat on the beach and saw a women who looked white, I didn't assume she was white since I've now learned the hues of African-Americans spans the entire color spectrum.
Our son has been coming to the Inkwell since he was just ten months old. Our desire for him to feel that a beach full of black people was unexceptional is now his reality. He is not fazed when the beach is teeming with black families, all luxuriating in the rituals of beach life. It was important for us to make sure his consciousness wasn't colored by the delineations that occur in our daily lives.
We do venture to other beaches, but in a pinch we always pick the Inkwell. It is, for our family, where we associate with the Vineyard. After so many years, we now know many of the families on the beach. We see the same families every year. Our 'hellos' are now actual conversations where we exchange information about our lives in tidbits--where do you come from, what do you do, what are your children's names. We go to barbecues and cocktail parties where we catch up with one another and the year that we've had. We email during the rest of the time since many of us live far apart. The emails start gathering speed around April as summer's imminent arrival comes into focus. And there is a rhythm to who comes when and stays for how long. I'm fortunate enough now to stay the entire summer, so I seem to be the one saying hello and good-bye as families come and leave.
Our kids are growing up with each other. Some may get to an age when they will notice each other as more than so and so's son or daughter. I suspect there will be summers when a few may exchange more than sand toys. And if all is right with the world, some may end up at the same universities together. Or better yet, they will be bring their kids to the island, so we, the parents, now grandparents, can coo and admire this next generation. I feel fortunate to be creating this legacy for our son all started on this strip of beach called the Inkwell.
After getting pregnant, I became incredibly nostalgic for the summers of my childhood. In fact, I yearned to feel the tiredness from playing in the salty waters of the Atlantic Ocean the entire day, only coming out to grab a bite of my lunch after countless threats from my mother. I wanted to emulate that carefree spirit of riding my bike along sandy roads for myself, but more importantly I wanted to recreate those traditions for my unborn child. I convinced my husband we needed a summer place--such an East Coast idea--where our child could roam freely, swim all day long, and we could suspend all of our worries associated with raising a child in an urban city, even if only for a few precious weeks. He agreed despite never having had summers remotely like the ones I was aching to replicate. Instead of picking the New Jersey shore, I suggested Martha's Vineyard because of its long history of African-American on the island. So, we came with very little expectation of what it would be like.
The Inkwell was a revelation for us both. It was remarkable to be sitting among so many African-Americans of every color and shape. Families, some who have been coming for generations, sat alongside those of us first-timers. White families sat among all the African-Americans with not a thought to the fact that they were, for a change, a minority. In town, every restaurant worker was not African-American or Latino, but were in fact mostly college students working to cash in on the summer season. There was an egalitarianism on this island, especially in the town of Oak Bluffs that was surprising, to say the least.
To say we fell in love with the freedom we felt is an understatement. For a change, I didn't have to be conscious of the fact that my husband was one of the only black men in this vacation environment. In fact, his color was of little consequence. When a waitress was brusque in the typical manner of a New Englander, I didn't automatically assume it was because I was Asian or my husband was black. I just assumed she was a life-long New Englander with very little time for niceties. When I sat on the beach and saw a women who looked white, I didn't assume she was white since I've now learned the hues of African-Americans spans the entire color spectrum.
Our son has been coming to the Inkwell since he was just ten months old. Our desire for him to feel that a beach full of black people was unexceptional is now his reality. He is not fazed when the beach is teeming with black families, all luxuriating in the rituals of beach life. It was important for us to make sure his consciousness wasn't colored by the delineations that occur in our daily lives.
We do venture to other beaches, but in a pinch we always pick the Inkwell. It is, for our family, where we associate with the Vineyard. After so many years, we now know many of the families on the beach. We see the same families every year. Our 'hellos' are now actual conversations where we exchange information about our lives in tidbits--where do you come from, what do you do, what are your children's names. We go to barbecues and cocktail parties where we catch up with one another and the year that we've had. We email during the rest of the time since many of us live far apart. The emails start gathering speed around April as summer's imminent arrival comes into focus. And there is a rhythm to who comes when and stays for how long. I'm fortunate enough now to stay the entire summer, so I seem to be the one saying hello and good-bye as families come and leave.
Our kids are growing up with each other. Some may get to an age when they will notice each other as more than so and so's son or daughter. I suspect there will be summers when a few may exchange more than sand toys. And if all is right with the world, some may end up at the same universities together. Or better yet, they will be bring their kids to the island, so we, the parents, now grandparents, can coo and admire this next generation. I feel fortunate to be creating this legacy for our son all started on this strip of beach called the Inkwell.
