We've had two visitors, those who actually stay with us, thus far. One was my crazy aunt, the other, my crazier mother. Both being family makes them the easiest to have spend a night or two on our very comfortable (we've been told) pull out couch we spent a fortune purchasing when we moved here. We've had another visitor here the last two nights, convincing me to make sure our place is never too comfortable to warrant more coming to stay.
Our visitor, someone I only met in Aspen at the writers' conference, is a person I don't know well. I found it quite remarkable she asked to stay with us while attending the AWP conference being held here in the city this week. I know such a thought would never, ever cross my head, much less have it voiced. And being so conditioned to be proper and nice, I said yes. A decision I instantly regretted and resented. I fretted, oh how I fretted, about how to get out of this gracefully--an impossibility since she'd already purchased plane tickets.
So, I did what I could to circumvent her need to stay with us for 6 nights (yes, 6 whole nights) by telling a fib, and thereby reducing her ability to stay with us down to 3 nights. This is the worst solution since I am the world's worst liar, ever. I was the kid that always told the truth, no matter what the consequences since lying was something that would only get me into bigger trouble. And since I was such a lost cause when it came to lying, well, it always seemed more prudent to admit, 'yes, I'd gotten drunk last night'.
This visitor does leave each morning, and stays out all day. But again, she's someone I know so tangentially, so having her in our place is something of a nuisance. I don't think she was bothered by any of this since we just saved her a small fortune in hotel costs. I couldn't figure out why she was coming since the conference is always interesting in concept, but always disappointing in reality. When I asked her what she hoped to get from the conference, she admitted she just wanted to come to New York--and stay for free. That's when I realized we absolutely must not have an apartment that is too comfortable, by any means. I know people always want to come here, and if they can stay for free, all the better.
There are friends and then there are the freeloaders, like our current house guest. She, of course, arrived without a hostess gift, and so far has been the worst house guest. This would be somewhat excusable if she weren't as old as she is since she has daughter's just a few years my junior. Thankfully, one more night and she will have packed her bags for wherever her next free lodging may be. She did offer, as some consolation, if I ever wanted to come to Boulder, Colorado, I'd have a place to stay. Hmmm. I've been to Boulder once. And that would be about as many times as I'd need to go to that quaint, college town. The inequity in her offer is lost on her, obviously.
This all gets to the heart of my problem: my inability to say no. It is something I must work on. Really, none of this is this woman's fault. She asked. I answered. Bottom line. So, next time some other cheap person, who is barely an acquaintance, makes this same request, I know to answer with an affirmative, 'no!' Of course, I'll have to do it all on paper or, better yet, in an email.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Confusion
Women and men are worse off today than our parents may have been. How, you ask? Yes, there is the whole devaluation of the dollar, the shrinking of the middle class, blah, blah, blah. But the real confusion, the kind that can pit one spouse against the other, occurs because gender roles for men and women are no longer so clearly defined. The patriarchal world, the one our mothers understood and maneuvered, has been scrambled, jumbled, and messed up, leaving all of us scratching our heads. This is the age when the Metrosexual Male, those men in touch with their feminine side, is a part of our consciousness about male identity. We now know there is a distinction between swishy men and those simply into good grooming practices. This gender confusion now makes a marriage a constant battle ground as we try to figure out what our roles are supposed to be.
Most of my friends in LA had no such concerns. They seemed content to stay at home, assuming traditional roles, the very roles Betty Friedan and others had fought against. Most seemed relieved actually to be able to stay at home, even if they were bored witless by the lack of intellectual strenuousness in this 'privilege'. Now that I think about it, most never, ever voiced concern at all. It was more of a collective sigh of relief that they'd found a man, caught a man, and thank goodness he's a good earner, and can now stay at home being taken care of by this very man. It was all a bit disturbing, as if the last forty or so years since the ardent feminists had argued more for our sex had never occurred.
Some could argue that educational levels may play a part in a woman's satisfaction or dissatisfaction with their marriage. The more educated you are, the less likely you are to be satisfied. And certainly not to stay at home playing the dutiful wife. Sad, isn't it? The higher your degree, the certainty of your unhappiness. When I look back on this particular group of friends from LA, most had a BA, although some couldn't even claim that. Very few had anything beyond a BA. Most had worked, but seemed to be happy to not have to do it again. Some even had lucrative careers, financially, if not all that stimulating. One could say they were happy to have avoided a life of the middling management life by getting married. And most could never understand what it was I did with my time when I claimed, 'to be working.'
The writing life is a mystery for most people, other than other writers. We do this thing, most people aren't really capable of doing, alone, for hours on end. The end product may or may not get published, thereby adding a sense of futility or, if one is so inclined, as masturbatory. We are a world where productivity has to match some result. But the writing life is one where such artificial expectations defeat the whole purpose of this thing you are driven to do.
My marriage sometimes feels like an archaeological expedition as we try to dig out clearly defined roles for both husband and wife. Our search and negotiation is all the more vexing because of the ephemeral quality of my work. What's worse for my dear husband is the fact I was raised by parents, despite being Asian, who are ardent feminists. I was told my entire life that a woman's happiness depends on her ability to carve out a separate identity from wife and mother. That really, men may leave, and children will definitely leave, therefore you'd better have something of your own or you are screwed. This also went along with all women should absolutely have money of their own. The idea of a woman's financial life being dictated by a man is absolute anathema to them, and would be a signal of failure.
With such pressure, you can imagine the sense of urgency in our search for our respective roles as husband and wife. And how complicated it all becomes since I view my career and the productivity of my writing life as important as his. Sometimes when we've gone around and around about these very issues, I secretly wish I could be more like my friends, those content with being just a wife and mother. This secret wish lasts a nanosecond once I recall the underlying boredom and unhappiness each exhibited, sometimes unwittingly. But nonetheless, I do harbor it, every so often.
Life would be so much easier if our roles for husbands and wives, were clearer less amorphous. But it seems all of it gets murkier each year, all of us floundering around trying to figure it all out for ourselves. I suspect divorces will start to occur with some frequency in the next five years. Whether or not they will be the result of the confusion in gender roles still remains to be seen. All I know is the archaeological expedition seems to go on and on, each year bringing a new territory to be explored.
Most of my friends in LA had no such concerns. They seemed content to stay at home, assuming traditional roles, the very roles Betty Friedan and others had fought against. Most seemed relieved actually to be able to stay at home, even if they were bored witless by the lack of intellectual strenuousness in this 'privilege'. Now that I think about it, most never, ever voiced concern at all. It was more of a collective sigh of relief that they'd found a man, caught a man, and thank goodness he's a good earner, and can now stay at home being taken care of by this very man. It was all a bit disturbing, as if the last forty or so years since the ardent feminists had argued more for our sex had never occurred.
Some could argue that educational levels may play a part in a woman's satisfaction or dissatisfaction with their marriage. The more educated you are, the less likely you are to be satisfied. And certainly not to stay at home playing the dutiful wife. Sad, isn't it? The higher your degree, the certainty of your unhappiness. When I look back on this particular group of friends from LA, most had a BA, although some couldn't even claim that. Very few had anything beyond a BA. Most had worked, but seemed to be happy to not have to do it again. Some even had lucrative careers, financially, if not all that stimulating. One could say they were happy to have avoided a life of the middling management life by getting married. And most could never understand what it was I did with my time when I claimed, 'to be working.'
The writing life is a mystery for most people, other than other writers. We do this thing, most people aren't really capable of doing, alone, for hours on end. The end product may or may not get published, thereby adding a sense of futility or, if one is so inclined, as masturbatory. We are a world where productivity has to match some result. But the writing life is one where such artificial expectations defeat the whole purpose of this thing you are driven to do.
My marriage sometimes feels like an archaeological expedition as we try to dig out clearly defined roles for both husband and wife. Our search and negotiation is all the more vexing because of the ephemeral quality of my work. What's worse for my dear husband is the fact I was raised by parents, despite being Asian, who are ardent feminists. I was told my entire life that a woman's happiness depends on her ability to carve out a separate identity from wife and mother. That really, men may leave, and children will definitely leave, therefore you'd better have something of your own or you are screwed. This also went along with all women should absolutely have money of their own. The idea of a woman's financial life being dictated by a man is absolute anathema to them, and would be a signal of failure.
With such pressure, you can imagine the sense of urgency in our search for our respective roles as husband and wife. And how complicated it all becomes since I view my career and the productivity of my writing life as important as his. Sometimes when we've gone around and around about these very issues, I secretly wish I could be more like my friends, those content with being just a wife and mother. This secret wish lasts a nanosecond once I recall the underlying boredom and unhappiness each exhibited, sometimes unwittingly. But nonetheless, I do harbor it, every so often.
Life would be so much easier if our roles for husbands and wives, were clearer less amorphous. But it seems all of it gets murkier each year, all of us floundering around trying to figure it all out for ourselves. I suspect divorces will start to occur with some frequency in the next five years. Whether or not they will be the result of the confusion in gender roles still remains to be seen. All I know is the archaeological expedition seems to go on and on, each year bringing a new territory to be explored.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Weepy Politics
Politics rarely make me emotional, other than outrage when compromise is the only certainty for every elected official. I suppose compromise is what we hope for rather than outright financial malfeasance or corruption on a level that would mean your elected officials being taken away in hand cuffs.
But yesterday was that rare moment in my life. I am a part of a generation, raised on the myth of Camelot, the offspring of John and Jackie Kennedy, our generation's Prince. We did not experience first hand that moment in our history when anything and everything seemed possible. A man walked on the moon as our country was being divided by the war, civil rights, and the loudest argument for the cultural legitimacy of what it meant to be an American. What followed those magical moments was one heartbreak after another as each of the leaders of this era was gunned down, meeting their fate in such a final way. Their fate, unfortunately, also sealed our country's fate. What followed, the eruption of divides and the cynicism coming from Washington felt, somehow, inevitable. See, I wasn't even born when President Kennedy was shot, so I have no ability to recall for anyone what I was doing when I learned the news. For those from this era, they can recall with such exact details of that moment when they learned their youthful innocence and hope had come to an end. This one moment would, in so many ways, shape our country's fate for generations.
So, it was surprising to me to find myself getting weepy as I listened to the rousing, heartfelt, impassioned speech given by Senator Ted Kennedy. There's nothing like listening to Senator Kennedy give a speech on the Senate floor, covered on C-Span. This man's unerring commitment for all the truly liberal causes of the day is one that should inspire us. If not for that fateful night when his demons were too great, the outcome of one error in judgment sealing his fate to forever remain a Senator, we might have had a third Kennedy in the highest office in the land, carrying the torch left in mid-flame by his brother.
Why, you might ask did I find myself so moved by this political speech? For the first time in my life, it didn't feel like politics as usual, but something more profound in what was occurring on that stage. Yes, there was the unmistakable torch of the Kennedy legacy being passed to the unlikely of heirs, Barak Obama. But there was something grander, more important than just a legacy, more myth than reality, that was being touted. It was a sense that we, at this moment in our country's history, has a chance to bank on a risk. Like all risks, the outcome is uncertain. We might all wake up from this euphoric trance to find this man, whose life story is in itself an embodiment of the possibilities of our country, is just human and like all the rest. But I hope not. As all of those who are betting on him are hoping not.
As Senator Kennedy's speech reached that peak when the roof of the building seemed ready to erupt, I felt my eyes well up. I knew I was watching something historical. I knew this Democratic Primary was historical. And for once, I wanted this sense of possibility and hope to be something my son experiences in his short life. So, that when he is of voting age, a black man, or a woman, or a black woman, or a biracial man or woman, or a gay woman or man, running for the highest office in the land will not be the central part of their election. But that they are running because they are no different than any other politician that came before them. Whether he wins or she wins the nomination, something remarkable has already happened in our country. We've all overcome the notion that either a black man or a white women could ever run for the highest office of the land in any serious manner. We know now, after yesterday, just how serious both of their candidacy is for them, their parties, and for our country. And so, that is why I felt myself weeping as I listened to these seasoned politicians speak. For once, it felt historic for all the right reasons, even if it was all still just political theater.
But yesterday was that rare moment in my life. I am a part of a generation, raised on the myth of Camelot, the offspring of John and Jackie Kennedy, our generation's Prince. We did not experience first hand that moment in our history when anything and everything seemed possible. A man walked on the moon as our country was being divided by the war, civil rights, and the loudest argument for the cultural legitimacy of what it meant to be an American. What followed those magical moments was one heartbreak after another as each of the leaders of this era was gunned down, meeting their fate in such a final way. Their fate, unfortunately, also sealed our country's fate. What followed, the eruption of divides and the cynicism coming from Washington felt, somehow, inevitable. See, I wasn't even born when President Kennedy was shot, so I have no ability to recall for anyone what I was doing when I learned the news. For those from this era, they can recall with such exact details of that moment when they learned their youthful innocence and hope had come to an end. This one moment would, in so many ways, shape our country's fate for generations.
So, it was surprising to me to find myself getting weepy as I listened to the rousing, heartfelt, impassioned speech given by Senator Ted Kennedy. There's nothing like listening to Senator Kennedy give a speech on the Senate floor, covered on C-Span. This man's unerring commitment for all the truly liberal causes of the day is one that should inspire us. If not for that fateful night when his demons were too great, the outcome of one error in judgment sealing his fate to forever remain a Senator, we might have had a third Kennedy in the highest office in the land, carrying the torch left in mid-flame by his brother.
Why, you might ask did I find myself so moved by this political speech? For the first time in my life, it didn't feel like politics as usual, but something more profound in what was occurring on that stage. Yes, there was the unmistakable torch of the Kennedy legacy being passed to the unlikely of heirs, Barak Obama. But there was something grander, more important than just a legacy, more myth than reality, that was being touted. It was a sense that we, at this moment in our country's history, has a chance to bank on a risk. Like all risks, the outcome is uncertain. We might all wake up from this euphoric trance to find this man, whose life story is in itself an embodiment of the possibilities of our country, is just human and like all the rest. But I hope not. As all of those who are betting on him are hoping not.
As Senator Kennedy's speech reached that peak when the roof of the building seemed ready to erupt, I felt my eyes well up. I knew I was watching something historical. I knew this Democratic Primary was historical. And for once, I wanted this sense of possibility and hope to be something my son experiences in his short life. So, that when he is of voting age, a black man, or a woman, or a black woman, or a biracial man or woman, or a gay woman or man, running for the highest office in the land will not be the central part of their election. But that they are running because they are no different than any other politician that came before them. Whether he wins or she wins the nomination, something remarkable has already happened in our country. We've all overcome the notion that either a black man or a white women could ever run for the highest office of the land in any serious manner. We know now, after yesterday, just how serious both of their candidacy is for them, their parties, and for our country. And so, that is why I felt myself weeping as I listened to these seasoned politicians speak. For once, it felt historic for all the right reasons, even if it was all still just political theater.
Monday, January 28, 2008
Reading
It's true I am a voracious reader. As my husband likes to point out, it's not simply the volume, but the breadth of what I read that he finds astounding. It is one of those annoying traits that I can, and usually do, refer to something I'd read when we're in discussion about whatever topic. What's worse for him is when I, not only refer to the article or book, but then tell him he should read it as well. My need to read, or always have things to read, can sometimes feel more like a compulsion than simply a life long passion.
If I had nothing to read, I would read the box of any food item from my cupboard, taking in the ingredient and nutritional information. I know I've read more than many people I've met, except for my professors from grad school. Actually, it was the first time I'd met people, who could recommend books to me.
In any given week, I will have plowed through the current New Yorker, the Economist, the daily paper, the Sunday New York Times (which gets delivered on Saturdays here), a quick perusal of the Wall Street Journal and through the two or three books currently on my nightstand. If I'm getting my nails done, you can count People and UsWeekly into that list. I also purchase Vogue and Elle, not only for the pictures, but to actually read the articles. I've been known to rip out articles from those glossy magazines of female aspirations and mail them to friends who might find them interesting. Yes, it is a sickness. The one thing I don't read, which I'm quite proud, is any book that sounds remotely like self-help. Pop psychology with titles like "Chicken Soup for the Soul," never, thankfully, enter our home, ever.
When I was in LA, I had to do my reading during the day, usually at lunch. If I wasn't completely exhausted from the day, I could read before bed. Despite the very little time during the day for reading, I did still manage to read more than most people I knew--not a real challenge in LA.
However, now I find I can read on any bus or subway, which means I can get through the New Yorker in two days versus the five it took me in LA. What does this mean? It means I'm reading more, faster, including books. And since we have such limited space for books, this is a challenge, indeed. I try to avoid going to book stores weekly, but allow myself a monthly visit, which usually means sheer gluttony as I make my way through each section.
This Saturday was a designated book store day. After getting my son and husband off to their activity, I headed to Barnes and Noble in Union Square. I prefer the Strand, but the nice people from Barnes had sent me a coupon, which I'd carted around with me for over a week. The first thing that struck me was how busy it was inside. True, the weather is cold, so an afternoon spent at Barnes and Noble can be highly enticing. Unlike the Barnes and Noble at the Grove, it wasn't the magazine section or the cafe that was the center of activity. But rather, each section had people browsing, or better, reading a page of a book that had caught their attention. You know that stand and read position people take at bookstores or libraries.
I made my way through each section, finding the new book by J.M Coetzee and Bernhard Schlink among the treasures. It was, all in all, an intensely satisfying day at the book store. As I left with my bag, I emerged from the doors of Barnes and Nobles, falling into step with others headed east. Now, the question remains how I am going to store all of these new books that seem to enter our apartment on any given month. For me, it is a good worry to have since the alternative would mean scouring box labels for insight and inspiration. Even for me, this would border on the absurd, signaling a long stay at a place where I would make arts and crafts out of Popsicle sticks.
If I had nothing to read, I would read the box of any food item from my cupboard, taking in the ingredient and nutritional information. I know I've read more than many people I've met, except for my professors from grad school. Actually, it was the first time I'd met people, who could recommend books to me.
In any given week, I will have plowed through the current New Yorker, the Economist, the daily paper, the Sunday New York Times (which gets delivered on Saturdays here), a quick perusal of the Wall Street Journal and through the two or three books currently on my nightstand. If I'm getting my nails done, you can count People and UsWeekly into that list. I also purchase Vogue and Elle, not only for the pictures, but to actually read the articles. I've been known to rip out articles from those glossy magazines of female aspirations and mail them to friends who might find them interesting. Yes, it is a sickness. The one thing I don't read, which I'm quite proud, is any book that sounds remotely like self-help. Pop psychology with titles like "Chicken Soup for the Soul," never, thankfully, enter our home, ever.
When I was in LA, I had to do my reading during the day, usually at lunch. If I wasn't completely exhausted from the day, I could read before bed. Despite the very little time during the day for reading, I did still manage to read more than most people I knew--not a real challenge in LA.
However, now I find I can read on any bus or subway, which means I can get through the New Yorker in two days versus the five it took me in LA. What does this mean? It means I'm reading more, faster, including books. And since we have such limited space for books, this is a challenge, indeed. I try to avoid going to book stores weekly, but allow myself a monthly visit, which usually means sheer gluttony as I make my way through each section.
This Saturday was a designated book store day. After getting my son and husband off to their activity, I headed to Barnes and Noble in Union Square. I prefer the Strand, but the nice people from Barnes had sent me a coupon, which I'd carted around with me for over a week. The first thing that struck me was how busy it was inside. True, the weather is cold, so an afternoon spent at Barnes and Noble can be highly enticing. Unlike the Barnes and Noble at the Grove, it wasn't the magazine section or the cafe that was the center of activity. But rather, each section had people browsing, or better, reading a page of a book that had caught their attention. You know that stand and read position people take at bookstores or libraries.
I made my way through each section, finding the new book by J.M Coetzee and Bernhard Schlink among the treasures. It was, all in all, an intensely satisfying day at the book store. As I left with my bag, I emerged from the doors of Barnes and Nobles, falling into step with others headed east. Now, the question remains how I am going to store all of these new books that seem to enter our apartment on any given month. For me, it is a good worry to have since the alternative would mean scouring box labels for insight and inspiration. Even for me, this would border on the absurd, signaling a long stay at a place where I would make arts and crafts out of Popsicle sticks.
Friday, January 25, 2008
Strange World
A young actor has died tragically in a rented Soho apartment. Despite the heated political competitions, all of the news organizations have been covering the story, news cameras and their correspondents stationed outside his building. Our fascination with celebrity has reached such a fevered pitch that an actor's, who was talented, untimely death can supplant news coverage of a much bigger issue facing our nation: the next Presidential election. This blog is not to smear this actor's name, or to cast his death as irrelevant. I can't imagine the grief consuming his parents as they make that long flight from their native Australia to New York City. No, I'm trying to make the point that our culture has to gain a new perspective beyond what is covered between the pages of US Weekly.
Our country is facing real problems, some too complicated to be solved by a few platitudes or rhetorical flourishes. Yet, each time a news correspondent reports live from his apartment, the spontaneous shrine seems to be growing each day as strangers come by to drop flowers, notes, candles, and pictures of him cut from magazines. This need for the public to connect with someone they never knew is a strange response, something I have a hard time comprehending. I, like everyone else, was shocked when I heard he had died at such a young age. I was overcome with grief for his parents as they made their heartfelt statement outside their home. Losing their son so suddenly must seem surreal, the pain settling into their lives long after their son is buried, the news media long moved on to another titillating story.
But my shock, sympathy, and passing interest in the unfolding story has not propelled me to go the short distance to his Soho apartment to leave flowers or a note expressing my grief for someone I never knew. His short-lived career, unfortunately, made him a public figure. Yet, the assiduous coverage of every moment of his death feels intrusive, as if we've now crossed a line somehow. I can't help but wonder whether he'd appreciate this growing shrine outside his apartment door. He struck me as someone who tried to live his private life behind closed doors, even if a zoom lens still splashed pictures of his unguarded moments on to the pages of countless magazines.
His life and death should be in sharp contrast from Anna Nicole Smith, who courted any, and all, coverage, good or bad. The tabloids were how she stayed relevant, and how she made money. This actor, obviously a sensitive person, didn't court the media, but understood his rise in stature meant his privacy being compromised. So, shouldn't we draw a distinction in his death from that of someone like Anna Nicole Smith?
Learning the details about his death has made me reflect on my own health. See, I have all the same prescriptions found in his apartment. Like him, I suffer from insomnia, which has been bad of late. I also suffer from panic attacks, which can hit me unexpectedly, making me feel as if I were having a heart attack. I am what Freud would have labeled as a neurotic, a term for those whose sensitivities make them victim to such physical manifestations. I don't think this actor died of an overdose. But yet, I can't help wondering whether the combination of prescription medications was somehow the cause. And would I fall victim to just such an outcome after a bad period of not sleeping and panic attacks coming fast and furious? The one reassurance, if I were to die, is that there would be no spontaneous shrine outside our building. Hopefully, the only shrine or messages will come from those who have known me. My death, unlike this actor's, will, hopefully, be dignified as I am finally laid to rest. I hope the media moves on soon, leaving him and his family privacy as they bury their only son and mourn his death. Where is Brittany Spears when you need her?
Our country is facing real problems, some too complicated to be solved by a few platitudes or rhetorical flourishes. Yet, each time a news correspondent reports live from his apartment, the spontaneous shrine seems to be growing each day as strangers come by to drop flowers, notes, candles, and pictures of him cut from magazines. This need for the public to connect with someone they never knew is a strange response, something I have a hard time comprehending. I, like everyone else, was shocked when I heard he had died at such a young age. I was overcome with grief for his parents as they made their heartfelt statement outside their home. Losing their son so suddenly must seem surreal, the pain settling into their lives long after their son is buried, the news media long moved on to another titillating story.
But my shock, sympathy, and passing interest in the unfolding story has not propelled me to go the short distance to his Soho apartment to leave flowers or a note expressing my grief for someone I never knew. His short-lived career, unfortunately, made him a public figure. Yet, the assiduous coverage of every moment of his death feels intrusive, as if we've now crossed a line somehow. I can't help but wonder whether he'd appreciate this growing shrine outside his apartment door. He struck me as someone who tried to live his private life behind closed doors, even if a zoom lens still splashed pictures of his unguarded moments on to the pages of countless magazines.
His life and death should be in sharp contrast from Anna Nicole Smith, who courted any, and all, coverage, good or bad. The tabloids were how she stayed relevant, and how she made money. This actor, obviously a sensitive person, didn't court the media, but understood his rise in stature meant his privacy being compromised. So, shouldn't we draw a distinction in his death from that of someone like Anna Nicole Smith?