Friday, July 6, 2007
Island Cocktails--Happy 10th Anniversary
My husband and I celebrated our tenth year together as husband and wife yesterday. It's hard to imagine we've been married for so long, and been together even longer. Marriage is nothing like they advertise in those ridiculous romance novels. Come to think about it, they don't actually write about marriages, do they? No, they write about the passion and romance before the wedding takes place. I suppose it would be challenging for a writer to make the story of marriage, particularly long ones, sound romantic and passionate. I've decided that marriage is not for the faint hearted. One must be hearty and full of piss and vinegar (full of cliches today) to a) get married, and b) to stay married.
And like most marriages, those that are really honest, ours is always challenging and interesting. We are, like everyone else, trying to figure out how to make this tenuous union secure from the ruptures caused by the mere fact that we are individuals. We have, at this point, received our Masters Degree in the major of Compromise. It seems compromising is all marriage is really about. When you are in the throes of romance, and just relieved to have found someone who is cute, fun, smart, and has a job, you overlook the early dance of compromise. Oh, you know those inane conversations about where you should go for dinner, with both of you pretending to not really care where you want to go, when in truth you really want to eat pizza. Or in my case, sushi. Well, once the sheen has worn off, and your initial relief has turned into a sense of entitlement that-- of course you have snagged the good guy-- the compromise dance is no longer so polite. Instead of dancing a waltz, it is more like a tug of war with both of you pulling on your end for victory. Oh let me stop. My weariness after so many years is starting to come through in this blog.
Our marriage, despite the constant negotiations, feels healthier, more honest than it has in years. We are both passionate in the fight to keep our marriage. But we also understand that we can't predict what the future will bring. If we are lucky then we may be celebrating our 20th in ten years. Goodness! And to the same man, even.
Our marriage, despite the constant negotiations, feels healthier, more honest than it has in years. We are both passionate in the fight to keep our marriage. But we also understand that we can't predict what the future will bring. If we are lucky then we may be celebrating our 20th in ten years. Goodness! And to the same man, even.
Wednesday, July 4, 2007
July 4th among the Pilgrims
We spent an idyllic 4th. Our son had his first tennis lesson, offered for free to all island kids, at a stunning Tennis facility for youth only. It was shocking to learn that adults couldn't play there at all. We then sat at the beach, our candy-stripe colored umbrella blowing in the breeze. The weather was perfect, sunny, but not stifling hot. We came home to change and go to the annual 4th of July parade in Edgartown. This parade celebrating what this holiday is about--our independence--is also kitschy and quaint in the ways a small town parade should be. Our son, who has been coming since he was a baby, is really enjoying it now. It's fascinating to see the world through his eyes as he takes in these 'old' rituals, which in his short term memory are really new. The evening was capped off with a meal of hamburgers grilled on our deck and corn on the cob. It was as this holiday should be celebrated.
Life here settles down and slows down to a rhythm that helps you to notice the way an osprey swoops, swirls, and hovers over the water. You can't help but notice the splash of color in the sky as kites skid and collide across a cloudy sky. Conversations are carried to you by the sea breeze as you sit in a beach chair reading your newest book. Children gather and dig in the sand, figuring out whether this time over a shared hole will result in summer of friendship. Sandwiches packed in the morning are savored, the foil peeled back to reveal a bit of bread stuffed with the pink and white of cold cuts.
And you notice how the sea is really layers of blue and green. Even as the clouds come in, the beach now desolate except for the diehards, takes on a haunted look of gray. There's so little to be angry about when the world in front of you is breathtaking in its simplicity.
And so ended the day, each of us tired from the sun, taking in what this day means to our nation and to us, individually.
Life here settles down and slows down to a rhythm that helps you to notice the way an osprey swoops, swirls, and hovers over the water. You can't help but notice the splash of color in the sky as kites skid and collide across a cloudy sky. Conversations are carried to you by the sea breeze as you sit in a beach chair reading your newest book. Children gather and dig in the sand, figuring out whether this time over a shared hole will result in summer of friendship. Sandwiches packed in the morning are savored, the foil peeled back to reveal a bit of bread stuffed with the pink and white of cold cuts.
And you notice how the sea is really layers of blue and green. Even as the clouds come in, the beach now desolate except for the diehards, takes on a haunted look of gray. There's so little to be angry about when the world in front of you is breathtaking in its simplicity.
And so ended the day, each of us tired from the sun, taking in what this day means to our nation and to us, individually.