Learning the details about his death has made me reflect on my own health. See, I have all the same prescriptions found in his apartment. Like him, I suffer from insomnia, which has been bad of late. I also suffer from panic attacks, which can hit me unexpectedly, making me feel as if I were having a heart attack. I am what Freud would have labeled as a neurotic, a term for those whose sensitivities make them victim to such physical manifestations. I don't think this actor died of an overdose. But yet, I can't help wondering whether the combination of prescription medications was somehow the cause. And would I fall victim to just such an outcome after a bad period of not sleeping and panic attacks coming fast and furious? The one reassurance, if I were to die, is that there would be no spontaneous shrine outside our building. Hopefully, the only shrine or messages will come from those who have known me. My death, unlike this actor's, will, hopefully, be dignified as I am finally laid to rest. I hope the media moves on soon, leaving him and his family privacy as they bury their only son and mourn his death. Where is Brittany Spears when you need her?
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Childhood Freedoms
It would seem a strange notion that kids in this city enjoy freedom of movement, rarely experienced by their peers in suburban towns. How, you might wonder, would I arrive at such an observation? I can only compare the life our son had had until his move to the city, a life that is now more mobile for him.
In Los Angeles, our son's first four and a half years were spent with him strapped into a car seat. Bicycles, skooters, skateboards were all toys to be used sporadically in the backyard of our home. Despite living in a cul-de-sac, a round-about that Armenian teens liked to screech around in high speeds, leaving behind skid marks, he was rarely given freedom to use his skooter around the neighborhood. Life in suburbia creates more acute anxieties about child abductions or kids being mowed down by distracted, or worse, drunk drivers. We were lucky enough to live in a neighborhood that felt "safe" enough for kids to be pushed around in their strollers, offering nannies or moms an excuse to gossip and get some fresh air. But even this illusion didn't lessen our hyper-control over our son's movement.
To get anywhere else, school, activities, play dates, was all managed with him in a car seat, being chauffeured around the congested roadways of LA. Therefore, his sense of freedom and mobility was dictated by us or his nanny, again, his world lived entirely within the confines of a car seat.
With our move to the city, all of this has changed. We walk everywhere, using public transport whenever needed, a cab if there is an issue of time or weather. With all of this walking, I've noticed how much freer his life is now, no longer strapped into a car seat. The razor, a vehicle of choice among his classmates, is no longer just a toy, relegated simply to a backyard. But now, it is a way for him to get around the city, on his own terms. "Little Manhattan", a movie about first love among Manhattan kids, clearly illustrates this freedom of movement for kids here. I can't help but notice kids, some as young as eight or nine, getting on and off of the buses, heading home from school. Such an idea would be unheard of in LA or any other suburban town where moms, caretakers, or school buses would be the only acceptable mode of transporting a child from school to home. I'm certain parents here are no less worried about their kids facing dangers. But you manage your parental concerns differently here. I'm certain by eight or nine, our son will be given a five or three block radius where he can move about without the constant watchful eye of either me or my husband. I can see the ties loosening even now. In LA his use of the razor as a way to get around would have been unthinkable. Yet, here we are, me walking briskly behind him as he pushes his skooter up 20th Street to his school.
We're reminded of how much more confining children's lives are in suburbia whenever we visit our extended families, where he is again strapped into his booster seat. Despite the "quiet" streets where both of his grandparents live, he is rarely allowed out to play, again relegated to the backyard as the only option. I'm certain all of this freedom comes at a price where kids become savvy, city-smart, and sophisticated beyond their years. Isn't that the stereotype of kids who grow up in big cities? They've seen it all, done it all, some finally seeking a simpler life in rural or suburban areas when they are given the choice to create their lives. And their suburban and rural peers, desperate to leave behind the quiet, seek freedom and excitement in the big city. I suppose none of this will ever change, therefore our son's desire to move to the woods of Vermont when he is an adult, seeking quiet and freedom to live in a more natural setting, will not come as a complete shock to either me or his dad. We would expect no less.
In Los Angeles, our son's first four and a half years were spent with him strapped into a car seat. Bicycles, skooters, skateboards were all toys to be used sporadically in the backyard of our home. Despite living in a cul-de-sac, a round-about that Armenian teens liked to screech around in high speeds, leaving behind skid marks, he was rarely given freedom to use his skooter around the neighborhood. Life in suburbia creates more acute anxieties about child abductions or kids being mowed down by distracted, or worse, drunk drivers. We were lucky enough to live in a neighborhood that felt "safe" enough for kids to be pushed around in their strollers, offering nannies or moms an excuse to gossip and get some fresh air. But even this illusion didn't lessen our hyper-control over our son's movement.
To get anywhere else, school, activities, play dates, was all managed with him in a car seat, being chauffeured around the congested roadways of LA. Therefore, his sense of freedom and mobility was dictated by us or his nanny, again, his world lived entirely within the confines of a car seat.
With our move to the city, all of this has changed. We walk everywhere, using public transport whenever needed, a cab if there is an issue of time or weather. With all of this walking, I've noticed how much freer his life is now, no longer strapped into a car seat. The razor, a vehicle of choice among his classmates, is no longer just a toy, relegated simply to a backyard. But now, it is a way for him to get around the city, on his own terms. "Little Manhattan", a movie about first love among Manhattan kids, clearly illustrates this freedom of movement for kids here. I can't help but notice kids, some as young as eight or nine, getting on and off of the buses, heading home from school. Such an idea would be unheard of in LA or any other suburban town where moms, caretakers, or school buses would be the only acceptable mode of transporting a child from school to home. I'm certain parents here are no less worried about their kids facing dangers. But you manage your parental concerns differently here. I'm certain by eight or nine, our son will be given a five or three block radius where he can move about without the constant watchful eye of either me or my husband. I can see the ties loosening even now. In LA his use of the razor as a way to get around would have been unthinkable. Yet, here we are, me walking briskly behind him as he pushes his skooter up 20th Street to his school.
We're reminded of how much more confining children's lives are in suburbia whenever we visit our extended families, where he is again strapped into his booster seat. Despite the "quiet" streets where both of his grandparents live, he is rarely allowed out to play, again relegated to the backyard as the only option. I'm certain all of this freedom comes at a price where kids become savvy, city-smart, and sophisticated beyond their years. Isn't that the stereotype of kids who grow up in big cities? They've seen it all, done it all, some finally seeking a simpler life in rural or suburban areas when they are given the choice to create their lives. And their suburban and rural peers, desperate to leave behind the quiet, seek freedom and excitement in the big city. I suppose none of this will ever change, therefore our son's desire to move to the woods of Vermont when he is an adult, seeking quiet and freedom to live in a more natural setting, will not come as a complete shock to either me or his dad. We would expect no less.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Quirks, How Could One Have Any More?
There are so many little details of one's life that has to be accounted for when you move 3,000 miles. Perhaps the changes might have been of little consequence if we'd ended up in a bedroom community outside the city, replacing one suburban life for another. However, with life so dramatically altered, it is the little things that make this transition all the more startling. The search for doctors in a city teeming with medical professionals has been almost as arduous as the recent rigors of trying to get our son into a private school--I did preface by saying 'almost'. I have asked others for references, finding that sometimes those who are friends may not be the best judge of doctors. Or rather, we may have different criterias for what we look for in our medical provider. Being intensely phobic of needles, doctor's offices, dentists, and just general health facilities, my needs, or requirements, are, I'm discovering, quite different from those who are much more sanguine about going to a doctor's office.
My recent search for a dentist has been a trial of patience (on the dentist's part) and a trial of all of my worst phobias for me. I am a bad dental patient. There is no other way to describe the acute panic that I have to fight while in that chair. My dental experiences weren't any more horrific than anyone else's, despite the three and a half years of braces. But the helplessness and vulnerability of lying on those reclining chairs is enough for me to self prescribe an extra dose of Xanax before any visit. My fears were so bad that for years I'd had laughing gas just to have my teeth cleaned. Thankfully, my old dentist, whom I adored, had convinced me that I didn't need to be so doped up to have the hygienist clean my teeth. He was a very patient and kind man.
Trying to find his replacement, a tall order for anyone, but excruciating for me, has been unsuccessful, thus far. My first visit with a young dentist, who appeared overly aggressive in the things he wanted to do, had me in such a panic that I was near tears when I left his office. I know, I know, I'm a mess. It's amazing my husband doesn't just laugh out loud whenever he receives those calls of distress. Thankfully, I'd met and fell in love with my new orthodontist, to replace the one I'd left behind. His calm, gentle bedside manner had me confident my old orthodontist had made the right choice for me. So, now I'm on going to interview the two other dentists referred by my new orthodontist, given my phobic predilection.
It is these small, or in my case, not so small details of remaking one's life that poses challenges that you hadn't foreseen when you were pining for this exact thing to happen. Even me on the worst day of neuroses wouldn't have foreseen the patience required to find the right doctors.
So, I have an appointment with another dentist, who will charge me a small fortune for me to interview him, to insure he wouldn't scare me half to death in his zeal to make sure I don't end up with a full set of dentures by the age of 50. It is such challenges that makes me almost nostalgic for my old doctors. I did say almost, right?
My recent search for a dentist has been a trial of patience (on the dentist's part) and a trial of all of my worst phobias for me. I am a bad dental patient. There is no other way to describe the acute panic that I have to fight while in that chair. My dental experiences weren't any more horrific than anyone else's, despite the three and a half years of braces. But the helplessness and vulnerability of lying on those reclining chairs is enough for me to self prescribe an extra dose of Xanax before any visit. My fears were so bad that for years I'd had laughing gas just to have my teeth cleaned. Thankfully, my old dentist, whom I adored, had convinced me that I didn't need to be so doped up to have the hygienist clean my teeth. He was a very patient and kind man.
Trying to find his replacement, a tall order for anyone, but excruciating for me, has been unsuccessful, thus far. My first visit with a young dentist, who appeared overly aggressive in the things he wanted to do, had me in such a panic that I was near tears when I left his office. I know, I know, I'm a mess. It's amazing my husband doesn't just laugh out loud whenever he receives those calls of distress. Thankfully, I'd met and fell in love with my new orthodontist, to replace the one I'd left behind. His calm, gentle bedside manner had me confident my old orthodontist had made the right choice for me. So, now I'm on going to interview the two other dentists referred by my new orthodontist, given my phobic predilection.
It is these small, or in my case, not so small details of remaking one's life that poses challenges that you hadn't foreseen when you were pining for this exact thing to happen. Even me on the worst day of neuroses wouldn't have foreseen the patience required to find the right doctors.
So, I have an appointment with another dentist, who will charge me a small fortune for me to interview him, to insure he wouldn't scare me half to death in his zeal to make sure I don't end up with a full set of dentures by the age of 50. It is such challenges that makes me almost nostalgic for my old doctors. I did say almost, right?
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Roast Chickens
The day is one of those perfect ones here where the sun is bright in the sky, the air cold. It is the kind of day when the world seems to have woken up from a deep sleep, all perky, ready for what is ahead. I have been, of late, obsessed with perfecting a dish that is seemingly easy, but quite difficult to get just right--the roast chicken. I'm not a fan of chicken, finding the overuse of it as a substitute for meat a poor substitution for a nice piece of steak. Perhaps as a result of my indifference, I'd given little thought to preparations for it that can elevate this every day meat to something bordering on the sublime. I know the French do a wondrous roast chicken, which is heavenly in the moistness of the meat and the crispiness of the skin. But since we don't live in Provence, well, I'd always relegated chicken for something I cooked out of guilt rather than out of a real desire.
A recent cookbook put out by a food writer in London changed all of this around for me. Simon Hopkinson wrote the kind of cookbook that I love, full of interesting anecdotes about having eaten sweetbreads in a small Italian village, some, thirty years ago. The writing is very English, which means it is hyper literate and amusing, another trait the Brits have mastered. This book, unlike the mass market junk put out by the likes of Rachel Ray, is a book that should be read cover to cover.
In my thorough perusal I found his recipe for roast chicken that perked my interest. Why, you might ask after so many years of indifference? Well, it might have something to do with the pound of butter he used to lather over the bird, an absolute no-no in our health conscious eating and cooking life. But since I believe food should be savored, not devoured, therefore all things should be cooked the way they were originally meant to be cooked, there is no substitution for ingredients in my house. I cook with butter, olive oil, use butter when I bake. I do draw the line where shortening is concerned, finding that to be something I can't wrap my head around.
After reading and rereading his simple recipe for the roast chicken, I decided to bake two birds for a dinner at our house with some friends. A girlfriend was over for a visit, watching me lather the two birds with enough butter to clog up a few arteries. I knew it was bad when she said, "that's alot of butter." But despite her doubts, I put the bird in as instructed by the recipe. I'd added a few of my own touches like layering the roasting pan with root vegetables. Within fifteen minutes, our apartment filled with the fragrant aromas of butter, vegetables, and herbs. When my girlfriend and I peaked into the oven, the bird was baking to a perfect golden color, the skin very crisp, the bottom of the pan filled with the delicious gravy.
The meal was a huge hit with the kids and adults alike. The two five pound birds were devoured, very little of the carcass left by the end of the meal. The orzo risotta I'd made as a side dish was also completely gone. It was the firs time I'd made a chicken that lived up the worship of those who live on this one meat source.
I haven't tried any other recipes from this amusing, well-written book. Somehow the idea of cooking shortbreads in our apartment seems a sure way to make sure we lose all friends on our floor--not that they are plentiful.
A recent cookbook put out by a food writer in London changed all of this around for me. Simon Hopkinson wrote the kind of cookbook that I love, full of interesting anecdotes about having eaten sweetbreads in a small Italian village, some, thirty years ago. The writing is very English, which means it is hyper literate and amusing, another trait the Brits have mastered. This book, unlike the mass market junk put out by the likes of Rachel Ray, is a book that should be read cover to cover.
In my thorough perusal I found his recipe for roast chicken that perked my interest. Why, you might ask after so many years of indifference? Well, it might have something to do with the pound of butter he used to lather over the bird, an absolute no-no in our health conscious eating and cooking life. But since I believe food should be savored, not devoured, therefore all things should be cooked the way they were originally meant to be cooked, there is no substitution for ingredients in my house. I cook with butter, olive oil, use butter when I bake. I do draw the line where shortening is concerned, finding that to be something I can't wrap my head around.
After reading and rereading his simple recipe for the roast chicken, I decided to bake two birds for a dinner at our house with some friends. A girlfriend was over for a visit, watching me lather the two birds with enough butter to clog up a few arteries. I knew it was bad when she said, "that's alot of butter." But despite her doubts, I put the bird in as instructed by the recipe. I'd added a few of my own touches like layering the roasting pan with root vegetables. Within fifteen minutes, our apartment filled with the fragrant aromas of butter, vegetables, and herbs. When my girlfriend and I peaked into the oven, the bird was baking to a perfect golden color, the skin very crisp, the bottom of the pan filled with the delicious gravy.
The meal was a huge hit with the kids and adults alike. The two five pound birds were devoured, very little of the carcass left by the end of the meal. The orzo risotta I'd made as a side dish was also completely gone. It was the firs time I'd made a chicken that lived up the worship of those who live on this one meat source.
I haven't tried any other recipes from this amusing, well-written book. Somehow the idea of cooking shortbreads in our apartment seems a sure way to make sure we lose all friends on our floor--not that they are plentiful.
Friday, January 18, 2008
School Interviews
My husband and I attended the last obligatory event at a potential school, just last night. We had finished our very last interview Wednesday afternoon at one of the highly touted schools. This flurry of tours, interviews, and child interviews has given us an interesting perspective about this city, its neuroses, its drives, and its insanity. The rigors of doing this in such a truncated period has felt like we had run a marathon, competing with world class runners, except we hadn't trained properly. The exhaustion from just going and coming to so many schools has been beyond anything I'd ever experienced. Then you add the anxiety of finding out February 15th your child hadn't gotten in anywhere, well, you can see how high the stakes are for all of the families involved in this process.
Last night's event, hosted by one of the schools, was a discussion about 'diversity'--code name for, we try to have some brown faces as to not appear completely racially insensitive. The issue of diversity is complex, to say the least. And diversity goes far beyond race, color, but is really about having a representation of the world at large. In a city where the middle class is shrinking faster than most actresses post pregnancy, what you see is a polarization of two worlds: the haves and the have nots with most have nots being the ones that also represent racial diversity.
My husband and I have fully accepted the reality that our son will always be different than any of his peers, that is unless he ends up in school with Tiki Barber's kids. The chances of him having a classmate with his racial, cultural makeup are about as likely as us winning the Publisher's Clearing House Sweepstakes. With that in mind, we can hope to have a class where his black peers' families will feel much like ours. And that there will be some Asian, possibly even Korean, peers to reflect both sides of himself, even if they aren't mixed in quite the way he has been.
We found last night's event troubling in its tone of victimization. It is the classic mistake for 'liberal' or 'pc' mindsets that diversity, or being diverse, is a negative which has to be bolstered. This belief that diversity, or rather, creating an 'inclusive' world where the benefit is only for those of color is truly a narrow way to view the notion of diversity. A diverse community and its benefits is a two way street in this ever-changing world. If this current election is any indication, our country will have to grapple with gender and racial politics in a way it hasn't done, ever, in its history. Words like marginal only add to this sense that those of color are somehow in need. There is some veracity to the inequities that have be overcome, even by such fabricated methods, but the victim mentality is one that can debilitate those who don't need anything else to hinder their progress.
What is striking about attending such events is how alone my husband and I feel in our own uniqueness as a couple, but also as individuals. It is quite remarkable to us we found one another. We understand the racial politics and the inherent inequities of institutional racism, but we don't ever view ourselves as 'victims'. We don't view our color or ethnicity as a negative, but rather as this beautiful background that poses a different set of challenges and advantages for us as individuals. And what we understand better than anyone else is how different those challenges will be for our child, the progeny of our commitment that the world will be different for him than it was for us.
As a person who has taught, and will teach again, my assessment of schools is more rigorous than others who may not have an education background. There are times when I wish I'd been a baker, blissfully ignorant about the expectations of what should occur in a classroom. My critical eye makes it impossible for me to feel completely at ease with any one choice. I think there are some good choices, but my uncertainty about any one of them being the ideal fit for our son is what keeps me up most nights. It is also the need to flash forward into the future of our son's development, having to make a decision that could determine who he becomes. It is all a swirl in our heads, each of us wondering if this one decision could affect him in ways we can't possibly imagine. Again, this is when we both wish we could be much more insouciant and confident whatever decision gets made will be for the good. This is when the old adage of, 'ignorance is bliss' has some bearing.
So, now we wait along with the thousands of other families all across the city. We will, like most of us did when we'd applied to college, await those envelopes, thin signaling defeat, fat signaling victory for our 5 year old. What has happened to our world that this is apex of childhood is determined by the size of the envelope? That is what I will be mulling over as I, along with everyone else, wait for the arrival of those envelopes.
Last night's event, hosted by one of the schools, was a discussion about 'diversity'--code name for, we try to have some brown faces as to not appear completely racially insensitive. The issue of diversity is complex, to say the least. And diversity goes far beyond race, color, but is really about having a representation of the world at large. In a city where the middle class is shrinking faster than most actresses post pregnancy, what you see is a polarization of two worlds: the haves and the have nots with most have nots being the ones that also represent racial diversity.
My husband and I have fully accepted the reality that our son will always be different than any of his peers, that is unless he ends up in school with Tiki Barber's kids. The chances of him having a classmate with his racial, cultural makeup are about as likely as us winning the Publisher's Clearing House Sweepstakes. With that in mind, we can hope to have a class where his black peers' families will feel much like ours. And that there will be some Asian, possibly even Korean, peers to reflect both sides of himself, even if they aren't mixed in quite the way he has been.
We found last night's event troubling in its tone of victimization. It is the classic mistake for 'liberal' or 'pc' mindsets that diversity, or being diverse, is a negative which has to be bolstered. This belief that diversity, or rather, creating an 'inclusive' world where the benefit is only for those of color is truly a narrow way to view the notion of diversity. A diverse community and its benefits is a two way street in this ever-changing world. If this current election is any indication, our country will have to grapple with gender and racial politics in a way it hasn't done, ever, in its history. Words like marginal only add to this sense that those of color are somehow in need. There is some veracity to the inequities that have be overcome, even by such fabricated methods, but the victim mentality is one that can debilitate those who don't need anything else to hinder their progress.
What is striking about attending such events is how alone my husband and I feel in our own uniqueness as a couple, but also as individuals. It is quite remarkable to us we found one another. We understand the racial politics and the inherent inequities of institutional racism, but we don't ever view ourselves as 'victims'. We don't view our color or ethnicity as a negative, but rather as this beautiful background that poses a different set of challenges and advantages for us as individuals. And what we understand better than anyone else is how different those challenges will be for our child, the progeny of our commitment that the world will be different for him than it was for us.
As a person who has taught, and will teach again, my assessment of schools is more rigorous than others who may not have an education background. There are times when I wish I'd been a baker, blissfully ignorant about the expectations of what should occur in a classroom. My critical eye makes it impossible for me to feel completely at ease with any one choice. I think there are some good choices, but my uncertainty about any one of them being the ideal fit for our son is what keeps me up most nights. It is also the need to flash forward into the future of our son's development, having to make a decision that could determine who he becomes. It is all a swirl in our heads, each of us wondering if this one decision could affect him in ways we can't possibly imagine. Again, this is when we both wish we could be much more insouciant and confident whatever decision gets made will be for the good. This is when the old adage of, 'ignorance is bliss' has some bearing.
So, now we wait along with the thousands of other families all across the city. We will, like most of us did when we'd applied to college, await those envelopes, thin signaling defeat, fat signaling victory for our 5 year old. What has happened to our world that this is apex of childhood is determined by the size of the envelope? That is what I will be mulling over as I, along with everyone else, wait for the arrival of those envelopes.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Neighborhood Gossip
When we left LA, I also left behind a social world that felt like a throw back to another era. Women stayed home, men worked, kids were shuttled to T-Ball games, soccer games, pool parties, and play dates. In some ways, the social incestuousness of these families co-mingling cast an illusion of the All-American experience. But like most idyllic scenarios, there was an undercurrent of ugliness that was stifling. Gossip was the real past time of all those twenty or so families involved. I could imagine a few affairs among the spouses causing tidal waves of unrest. During my experience it was the adults that behaved like children as phone lines lit up after a cocktail party, dissecting the evening's intricacies. The kids, all too young, hadn't become the cause of families splintering over slights, hurt feelings, bullying, and possibly even young hearts being broken. But I imagine that is all just around the corner.
The New Yorker reported on a story that resonated with me, reminding me of the cloistered neighborhood I'd just left in LA. A young troubled girl committed suicide after meeting a young boy on line on her MySpace account. It turns out the boy was pure fiction, created by her former friend and this former friend's mother. The young adolescent's suicide is tragic beyond comprehension, but the story really paints an ugly picture of a world where lives are so unhealthily intermingled and where time is plentiful. What's unfathomable is what happens when parents get so involved in their children's lives, boundaries blurring as mother's take on their child's hurt feelings as their own. The story also showed the way technology has accelerated social situations. Behind the mask of words, intimacies can be revealed all too easily. Personalities created or discarded with one key stroke, sometimes with such tragic consequences. The real tragedy here is that this young girl, in the throes of that time in all of our childhood, adolescence, was going through what most of us had gone through. Yet, with a few email exchanges, her loneliness and self-hatred took a turn impossible to comprehend.
The most shocking part of this story is that the mother behind this has shown no remorse for her part in this horrendous story. In the eyes of the law, she's done nothing wrong. Egregious morally, yes, but not illegal. These two families still live on the same block, having to face one another in this suburban town as they try and go about their lives. I don't know why this piece reminded me so much of LA. I could see all of those families we'd socialized with, the ever-changing alliances part of the amusement of most social gatherings. I could see all of those families I'd come to know so intimately, falling victim to this type of pettiness as their kids got older. It wouldn't be the slights over who got picked or ignored for a specific T-Ball team, but would now center on a few of their daughter's friendships fracturing as one girl became the target of their collective meanness. Kids learn these social games from their parents, I believe. And it is easy to see how kids would emulate their parents, whose behavior is no better than that of teenage girls and boys.
We have not yet become so ensconced in such social situations. This year has been a reprieve, allowing us a freedom to explore and examine this city without the strictures of social groups, each them embedded with expectations and rules. I don't know how moving to a different neighborhood, moving our child to a different school may change all of this for us. I'm hoping New York is much too big, much too preoccupied with games of life that extend beyond cocktail parties, to fall prey to such pettiness. But who can say? We may find the Upper West or East Side is a replication of the four blocks in Hancock Park that was the center of the universe for those families. I pray that is not the case.
The New Yorker reported on a story that resonated with me, reminding me of the cloistered neighborhood I'd just left in LA. A young troubled girl committed suicide after meeting a young boy on line on her MySpace account. It turns out the boy was pure fiction, created by her former friend and this former friend's mother. The young adolescent's suicide is tragic beyond comprehension, but the story really paints an ugly picture of a world where lives are so unhealthily intermingled and where time is plentiful. What's unfathomable is what happens when parents get so involved in their children's lives, boundaries blurring as mother's take on their child's hurt feelings as their own. The story also showed the way technology has accelerated social situations. Behind the mask of words, intimacies can be revealed all too easily. Personalities created or discarded with one key stroke, sometimes with such tragic consequences. The real tragedy here is that this young girl, in the throes of that time in all of our childhood, adolescence, was going through what most of us had gone through. Yet, with a few email exchanges, her loneliness and self-hatred took a turn impossible to comprehend.