Tuesday, July 3, 2007
Strawberry Fields: Land of Volvos
Martha's Vineyard, although a smallish island, has a number of farms. When I was pregnant with our son, I went strawberry picking at a farm that operates as a co-op. My husband, who declined to join me, took pictures of me quite contentedly bending and picking berries. And since the farm's sign said strawberries could still be picked, I dragged him again, who declined to join me, to pick strawberries. Why I find these agrarian practices so charming is beyond me since my maternal family in Korea were not farmers. No, they had "peasants"--my mother's word--who worked the hundreds of acres our family owned in, what is now called, Seoul.
As I crouched among the bushes, picking the delicate berries ripened by sun and time, I couldn't help but acknowledge how strenuous this was for some berries. And then I thought about those migrant workers, working among the strawberries farms by Solvang, whose entire livelihood is determined by how many berries they bring in at the end of the day, all of their efforts consumed by others who are blissfully ignorant to the labor behind the delicate sweet fruits.
In LA, the car you drive says as much about you as if you were wearing a t-shirt emblazoned with your favorite band. You know, if you were wearing a Led Zeppelin shirt, and you were over the age of 50, we could assume many things about who you had been. Anyway, this idea of a car as a character definition is something LA does rather brilliantly. Each person, those who have the option to choose the car they will be seen driving, takes stock of what each car says about them, consciously or unconsciously.
As a Prepster, I grew up in the land of Volvos, most of them beaten up and character-ridden. It seemed every mom I knew, including my own, drove a Volvo station wagon or similarly reliable, safe, unflashy car. The catch word in that is to be as understated as possible since we are Preps. Our Docksiders only got better as they became beaten, worn in. I remember my parents buying me a Louis Vuitton backpack for my Freshman year of college. I had this brilliant idea of putting the bag out on the driveway to drive my car over it, so it wouldn't look so brand spanking new. You can imagine how well that went over with my parents. I still have the bag, and it is now perfectly worn.
I have never had a strong affiliation with cars, per se. But while in LA, I did have to recognize how the car you drove said so much about you, wittingly or unwittingly. I drove cross country in my new Acura, a college graduation gift from my parents, who had wanted to replace my Volkswagen Jetta, the car I had driven in high school. I could have picked any car, but for some reason, probably because I was suffering from an acute broken heart, I half-heartedly chose the Acura.
I drove this car around LA, never washing it ever, with very little thought to cars. For me, it got me to point A to point B. It was during those five years that the surge of the SUV took hold of LA in a profound way. There was something optimistic about the time--Clinton took office--and gas, this depreciating resource--seemed to be plentiful. So, when my parents wanted to trade in my Acura for something else, I said I wanted a Land Rover. Yes, I was living in LA, not out in the bushes of Africa, where this car is really supposed to be driven. And despite the quirkiness of this monster car, I drove around with all the other competing SUVS, pouring gas into a tank that seemed to never be satiated. When it came time to replace this car, my husband now had a say in what I drove and suggested the BMW SUV since I was now used to being so far up in a car. And so, I drove that car, hating it as I've never hated a car. I don't know why this particular car incensed me so much. Gas prices were now climbing. But in truth, what I hated about it was what BMW stood for in LA. It was too flashy, too pretentious, too slick. I knew I hated my car when a woman, who was emblematic of all I found disdainful about LA, said she loved her car--which was just like mine.
When it came time to turn the BMW in, I finally expressed my opinion of what car I would like to drive--yes, I loathe driving, but since it was a necessary evil in LA... The Volvo station wagon was what I chose. Yes, I came full circle, you could say. I picked the very Mom Mobile of my childhood when it was time to pick my car as a Mom.
Now that we are on the Vineyard, I see that my Volvo, due to arrive this week from LA, is just another among a sea of Volvos on this island. Funny, isn't it since this place resonates with me in ways I have a hard time articulating?
As I crouched among the bushes, picking the delicate berries ripened by sun and time, I couldn't help but acknowledge how strenuous this was for some berries. And then I thought about those migrant workers, working among the strawberries farms by Solvang, whose entire livelihood is determined by how many berries they bring in at the end of the day, all of their efforts consumed by others who are blissfully ignorant to the labor behind the delicate sweet fruits.
In LA, the car you drive says as much about you as if you were wearing a t-shirt emblazoned with your favorite band. You know, if you were wearing a Led Zeppelin shirt, and you were over the age of 50, we could assume many things about who you had been. Anyway, this idea of a car as a character definition is something LA does rather brilliantly. Each person, those who have the option to choose the car they will be seen driving, takes stock of what each car says about them, consciously or unconsciously.
As a Prepster, I grew up in the land of Volvos, most of them beaten up and character-ridden. It seemed every mom I knew, including my own, drove a Volvo station wagon or similarly reliable, safe, unflashy car. The catch word in that is to be as understated as possible since we are Preps. Our Docksiders only got better as they became beaten, worn in. I remember my parents buying me a Louis Vuitton backpack for my Freshman year of college. I had this brilliant idea of putting the bag out on the driveway to drive my car over it, so it wouldn't look so brand spanking new. You can imagine how well that went over with my parents. I still have the bag, and it is now perfectly worn.
I have never had a strong affiliation with cars, per se. But while in LA, I did have to recognize how the car you drove said so much about you, wittingly or unwittingly. I drove cross country in my new Acura, a college graduation gift from my parents, who had wanted to replace my Volkswagen Jetta, the car I had driven in high school. I could have picked any car, but for some reason, probably because I was suffering from an acute broken heart, I half-heartedly chose the Acura.
I drove this car around LA, never washing it ever, with very little thought to cars. For me, it got me to point A to point B. It was during those five years that the surge of the SUV took hold of LA in a profound way. There was something optimistic about the time--Clinton took office--and gas, this depreciating resource--seemed to be plentiful. So, when my parents wanted to trade in my Acura for something else, I said I wanted a Land Rover. Yes, I was living in LA, not out in the bushes of Africa, where this car is really supposed to be driven. And despite the quirkiness of this monster car, I drove around with all the other competing SUVS, pouring gas into a tank that seemed to never be satiated. When it came time to replace this car, my husband now had a say in what I drove and suggested the BMW SUV since I was now used to being so far up in a car. And so, I drove that car, hating it as I've never hated a car. I don't know why this particular car incensed me so much. Gas prices were now climbing. But in truth, what I hated about it was what BMW stood for in LA. It was too flashy, too pretentious, too slick. I knew I hated my car when a woman, who was emblematic of all I found disdainful about LA, said she loved her car--which was just like mine.
When it came time to turn the BMW in, I finally expressed my opinion of what car I would like to drive--yes, I loathe driving, but since it was a necessary evil in LA... The Volvo station wagon was what I chose. Yes, I came full circle, you could say. I picked the very Mom Mobile of my childhood when it was time to pick my car as a Mom.
Now that we are on the Vineyard, I see that my Volvo, due to arrive this week from LA, is just another among a sea of Volvos on this island. Funny, isn't it since this place resonates with me in ways I have a hard time articulating?
Monday, July 2, 2007
Oak Bluffs, MVY
We arrived on to Martha's Vineyard after spending a night at our friend's house in Jamaica Plain. My friend, one of my closest from Graduate School, has just signed a deal to publish his first young adult novel with Bloomsbury Press. We spent two years having dinner together once a week, sometimes commiserating about our work load or our work. Now, we have three boys in total, all of them as familiar with one another as young boys can be when they are five, four, and three years of age. It is quite wondrous to see our boys getting along so well, even if they only see one another once a year.
This yearly ritual of coming to Martha's Vineyard feels like the perfect transition for our family since we are now truly East Coast people, again. Our son, who was quite despondent about saying good-bye to his Tia, said as we drove through this one section where the road seems to slice two bodies of water, "This is great!" He had been coming here since he was in utero, so this island is as much home as anywhere else. He went to camp and fell right in with his buddy, Huck. He is now at the Ink Well with his babysitter, Amy. It is as it has been for so many summers.
This island had served as such a refuge for me when the idea of living on the East Coast was the mirage that seemed to taunt me. There was so much about it that was achingly familiar, so much so that at times I felt as if I were reliving my own childhood summers at Cape May. Although I lived in LA for over ten years, I've never been impressed with the beaches there. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that there were so few beaches that were clean and accessible for those that hadn't built McMansions on those public beaches. There was also a difference in beach culture from what I remembered from my childhood. And then there was the driving to the beach that could become an obstacle in it of itself. Whatever the reasons, I could probably count on both hands the times I felt the compulsion to head to the beach while living in LA.
Martha's Vineyard, for our family, has become this yearly ritual of summer. We frequent the same restaurants that serve the most delicious fried clam strips. We trek to the fish store where we order our lobster dinner, which we eat sitting on Lobster cages as the sun sets over a scenery out of one of those insipid paintings you find in hotel rooms. We sit at the same beach that faces the Nantucket Sound where kids rule the sand and parents sit in chairs with a book in their hand. Kids ride their bikes and play outdoors in the games that are synonymous with those long summer days. There is no fast food chain to be found, each store owned by a person not attached to a large corporation. It is like stepping back in time when the highlight of a kids' day is licking a large ice cream cone outside a shop where they make their own ice cream. It is the childhood that I remember.