The most shocking part of this story is that the mother behind this has shown no remorse for her part in this horrendous story. In the eyes of the law, she's done nothing wrong. Egregious morally, yes, but not illegal. These two families still live on the same block, having to face one another in this suburban town as they try and go about their lives. I don't know why this piece reminded me so much of LA. I could see all of those families we'd socialized with, the ever-changing alliances part of the amusement of most social gatherings. I could see all of those families I'd come to know so intimately, falling victim to this type of pettiness as their kids got older. It wouldn't be the slights over who got picked or ignored for a specific T-Ball team, but would now center on a few of their daughter's friendships fracturing as one girl became the target of their collective meanness. Kids learn these social games from their parents, I believe. And it is easy to see how kids would emulate their parents, whose behavior is no better than that of teenage girls and boys.
We have not yet become so ensconced in such social situations. This year has been a reprieve, allowing us a freedom to explore and examine this city without the strictures of social groups, each them embedded with expectations and rules. I don't know how moving to a different neighborhood, moving our child to a different school may change all of this for us. I'm hoping New York is much too big, much too preoccupied with games of life that extend beyond cocktail parties, to fall prey to such pettiness. But who can say? We may find the Upper West or East Side is a replication of the four blocks in Hancock Park that was the center of the universe for those families. I pray that is not the case.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Asphalt Jungle
My son is learning the rules of the game out on the concrete courtyard where recess is held. So far he hasn't been abused too badly, but given enough challenges to make me want him to leave public school forever. Let me say that any previously held convictions like, public school is important, goes right out the virtual window where your child is concerned. In the beginning of school he told me a boy from another class hit him for no reason. Hmm. This was of concern to me since I couldn't imagine why my son was being singled out. And being a neurotic mother, I spoke to his teacher about the incident.
I've noticed a few things about this school, which was rated an A by the Mayor's standards. It is a good enough school, mostly a neighborhood school. The stream of parents and kids walking down 20th Street in the mornings attests to this school's dominance in this neighborhood. Such a thing never happened in LA where neighborhood schools were forgotten by everyone except those too poor or too unaware to find something better. And the idea of walking your child to any school, even if the school were only two blocks away, was never a consideration for anyone. To be able to walk my son the short block to school has been a welcome change compared to the half hour drive that I had done for so long in LA.
For a New York City school, the lack of real diversity of the school community was a bit of a shock. The student body seemed dominated by the strongholds of Stuyvesant Town, mostly a white, middle class enclave where the rent controlled apartments are passed down from one generation to another. I believe some of my son's classmates are the second generation living in their apartment. With ridiculously low rents, most families have bought second homes in places like the Poconos, the Catskills, and the Jersey Shore. I know, romantic, you say.
The few students of color I did notice seemed to be kids already labeled as "special". I was told in confidence by a mother in my son's class that one of the two black girls in the class (they are the only black students aside from my son's status as biracial) lived in a homeless shelter. Hmm.. No one likes to mention her docility, probably personality driven, but most likely a result of having lived a chaotic life where pleasing others is a survival skill. Or the fact that she is one of the smartest in the class. Whether or not she will be able to get the kind of education she deserves is an unknown, all driven by factors that she had no hand in creating. The other black student in the other Kindergarten class is a boy, who is already labeled as a problem. The first time I saw him was when he was sprawled in the middle of the hallway, mopping the floor with his body, regardless of the various attempts by parents to get him to stand up. It was nearly impossible to not notice that there was something very wrong. Some of it may have been his personality, but I'm certain more had to do with whatever challenges he faced at home. So, you can imagine my shock when my son told me casually that this boy was now chasing him at recess and was terrorizing him. What could a mother do, but to have a serious talk with his teacher about this matter?
It seems he is a 'special' child in a program for kids that are being bused in from other areas. And that he is in need of special care, code word for a child who will be in and out of the system for the rest of his life. My son's teacher conveyed all of this to me not directly, but in the innuendos of what she was avoiding to say outright. The irony of my son's first hard lesson about life on an asphalt jungle coming from a black boy was not lost on me. This issue of color is a touchy subject for him since I don't think he sees himself in that boy. Nor does he see himself in the rest of his white peers. No doubt it will be an interesting life for him as he continually finds himself as unique, different, unlike any other.
If all goes according to plan, our son will be attending a cosseted, private school where such incidents shouldn't occur at all. How could they after the rigorous screening process each student and family undergoes to be admitted to attend their institution? I'm sure the asphalt jungle at these schools will be no less scary, but just different. I suspect I won't be as afraid about his physical safety as I will be about his emotional life. There may be less chasing down of their targets, but the fire coming from words, taunts, teasing. Oy vey, it's enough to make me want to home school him, forever relegating him to a lifetime of being regarded as weird, different, exotic.
I've noticed a few things about this school, which was rated an A by the Mayor's standards. It is a good enough school, mostly a neighborhood school. The stream of parents and kids walking down 20th Street in the mornings attests to this school's dominance in this neighborhood. Such a thing never happened in LA where neighborhood schools were forgotten by everyone except those too poor or too unaware to find something better. And the idea of walking your child to any school, even if the school were only two blocks away, was never a consideration for anyone. To be able to walk my son the short block to school has been a welcome change compared to the half hour drive that I had done for so long in LA.
For a New York City school, the lack of real diversity of the school community was a bit of a shock. The student body seemed dominated by the strongholds of Stuyvesant Town, mostly a white, middle class enclave where the rent controlled apartments are passed down from one generation to another. I believe some of my son's classmates are the second generation living in their apartment. With ridiculously low rents, most families have bought second homes in places like the Poconos, the Catskills, and the Jersey Shore. I know, romantic, you say.
The few students of color I did notice seemed to be kids already labeled as "special". I was told in confidence by a mother in my son's class that one of the two black girls in the class (they are the only black students aside from my son's status as biracial) lived in a homeless shelter. Hmm.. No one likes to mention her docility, probably personality driven, but most likely a result of having lived a chaotic life where pleasing others is a survival skill. Or the fact that she is one of the smartest in the class. Whether or not she will be able to get the kind of education she deserves is an unknown, all driven by factors that she had no hand in creating. The other black student in the other Kindergarten class is a boy, who is already labeled as a problem. The first time I saw him was when he was sprawled in the middle of the hallway, mopping the floor with his body, regardless of the various attempts by parents to get him to stand up. It was nearly impossible to not notice that there was something very wrong. Some of it may have been his personality, but I'm certain more had to do with whatever challenges he faced at home. So, you can imagine my shock when my son told me casually that this boy was now chasing him at recess and was terrorizing him. What could a mother do, but to have a serious talk with his teacher about this matter?
It seems he is a 'special' child in a program for kids that are being bused in from other areas. And that he is in need of special care, code word for a child who will be in and out of the system for the rest of his life. My son's teacher conveyed all of this to me not directly, but in the innuendos of what she was avoiding to say outright. The irony of my son's first hard lesson about life on an asphalt jungle coming from a black boy was not lost on me. This issue of color is a touchy subject for him since I don't think he sees himself in that boy. Nor does he see himself in the rest of his white peers. No doubt it will be an interesting life for him as he continually finds himself as unique, different, unlike any other.
If all goes according to plan, our son will be attending a cosseted, private school where such incidents shouldn't occur at all. How could they after the rigorous screening process each student and family undergoes to be admitted to attend their institution? I'm sure the asphalt jungle at these schools will be no less scary, but just different. I suspect I won't be as afraid about his physical safety as I will be about his emotional life. There may be less chasing down of their targets, but the fire coming from words, taunts, teasing. Oy vey, it's enough to make me want to home school him, forever relegating him to a lifetime of being regarded as weird, different, exotic.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Low Rise Jeans
I was at a birthday party for a friend's son's birthday, who also happens to be friends with my son, when I looked around the room of eclectic parents from Brooklyn. There were the really old looking parents, a few with adopted girls from China, there were the Lesbian moms, and then there were the hip-40 something moms dressed in the uniform for this group: low rise jeans, t-shirty top, and some kind of boots on their feet. I know this uniform intimately since I am one of these 40-something moms, who tries to be hip.
There was one woman, in particular, who made me reassess my group's efforts to dress like we were still 20-something, or worse, 30-something when our lives were much different than they are today. This woman, who was quite tall, had on jeans much too tight, and much too low on the hips to hide the lumpiness of her 40-something body after a few kids. The assemble would have been bad enough with the jeans if she'd thrown on a baggy sweater on top, but instead she went for the whole shebang and wore a thin, body-hugging t-shirt, the kind that really highlights back fat, stomach rolls, and other unattractive sights of our age.
In essence, she was dressed as if she were still young. Yes, I know the new 40 is the old 30, but give me a break. Our chronological age is that of a 40 year old, no matter how our generation, or each generation, seems to be in a constant regression. Might I add that this regression of each generation claiming to be a decade younger, in spirit and attitude, is a mass market push by the Baby Boomers to stave off the eventuality that is facing them: a lifetime of golf in sunny climes, bingo games, and complaining about the chronic aches and pains of old age.
It's true we, women my age, look far more youthful than our mothers would have at our age. We tend to wear our hair in styles that wouldn't mark us as moms or matrons. (This dressing as if one is much younger is de rigeur in Southern California where every mom walks around in hip-hugging jeans) We take better care of ourselves, or so we're led to believe. But more important than the physical differences in maintenance, we are just more immature in our thinking, perhaps adding to this sense of perpetual adolescence that seems to cling to women my age.
Is this a result of us having put off those responsibilities of marriage, children, and house till we were much older than our mothers? Whatever the various causes, I sat and reevaluated the slew of hip hugging jeans in my own drawer at home as I watched this mom doing that familiar tug of pulling up jeans too low on their hips. I realized it might be time to put them away for good, relegated to a life of high waisted jeans.
There was one woman, in particular, who made me reassess my group's efforts to dress like we were still 20-something, or worse, 30-something when our lives were much different than they are today. This woman, who was quite tall, had on jeans much too tight, and much too low on the hips to hide the lumpiness of her 40-something body after a few kids. The assemble would have been bad enough with the jeans if she'd thrown on a baggy sweater on top, but instead she went for the whole shebang and wore a thin, body-hugging t-shirt, the kind that really highlights back fat, stomach rolls, and other unattractive sights of our age.
In essence, she was dressed as if she were still young. Yes, I know the new 40 is the old 30, but give me a break. Our chronological age is that of a 40 year old, no matter how our generation, or each generation, seems to be in a constant regression. Might I add that this regression of each generation claiming to be a decade younger, in spirit and attitude, is a mass market push by the Baby Boomers to stave off the eventuality that is facing them: a lifetime of golf in sunny climes, bingo games, and complaining about the chronic aches and pains of old age.
It's true we, women my age, look far more youthful than our mothers would have at our age. We tend to wear our hair in styles that wouldn't mark us as moms or matrons. (This dressing as if one is much younger is de rigeur in Southern California where every mom walks around in hip-hugging jeans) We take better care of ourselves, or so we're led to believe. But more important than the physical differences in maintenance, we are just more immature in our thinking, perhaps adding to this sense of perpetual adolescence that seems to cling to women my age.
Is this a result of us having put off those responsibilities of marriage, children, and house till we were much older than our mothers? Whatever the various causes, I sat and reevaluated the slew of hip hugging jeans in my own drawer at home as I watched this mom doing that familiar tug of pulling up jeans too low on their hips. I realized it might be time to put them away for good, relegated to a life of high waisted jeans.
Monday, January 14, 2008
War of the Sexes
It's everywhere, he versus she, Obama versus Clinton. The country is seeing something unimaginable only ten years ago: the possibility of either a woman or Black President. With all the world abuzz about that tearful moment, turning the tide for Clinton as her sisters rallied around her, I happened to catch a movie that was a feminist war cry, only a few decades ago--9 to 5. This movie, seen in the year 2007, is quaint, kitschy, and yet, the anger, outrage expressed by the three women is still relevant today. Yes, not all secretarial pools (they don't even exist, and if they do they would be referred to as the assistant's lounge) are gender specific. Right? Well, one would hope.
9 to 5 is of its time, when feminism was about competing with men, or rather, women being like men. This definition of being like men was displayed in women dressing like men, carrying brief cases, and casting off any of the trappings of femininity, as to not appear like a woman. I am of the generation, raised on movies like "Working Girl" where women still strive for that office, but falls in love along the way, so that we get our Prince Charming and the corner office. What's striking in comparing these two mvies is how much more progressive 9 to 5 was in its feminist politics. The males in this movie is ultimately expendable. Only one character is married, but the husband is rarely seen. The other two are divorced, single, trying to create a life for themselves after marriages had come to an end. It's the absence of men in their lives, other than the boss, that is striking. Men still rule their world, obviously, but they don't figure in quite a dominant thematic manner as in "Working Girl."
If one were to do a true feminist critique of these two movies, some ideas would be apparent--the slide backwards in philosophy of feminism, as a whole. The days when Betty Friedan was preaching to her sisters is truly a distant hum. The world has changed, most dramatically in gender roles and its definitions. And in its wake, the world is mixed up, messier, and more complicated. See, we, women can now have it all, the world likes to remind us. Except the rules of the game haven't really changed. Instead of previous role definitions, we are now expected to be income earners, mothers, wives, and still make a pot roast on Sundays. If you lack in any of these areas, well, the world can be quite unkind. And not to indict my own sex, but women are the least empathetic toward their own. We are the first to judge our peers for whatever lapses they may face in their quest for perfect womanhood.
This idea of perfection, something that is the new disease of this new millennium, manifests in all the wrong ways. I relish this political season. It will become more divisive as he versus she becomes a war cry. They will all talk about change, but really, we all know how little the world has changed since the days when three women, secretaries, felt they had to lock up their male boss in order to make changes to their world.
9 to 5 is of its time, when feminism was about competing with men, or rather, women being like men. This definition of being like men was displayed in women dressing like men, carrying brief cases, and casting off any of the trappings of femininity, as to not appear like a woman. I am of the generation, raised on movies like "Working Girl" where women still strive for that office, but falls in love along the way, so that we get our Prince Charming and the corner office. What's striking in comparing these two mvies is how much more progressive 9 to 5 was in its feminist politics. The males in this movie is ultimately expendable. Only one character is married, but the husband is rarely seen. The other two are divorced, single, trying to create a life for themselves after marriages had come to an end. It's the absence of men in their lives, other than the boss, that is striking. Men still rule their world, obviously, but they don't figure in quite a dominant thematic manner as in "Working Girl."
If one were to do a true feminist critique of these two movies, some ideas would be apparent--the slide backwards in philosophy of feminism, as a whole. The days when Betty Friedan was preaching to her sisters is truly a distant hum. The world has changed, most dramatically in gender roles and its definitions. And in its wake, the world is mixed up, messier, and more complicated. See, we, women can now have it all, the world likes to remind us. Except the rules of the game haven't really changed. Instead of previous role definitions, we are now expected to be income earners, mothers, wives, and still make a pot roast on Sundays. If you lack in any of these areas, well, the world can be quite unkind. And not to indict my own sex, but women are the least empathetic toward their own. We are the first to judge our peers for whatever lapses they may face in their quest for perfect womanhood.
This idea of perfection, something that is the new disease of this new millennium, manifests in all the wrong ways. I relish this political season. It will become more divisive as he versus she becomes a war cry. They will all talk about change, but really, we all know how little the world has changed since the days when three women, secretaries, felt they had to lock up their male boss in order to make changes to their world.
Friday, January 11, 2008
Marriage--Why Do We All Do It?
Why do so many women dream about, wish for, pray for, and resort to all sorts of tactics to get themselves trapped? Why do they? Why is the myth of marriage so powerful to create industries for singles to find their ideal mate, create the perfect wedding, award more degrees for marriage counselors, and ultimately, more attorneys for those nasty divorces when the sheen of the first month wears off?
I don't understand why so many of us find ourselves trapped, in a constant of compromise with another person and yourself--for what?
If I were to do it all again, I would never, ever get married. Period. It is not for me, I know with certainty each day. It's not so much about the person I'm married to, but just the institution itself. Women, in my opinion, lose out on all fronts of this arrangement. Yes, some of us can anesthetize ourselves with shopping for unnecessary, frivolous things. Others can seek solace, permanently, on a therapist's couch. Others use anti-depressants. Others just drink. But all of us seek out some resolve for the wearying constant that is married life.
Part of the blame should be directed toward the individuals involved in the misery of married life, and in my life, my husband, who exemplifies all the selfishness of most men. I think our culture has a way of raising boys to become incompetent emotional beings, particularly for the demands of modern married life where everything has to be negotiated. Remember we are the generation raised on "talking it out," an impossibility when boys, later men, aren't well versed in parsing out their emotional life into words, always words.
So, why do it? That is what I ask myself each and every day. Sometimes I fantasize about leaving permanently. That is, unfortunately, on most days. Perhaps tomorrow will be better. Or perhaps not. I'm sure our marriage will be a ticking clock, an expiration date just around the corner.
I don't understand why so many of us find ourselves trapped, in a constant of compromise with another person and yourself--for what?
If I were to do it all again, I would never, ever get married. Period. It is not for me, I know with certainty each day. It's not so much about the person I'm married to, but just the institution itself. Women, in my opinion, lose out on all fronts of this arrangement. Yes, some of us can anesthetize ourselves with shopping for unnecessary, frivolous things. Others can seek solace, permanently, on a therapist's couch. Others use anti-depressants. Others just drink. But all of us seek out some resolve for the wearying constant that is married life.
Part of the blame should be directed toward the individuals involved in the misery of married life, and in my life, my husband, who exemplifies all the selfishness of most men. I think our culture has a way of raising boys to become incompetent emotional beings, particularly for the demands of modern married life where everything has to be negotiated. Remember we are the generation raised on "talking it out," an impossibility when boys, later men, aren't well versed in parsing out their emotional life into words, always words.
So, why do it? That is what I ask myself each and every day. Sometimes I fantasize about leaving permanently. That is, unfortunately, on most days. Perhaps tomorrow will be better. Or perhaps not. I'm sure our marriage will be a ticking clock, an expiration date just around the corner.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Golden Globes, No More
LA, I'm sure, must be in a tizzy about the latest fall out from the writers' strike--the cancellation of the star-studded, glitzy, self-congratulatory, fashion show, freak show, known as the Golden Globes. This award show, created by Dick Clark, is a booze-filled night where the winners can, sometimes, give surprisingly candid speeches. But really, it's the night that kicks off a three-month long extravaganza, the culmination of which ends up with people holding parties to see the Red Carpet stroll of actors at the Academy Awards. This night is the unofficial holiday for the city of Angels.
But with the cancellation of the Golden Globes, and potentially, the Oscars, one forgets how many industries are hurt by such a calamity. The trickle down effect (such an 80's phrase) on the city's economy is huge, and not really reported. Yes, the Wall Street Journal did a woeful assessment of all the designers, whose wares will not be seen draped or strapped into the nearly perfect bodies of Angela Jolie, Cate Blanchett, and others. But think about the vast numbers of people, those responsible, for the Goddess or God-like images that are splashed across the television screens around the world, later recycled in the pages of half a dozen magazines, and soon replicated by the likes of AB Schwartz for teenag girls to buy for their upcoming proms.
Not only are designers the ones suffering. There are the stylists, whose jobs of procuring the perfect gowns for their celebrity clients, must now be put on hold indefinitely. What about the hairstylists? The jewelers? The nail salons? The caterers? The limousine companies? The alterations people? The valets? The grunts who put up the stadium seats outside the halls? The hotels? The restaurants? The liquor stores? The trainers? The colonics specialists? The facialists? The body waxers? The make up artists? The photographers? Joan Rivers and her annoying daughter? The E Channel? The musicians? The dancers? The tanning salons? The dry cleaners? Those people whose job it is to put together those ridiculously exorbitant swag bags together? Wolfgang Puck?
Can you see how this non event for the rest of the country is such a humongous deal in LA? Yes, the primaries are going on, but really, THE GOLDEN GLOBES HAVE BEEN CANCELED!!!!! I'm sure every coffee shop, every deli, every restaurant in Beverly Hills is all abuzz about this. And rightfully so once we realize what a huge industry these award shows have become for the entire city's economy, particularly the blocks west of Doheny Drive.
But that is the cost of a one industry town, which LA is, for better or worse. Hollywood, although not the driver of the economy in the city, has the perception of being the main industry. Therefore, any blips such as the cancellation of an awards show will feel cataclysmic for the entire city, especially in Beverly Hills.
It will be interesting to watch the Academy Awards, if they occur, from a distance. It will, more than likely, be put into the proper context. It will be something we may, or may not, watch, but not an event that we have to participate. I doubt we will go to any party where we will bet on the winners or losers. Again, I somehow don't see that happening here. I'm sure we will be nostalgic about how this non-event is such a big deal there. But that may not happen this year since they may not occur at all. God Forbid for Los Angeles.
But with the cancellation of the Golden Globes, and potentially, the Oscars, one forgets how many industries are hurt by such a calamity. The trickle down effect (such an 80's phrase) on the city's economy is huge, and not really reported. Yes, the Wall Street Journal did a woeful assessment of all the designers, whose wares will not be seen draped or strapped into the nearly perfect bodies of Angela Jolie, Cate Blanchett, and others. But think about the vast numbers of people, those responsible, for the Goddess or God-like images that are splashed across the television screens around the world, later recycled in the pages of half a dozen magazines, and soon replicated by the likes of AB Schwartz for teenag girls to buy for their upcoming proms.
Not only are designers the ones suffering. There are the stylists, whose jobs of procuring the perfect gowns for their celebrity clients, must now be put on hold indefinitely. What about the hairstylists? The jewelers? The nail salons? The caterers? The limousine companies? The alterations people? The valets? The grunts who put up the stadium seats outside the halls? The hotels? The restaurants? The liquor stores? The trainers? The colonics specialists? The facialists? The body waxers? The make up artists? The photographers? Joan Rivers and her annoying daughter? The E Channel? The musicians? The dancers? The tanning salons? The dry cleaners? Those people whose job it is to put together those ridiculously exorbitant swag bags together? Wolfgang Puck?
Can you see how this non event for the rest of the country is such a humongous deal in LA? Yes, the primaries are going on, but really, THE GOLDEN GLOBES HAVE BEEN CANCELED!!!!! I'm sure every coffee shop, every deli, every restaurant in Beverly Hills is all abuzz about this. And rightfully so once we realize what a huge industry these award shows have become for the entire city's economy, particularly the blocks west of Doheny Drive.
But that is the cost of a one industry town, which LA is, for better or worse. Hollywood, although not the driver of the economy in the city, has the perception of being the main industry. Therefore, any blips such as the cancellation of an awards show will feel cataclysmic for the entire city, especially in Beverly Hills.
It will be interesting to watch the Academy Awards, if they occur, from a distance. It will, more than likely, be put into the proper context. It will be something we may, or may not, watch, but not an event that we have to participate. I doubt we will go to any party where we will bet on the winners or losers. Again, I somehow don't see that happening here. I'm sure we will be nostalgic about how this non-event is such a big deal there. But that may not happen this year since they may not occur at all. God Forbid for Los Angeles.
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
New Yorkers are Rude--Fuggedit
There is that long held belief that New Yorkers are rude, pushy, and mean. Or that's what the rest of the country believes about the 8 million inhabitants, and the millions more who come into the city to work (we should note most of these people come from New Jersey, Connecticut, and even Pennsylvania).
So, here's what I've noticed about New Yorkers, thus far. They are fast walkers, a necessity here. They have no problems stepping around you if you are dawdling in the middle of a sidewalk. But they rarely do so muttering profanities under their breath. Actually if they were so incensed they would most likely just cuss you out, right there in the middle of a busy sidewalk. But that is something I've yet to see, or worse be the recipient.
You would think so many people squeezed in together would make tempers brittle, but that is far from the case. On an given day, on a crowded subway car, or bus, I will witness a person giving up their seat to an elderly person or a mother with a young child. These unexpected acts of generosity and good manners reaffirms my belief that people here are not rude, pushy, or mean. I've been the recipient of such generosity whenever I've gotten on a bus or subway with my son where a young man, young woman, or just man, or woman, have gladly given up their seat for us. I've also been aided, unasked I might add, by a passerby about which subway to take to get me home. This gentleman was not creepy, certainly not using this opportunity to ask me for a date, but was helping out a confused damsel.