There are so few places that have resonated with me the way this island has. It's funny since I never get island fever like I do when I'm in Hawaii. Yes, we can get off via Ferry since we're not so far from the Cape, so perhaps that explains my lack of claustrophobia. Whatever it is, I drive along familiar roads, some of them congested during the mid day hour, sanguine about the fact that we are driving 5 miles an hour. Hard to imagine, right? There you have it. It is hard to be irate and angry when you look to your right and you see an expanse of aqua colored water, sail boats rocking up and down. How can you be angry about a place that has not one stop light, even if you wonder why that crazy five way intersection doesn't have a light?
This place is quirky in the ways of any small New England towns. Yet, there is a humility and earthiness that I find so refreshing. It is as if, despite all the wealth of the summer residents, this island has never forgotten it is is just a whaling town.
I am finally getting ready to sit down for a long haul with my newest novel, which will be set in LA. The prospect of this project has me excited, my mind gestating during the day as I engage in the things I am supposed to be doing. The first line, which I had thought of recently, pulls at me very strongly. I am much relieved to be feeling this way, and also daunted by the process of writing another book.
The backwards pull of my memories and life in LA is fading, the tug not so insistent. My email box is emptier, people putting me on the list of those they had known. My gaze is cast ahead, to what is ahead.
This yearly ritual of coming to Martha's Vineyard feels like the perfect transition for our family since we are now truly East Coast people, again. Our son, who was quite despondent about saying good-bye to his Tia, said as we drove through this one section where the road seems to slice two bodies of water, "This is great!" He had been coming here since he was in utero, so this island is as much home as anywhere else. He went to camp and fell right in with his buddy, Huck. He is now at the Ink Well with his babysitter, Amy. It is as it has been for so many summers.
This island had served as such a refuge for me when the idea of living on the East Coast was the mirage that seemed to taunt me. There was so much about it that was achingly familiar, so much so that at times I felt as if I were reliving my own childhood summers at Cape May. Although I lived in LA for over ten years, I've never been impressed with the beaches there. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that there were so few beaches that were clean and accessible for those that hadn't built McMansions on those public beaches. There was also a difference in beach culture from what I remembered from my childhood. And then there was the driving to the beach that could become an obstacle in it of itself. Whatever the reasons, I could probably count on both hands the times I felt the compulsion to head to the beach while living in LA.
Martha's Vineyard, for our family, has become this yearly ritual of summer. We frequent the same restaurants that serve the most delicious fried clam strips. We trek to the fish store where we order our lobster dinner, which we eat sitting on Lobster cages as the sun sets over a scenery out of one of those insipid paintings you find in hotel rooms. We sit at the same beach that faces the Nantucket Sound where kids rule the sand and parents sit in chairs with a book in their hand. Kids ride their bikes and play outdoors in the games that are synonymous with those long summer days. There is no fast food chain to be found, each store owned by a person not attached to a large corporation. It is like stepping back in time when the highlight of a kids' day is licking a large ice cream cone outside a shop where they make their own ice cream. It is the childhood that I remember.
There are so few places that have resonated with me the way this island has. It's funny since I never get island fever like I do when I'm in Hawaii. Yes, we can get off via Ferry since we're not so far from the Cape, so perhaps that explains my lack of claustrophobia. Whatever it is, I drive along familiar roads, some of them congested during the mid day hour, sanguine about the fact that we are driving 5 miles an hour. Hard to imagine, right? There you have it. It is hard to be irate and angry when you look to your right and you see an expanse of aqua colored water, sail boats rocking up and down. How can you be angry about a place that has not one stop light, even if you wonder why that crazy five way intersection doesn't have a light?
This place is quirky in the ways of any small New England towns. Yet, there is a humility and earthiness that I find so refreshing. It is as if, despite all the wealth of the summer residents, this island has never forgotten it is is just a whaling town.
I am finally getting ready to sit down for a long haul with my newest novel, which will be set in LA. The prospect of this project has me excited, my mind gestating during the day as I engage in the things I am supposed to be doing. The first line, which I had thought of recently, pulls at me very strongly. I am much relieved to be feeling this way, and also daunted by the process of writing another book.
The backwards pull of my memories and life in LA is fading, the tug not so insistent. My email box is emptier, people putting me on the list of those they had known. My gaze is cast ahead, to what is ahead.
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