Why, then, have New Yorkers suffered such labels? It does make you think about it since I'd just left a city full of sun shine and full of some of the rudest, self-involved people I'd ever encountered. It was as if the perpetual sunshine made all of their home training, if they'd had any, disappear along with most of their brain cells. I've seen grown men, sitting, or rather, lounging at the outdoor tables of any number of cafes, watching a woman struggling with the door as she tried to squeeze herself and her stroller through. It was more of a rarity for one of them to get up to open the door for the woman, but rather the norm that they would, collectively, sit and watch as if they were watching television. I've written enough about the craziness of LA drivers, how so many of them use their cars as weapons, or rather shields as they vent their frustrations out on the rest of the drivers on the road. LA is the city known for people shooting at another driver in a fit of 'road rage.' Isn't that where this term came from, this land of sunshine and supposedly laid back Angelenos?
I attribute this disconnection with propriety, good manners, consideration for others to the simple fact that life is constantly filtered through the windshield of a car. If you deal with people in the most limited, and in most cases, synthetic manner then you are apt to live in a bubble where anyone else's consideration is never considered. Angelenos can drive past the many homeless, an easy thing to do if your car radio is blaring the newest Radio Head song, allowing you to pretend that the body buried under a sleeping bag on the sidewalk is of no consequence to your immediate world.
New York, a city where you are constantly juggling yourself against the multitude of citizenry, makes it difficult for you to filter the world, in any manner. You are always forced to consider how your action, or inaction, affects someone else, even if most are strangers. Each time you walk past a homeless person asking for a quarter, or better yet, a dollar, you are forced to consider so many personal, and public questions. And no, you don't hand over a quarter to everyone that asks. But this doesn't mean you don't think about it.
I also think one's constant contact with the general public forces you to behave humanely. Look, if you were a young guy, sitting there as an old person with a walker stood by your chair, I am certain most around this young man would say, or do something to point out his lack of consideration. It is the pressure of the collective that, in the end, makes all of us just a bit nicer, just a bit more considerate, just a bit less aggressive.
A life, or rather, a city that is always lived behind gates takes this pressure off of the individual, giving you a false sense of privacy--something that can be abused. That is the strangest thing of all, this city of 8 million, can, on most days, make you think about your anonymity, your face just one of many. Yet, the sense of privacy that most in Los Angeles feels is their God-given right, is not something we can assume as a way of life here. No, we are always forced to deal with all of humanity: the good, the bad, the fragile, the hopeful, the beautiful, the ugly, the helpless, the frightening, the weak, the mentally ill, the young, the old, all of it, day in and day out. And perhaps that is what debunks the myth about New Yorkers since each of us can see something of our own fragility, humanity, in the face of someone else, thereby propelling you to act as you would hope someone would act toward you. Whatever the case, New Yorkers certainly do not earn the rudest people on the planet moniker. No, I would say some other town or city may deserve that stereotype.
So, here's what I've noticed about New Yorkers, thus far. They are fast walkers, a necessity here. They have no problems stepping around you if you are dawdling in the middle of a sidewalk. But they rarely do so muttering profanities under their breath. Actually if they were so incensed they would most likely just cuss you out, right there in the middle of a busy sidewalk. But that is something I've yet to see, or worse be the recipient.
You would think so many people squeezed in together would make tempers brittle, but that is far from the case. On an given day, on a crowded subway car, or bus, I will witness a person giving up their seat to an elderly person or a mother with a young child. These unexpected acts of generosity and good manners reaffirms my belief that people here are not rude, pushy, or mean. I've been the recipient of such generosity whenever I've gotten on a bus or subway with my son where a young man, young woman, or just man, or woman, have gladly given up their seat for us. I've also been aided, unasked I might add, by a passerby about which subway to take to get me home. This gentleman was not creepy, certainly not using this opportunity to ask me for a date, but was helping out a confused damsel.
Why, then, have New Yorkers suffered such labels? It does make you think about it since I'd just left a city full of sun shine and full of some of the rudest, self-involved people I'd ever encountered. It was as if the perpetual sunshine made all of their home training, if they'd had any, disappear along with most of their brain cells. I've seen grown men, sitting, or rather, lounging at the outdoor tables of any number of cafes, watching a woman struggling with the door as she tried to squeeze herself and her stroller through. It was more of a rarity for one of them to get up to open the door for the woman, but rather the norm that they would, collectively, sit and watch as if they were watching television. I've written enough about the craziness of LA drivers, how so many of them use their cars as weapons, or rather shields as they vent their frustrations out on the rest of the drivers on the road. LA is the city known for people shooting at another driver in a fit of 'road rage.' Isn't that where this term came from, this land of sunshine and supposedly laid back Angelenos?
I attribute this disconnection with propriety, good manners, consideration for others to the simple fact that life is constantly filtered through the windshield of a car. If you deal with people in the most limited, and in most cases, synthetic manner then you are apt to live in a bubble where anyone else's consideration is never considered. Angelenos can drive past the many homeless, an easy thing to do if your car radio is blaring the newest Radio Head song, allowing you to pretend that the body buried under a sleeping bag on the sidewalk is of no consequence to your immediate world.
New York, a city where you are constantly juggling yourself against the multitude of citizenry, makes it difficult for you to filter the world, in any manner. You are always forced to consider how your action, or inaction, affects someone else, even if most are strangers. Each time you walk past a homeless person asking for a quarter, or better yet, a dollar, you are forced to consider so many personal, and public questions. And no, you don't hand over a quarter to everyone that asks. But this doesn't mean you don't think about it.
I also think one's constant contact with the general public forces you to behave humanely. Look, if you were a young guy, sitting there as an old person with a walker stood by your chair, I am certain most around this young man would say, or do something to point out his lack of consideration. It is the pressure of the collective that, in the end, makes all of us just a bit nicer, just a bit more considerate, just a bit less aggressive.
A life, or rather, a city that is always lived behind gates takes this pressure off of the individual, giving you a false sense of privacy--something that can be abused. That is the strangest thing of all, this city of 8 million, can, on most days, make you think about your anonymity, your face just one of many. Yet, the sense of privacy that most in Los Angeles feels is their God-given right, is not something we can assume as a way of life here. No, we are always forced to deal with all of humanity: the good, the bad, the fragile, the hopeful, the beautiful, the ugly, the helpless, the frightening, the weak, the mentally ill, the young, the old, all of it, day in and day out. And perhaps that is what debunks the myth about New Yorkers since each of us can see something of our own fragility, humanity, in the face of someone else, thereby propelling you to act as you would hope someone would act toward you. Whatever the case, New Yorkers certainly do not earn the rudest people on the planet moniker. No, I would say some other town or city may deserve that stereotype.
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
Death of the Shopping Mall
I was of the generation that grew up inside a shopping mall. This enclosed building was Mecca for a suburban teenager. The first mall was built in the late 70's in my Philadelphia suburban town, the new playground for me and my friends. The arcade and pizza shop was where we would congregate on Saturdays. Gaggles of girls would stroll up and down, gossiping, browsing, and trying to get the attention of their male counterparts, also strolling in packs. Orange Julius was as familiar as the Champs Elysee bakery where my mom would buy my croissants. This mall would soon be eclipsed by the newer version in another town where trendier stores like Benetton would draw throngs of suburban teens.
It seems this staple of our culture is facing a slow death all across the country. This phenomenon that had completely reshaped our culture in terms of how, and where, we consume is now becoming as obsolete as the plastic furniture covers, a staple of 70's homes.
This American phenomenon was created by Victor Gruen, a Jewish bohemian. He started designing shops for fellow immigrants in New York after failing in cabaret theater. By the 40's, department stores were moving to the suburbs. Commissioned to build a shopping center in Southdale in 1956, Gruen threw a roof over the structure and installed an air conditioning system to keep the temperature at a constant 75 degrees--perpetual springtime.
By the 80's the mall was as much a part of American life as Ford trucks. We saw food chains, created for malls, crop up. Can anyone say Panda Express or Cinnabon without immediately conjuring up escalators, canned music, and Victoria's Secret? We saw movies like "Fast Times at Ridgemont High" and "Valley Girl" epitomize mall culture for the generation of mall goers.
By the 90's malls were in dire straits. The problem was in the sheer number of malls cropping up, competing for the same shoppers in their suburban haven. Another problem was the changing face of suburbia itself. The sedate life of subdivisions, soccer moms, and bored kids was evolving as immigrants started to arrive, and in some areas, in droves. The 90's also saw the resurgence of cities drawing hip white suburbanites to move downtown, leaving behind suburban life. So, this planned shopping community, created to keep out diversity, was now doing the exact opposite as communities started to change. It seems the rapid death of malls has spawned a new hobby: amateur shopping-mall history, namely on websites. It is a strange country indeed.
So, what's in store for American shopping culture? Rick Caruso, little known outside Los Angeles, is doing his part to reshape, redefine, the old mall. His creation, which sits on the corner of Fairfax and Third, otherwise known as The Grove, has created a faux-city behind walls where women, mostly white, feel safe and stylish enough to shop to their heart's content. Yes, there is something a bit Vegas like about the whole place, especially the fountain that sprays in tune to various songs like Kool and the Gang's, "Celebration". There is something sinister, even, about this fake city with its strange trolley that runs the length of the place. But this new outdoor shopping mecca with its minuscule green space, which people use as a park, is redefining the way we shop, yet again. Whether the success of the Grove will translate into other suburban towns tearing off the roof on their indoor shopping centers remains to be seen. Really, who in their right mind would walk around in an uncovered building in Minnesota during the winter months?
And even the Grove, during a rainy day, is quite empty as people head to the enclosed safety of the Beverly Center. But perhaps that is more a result of the thin-bloodedness of Angelenos, whose very existence is shattered if a few rain drops fall from the heavens above. Perhaps Minnesotans, quite at home with inclement weather, would happily stuff themselves inside their down jackets to do a bit of shopping. New Yorkers certainly have no trouble shopping in any type of weather. We only need to head down a clogged 5th Avenue, the largest outdoor mall in America, and see how weather really plays no part when people are intent on spending.
Whatever the outcome, the latest casualty of the changing face of American life, mainly in the suburbs, will continue to be felt on all levels. Those who've remained in suburban towns, perhaps their salaries not allowing them to move into cities, will have to face a reality where the Orange Julius will be replaced a Taqueria, or worse, a butcher shop that sells exotic animal parts. It's no surprise that immigration will be the biggest issue during this Presidential election. Global warming be damned! Suburban families are pissed that their towns are a changing.
Again, this country will reinvent how we shop as another 'thing' emerges as the next best thing.
It seems this staple of our culture is facing a slow death all across the country. This phenomenon that had completely reshaped our culture in terms of how, and where, we consume is now becoming as obsolete as the plastic furniture covers, a staple of 70's homes.
This American phenomenon was created by Victor Gruen, a Jewish bohemian. He started designing shops for fellow immigrants in New York after failing in cabaret theater. By the 40's, department stores were moving to the suburbs. Commissioned to build a shopping center in Southdale in 1956, Gruen threw a roof over the structure and installed an air conditioning system to keep the temperature at a constant 75 degrees--perpetual springtime.
By the 80's the mall was as much a part of American life as Ford trucks. We saw food chains, created for malls, crop up. Can anyone say Panda Express or Cinnabon without immediately conjuring up escalators, canned music, and Victoria's Secret? We saw movies like "Fast Times at Ridgemont High" and "Valley Girl" epitomize mall culture for the generation of mall goers.
By the 90's malls were in dire straits. The problem was in the sheer number of malls cropping up, competing for the same shoppers in their suburban haven. Another problem was the changing face of suburbia itself. The sedate life of subdivisions, soccer moms, and bored kids was evolving as immigrants started to arrive, and in some areas, in droves. The 90's also saw the resurgence of cities drawing hip white suburbanites to move downtown, leaving behind suburban life. So, this planned shopping community, created to keep out diversity, was now doing the exact opposite as communities started to change. It seems the rapid death of malls has spawned a new hobby: amateur shopping-mall history, namely on websites. It is a strange country indeed.
So, what's in store for American shopping culture? Rick Caruso, little known outside Los Angeles, is doing his part to reshape, redefine, the old mall. His creation, which sits on the corner of Fairfax and Third, otherwise known as The Grove, has created a faux-city behind walls where women, mostly white, feel safe and stylish enough to shop to their heart's content. Yes, there is something a bit Vegas like about the whole place, especially the fountain that sprays in tune to various songs like Kool and the Gang's, "Celebration". There is something sinister, even, about this fake city with its strange trolley that runs the length of the place. But this new outdoor shopping mecca with its minuscule green space, which people use as a park, is redefining the way we shop, yet again. Whether the success of the Grove will translate into other suburban towns tearing off the roof on their indoor shopping centers remains to be seen. Really, who in their right mind would walk around in an uncovered building in Minnesota during the winter months?
And even the Grove, during a rainy day, is quite empty as people head to the enclosed safety of the Beverly Center. But perhaps that is more a result of the thin-bloodedness of Angelenos, whose very existence is shattered if a few rain drops fall from the heavens above. Perhaps Minnesotans, quite at home with inclement weather, would happily stuff themselves inside their down jackets to do a bit of shopping. New Yorkers certainly have no trouble shopping in any type of weather. We only need to head down a clogged 5th Avenue, the largest outdoor mall in America, and see how weather really plays no part when people are intent on spending.
Whatever the outcome, the latest casualty of the changing face of American life, mainly in the suburbs, will continue to be felt on all levels. Those who've remained in suburban towns, perhaps their salaries not allowing them to move into cities, will have to face a reality where the Orange Julius will be replaced a Taqueria, or worse, a butcher shop that sells exotic animal parts. It's no surprise that immigration will be the biggest issue during this Presidential election. Global warming be damned! Suburban families are pissed that their towns are a changing.
Again, this country will reinvent how we shop as another 'thing' emerges as the next best thing.
Monday, January 7, 2008
What I Love About New York
Since I thought about those things I love about Los Angeles, I felt I should do the same for this city, now my home.
1. I love the Union Square Farmer's Market, even on a cold day where you can purchase endless varieties of apples.
2. I love that Trader Joe's and just about any other store will deliver all of your purchases.
3. I love that I can put on a full length fur coat and get on a cross town bus, knowing that not one person on the bus would give me a second glance.
4. I love that I can order a book online from Barnes and Noble, and have it delivered that very afternoon.
5. I love walking down a street, only to discover a cobble-lined street of old carriage houses, all of it reminding you of this city's long history, but also a time when Edith Wharton had lived.
6. I love the sense of anonymity the city affords you.
7. I love that a walk down any street will surely make you think about all of life's absurdities and cruelties, no matter where you are in the city.
8. I love that the bus driver and riders will wait patiently as another wheel chair bound rider gets hoisted up on to the bus, making you realize how fortunate you are to have the ability to walk on and off.
9. I love that you can get into a cab, never knowing what language will be spoken by the driver into his Blue Tooth ear piece.
10. I love that New Yorkers view "eating out" an event, much like attending the opera, going to the museum, or going to see a movie.
11. I love that you will walk into a restaurant on a Saturday night and know every woman will be dressed, not a pair of jeans in sight.
12. I love that sample sales are another subculture of this city.
13. I love being on a subway or bus, noticing how many people are reading books, magazines, or even the Post during their daily commute.
14. I love that every street, no matter where you live, will have a Duane Reade, a Bodegga, a bagel shop, dry cleaners, Dunkin Donuts and a pizza place.
15. I love that you can be jaywalking across a boulevard--a right of passage for a New Yorker-- and glance up to see a sea of bodies doing the same.
16. I love that women of all socio-economic levels dress themselves as if constantly on parade.
17. I love the fact the city looks even more mysterious and beautiful on the grayest of days.
18. I love looking out our apartment window at dusk, noticing all the other lit windows, reminding you that you are hardly alone.
19. I love playing tennis under a strange looking dome underneath the 59th Street Bridge.
20. I love that a walk to a bus or subway may mean a slight sprint to reach the vehicle in question, even in four inch heels.
21. And I love, more than anything, just walking, taking in all of the city, the people, the stores, the sights, the smells of Gyro cars, and just knowing that this is where I was meant to live.
1. I love the Union Square Farmer's Market, even on a cold day where you can purchase endless varieties of apples.
2. I love that Trader Joe's and just about any other store will deliver all of your purchases.
3. I love that I can put on a full length fur coat and get on a cross town bus, knowing that not one person on the bus would give me a second glance.
4. I love that I can order a book online from Barnes and Noble, and have it delivered that very afternoon.
5. I love walking down a street, only to discover a cobble-lined street of old carriage houses, all of it reminding you of this city's long history, but also a time when Edith Wharton had lived.
6. I love the sense of anonymity the city affords you.
7. I love that a walk down any street will surely make you think about all of life's absurdities and cruelties, no matter where you are in the city.
8. I love that the bus driver and riders will wait patiently as another wheel chair bound rider gets hoisted up on to the bus, making you realize how fortunate you are to have the ability to walk on and off.
9. I love that you can get into a cab, never knowing what language will be spoken by the driver into his Blue Tooth ear piece.
10. I love that New Yorkers view "eating out" an event, much like attending the opera, going to the museum, or going to see a movie.
11. I love that you will walk into a restaurant on a Saturday night and know every woman will be dressed, not a pair of jeans in sight.
12. I love that sample sales are another subculture of this city.
13. I love being on a subway or bus, noticing how many people are reading books, magazines, or even the Post during their daily commute.
14. I love that every street, no matter where you live, will have a Duane Reade, a Bodegga, a bagel shop, dry cleaners, Dunkin Donuts and a pizza place.
15. I love that you can be jaywalking across a boulevard--a right of passage for a New Yorker-- and glance up to see a sea of bodies doing the same.
16. I love that women of all socio-economic levels dress themselves as if constantly on parade.
17. I love the fact the city looks even more mysterious and beautiful on the grayest of days.
18. I love looking out our apartment window at dusk, noticing all the other lit windows, reminding you that you are hardly alone.
19. I love playing tennis under a strange looking dome underneath the 59th Street Bridge.
20. I love that a walk to a bus or subway may mean a slight sprint to reach the vehicle in question, even in four inch heels.
21. And I love, more than anything, just walking, taking in all of the city, the people, the stores, the sights, the smells of Gyro cars, and just knowing that this is where I was meant to live.
Thursday, January 3, 2008
What I Love and Miss About Los Angeles
It seems impossible that I would miss anything about Los Angeles, but there you have it. You need some time away, some distance, to be able to gain a perspective about a place that had seemed the cause of so much of your unhappiness. I've compiled a list of sorts to describe what it is about Los Angeles I do love.
1. I love that the sun, which seems to shine every day, glints off of every surface, casting a light of indescribable beauty.
2. I love the time spent alone in the car, listening to NPR.
3. I love the palm-tree-lined boulevard of Santa Monica Boulevard, heading into Beverly Hills, which seems the epitome of the California Dream.
4. I love wearing a dress with bare legs in December, January, well, all year long.
5. I love driving past a Starbucks or Coffee Bean, noticing the hordes of people sitting outside.
6. I love driving the length of Sunset Boulevard from the PCH to downtown, all of the city's economic landscape on display as you make your way past gated mansions, West Hollywood, Hollywood, Silverlake, and finally downtown.
7. I love the immense Korea Town that stretches as far north as Santa Monica Boulevard and as far south as Pico, and from Western to Vermont, where English is rarely spoken, all the store signs in Korean.
8. I love the Korean spas where Russian women, Korean women, American women, lounge around the tub naked.
9. I love the Los Angeles coffee shops that offers an opportunity for people gazing and the leisurely sip of a Latte.
10. I love the spectacle of the Oscar Awards--an unofficial holiday for the city.
11. I love the melange of architecture on any given street.
12. I love the sound of the sprinklers turning on, signaling the start of the day.
13. I love being able to purchase a large bag of oranges or a box of strawberries while waiting for a light to turn green.
14. I love the ArcLight Theater where you can call ahead to reserve, not only tickets, but your seats.
15. I love the diagonal crossing signs for pedestrians in Beverly Hills.
16. I love Crustacean Restaurant's food, but more importantly, walking over a Koi pond floor.
17. I love that roses can bloom well into November.
18. I love the hummingbirds that danced from flower to flower in our garden.
19. I love the black crows that would swoop in our cul de sac.
20. I love that coyotes can come down from the hillside, reminding you nature's door is so near.
21. I love that you can arrive at a party, knowing every other person will work in the 'business.'
22. I love that writers on strike drop their kids off at the same school as the producers, network executives, and heads of studios.
23. I love that Neiman's has a bar in the men's department, so that you can sip a martini after a strenuous day of shopping.
24. I love the Peninsula Hotel's high tea where women can pretend to be ladies from a different era as teas are sipped, scones are eaten, and the harpist plays.
25. I love the patrons of Cafe Roma, where old Hollywood, including the governor, holds court, reliving a hey day long past.
26. I love that women, even those who are brunette, come to LA to become blonds, proving this city is the place of reinvention.
27. I love the Hollywood Bowl on a warm summer's night.
28. I love the Getty Museum, which is more about the space than the art work on display.
29. I love seeing the entirety of the city below from a Hillside home.
30. I love that Larchmont Village feels more like a Midwestern town than a part of Los Angeles.
31. I love Yuca's taco stand on Hillhurst Boulevard, proving the point that a place run by an old Mexican woman and her daughter can win a James Beard award for excellence.
32. I love Little Tokyo's Village where you can get cheap sushi, shiatsu massage, and the most perfect mochi ice cream.
33. I love the mayor of Hollywood, Johnny Grant, who is one of the best promoters of his little domain.
34. I love the skaters, who congregate down on Venice Beach, to perform as music blares out of large boom boxes.
35. I love that Santa Monica feels like a separate state.
36. And I love that all of this world can be processed from behind the safety of a car windshield, proving that LA is truly a city of the new millennium.
24.
1. I love that the sun, which seems to shine every day, glints off of every surface, casting a light of indescribable beauty.
2. I love the time spent alone in the car, listening to NPR.
3. I love the palm-tree-lined boulevard of Santa Monica Boulevard, heading into Beverly Hills, which seems the epitome of the California Dream.
4. I love wearing a dress with bare legs in December, January, well, all year long.
5. I love driving past a Starbucks or Coffee Bean, noticing the hordes of people sitting outside.
6. I love driving the length of Sunset Boulevard from the PCH to downtown, all of the city's economic landscape on display as you make your way past gated mansions, West Hollywood, Hollywood, Silverlake, and finally downtown.
7. I love the immense Korea Town that stretches as far north as Santa Monica Boulevard and as far south as Pico, and from Western to Vermont, where English is rarely spoken, all the store signs in Korean.
8. I love the Korean spas where Russian women, Korean women, American women, lounge around the tub naked.
9. I love the Los Angeles coffee shops that offers an opportunity for people gazing and the leisurely sip of a Latte.
10. I love the spectacle of the Oscar Awards--an unofficial holiday for the city.
11. I love the melange of architecture on any given street.
12. I love the sound of the sprinklers turning on, signaling the start of the day.
13. I love being able to purchase a large bag of oranges or a box of strawberries while waiting for a light to turn green.
14. I love the ArcLight Theater where you can call ahead to reserve, not only tickets, but your seats.
15. I love the diagonal crossing signs for pedestrians in Beverly Hills.
16. I love Crustacean Restaurant's food, but more importantly, walking over a Koi pond floor.
17. I love that roses can bloom well into November.
18. I love the hummingbirds that danced from flower to flower in our garden.
19. I love the black crows that would swoop in our cul de sac.
20. I love that coyotes can come down from the hillside, reminding you nature's door is so near.
21. I love that you can arrive at a party, knowing every other person will work in the 'business.'
22. I love that writers on strike drop their kids off at the same school as the producers, network executives, and heads of studios.
23. I love that Neiman's has a bar in the men's department, so that you can sip a martini after a strenuous day of shopping.
24. I love the Peninsula Hotel's high tea where women can pretend to be ladies from a different era as teas are sipped, scones are eaten, and the harpist plays.
25. I love the patrons of Cafe Roma, where old Hollywood, including the governor, holds court, reliving a hey day long past.
26. I love that women, even those who are brunette, come to LA to become blonds, proving this city is the place of reinvention.
27. I love the Hollywood Bowl on a warm summer's night.
28. I love the Getty Museum, which is more about the space than the art work on display.
29. I love seeing the entirety of the city below from a Hillside home.
30. I love that Larchmont Village feels more like a Midwestern town than a part of Los Angeles.
31. I love Yuca's taco stand on Hillhurst Boulevard, proving the point that a place run by an old Mexican woman and her daughter can win a James Beard award for excellence.
32. I love Little Tokyo's Village where you can get cheap sushi, shiatsu massage, and the most perfect mochi ice cream.
33. I love the mayor of Hollywood, Johnny Grant, who is one of the best promoters of his little domain.
34. I love the skaters, who congregate down on Venice Beach, to perform as music blares out of large boom boxes.
35. I love that Santa Monica feels like a separate state.
36. And I love that all of this world can be processed from behind the safety of a car windshield, proving that LA is truly a city of the new millennium.
24.
A New Year--Freezing Temperatures
You always forget, or one tries hard to forget, the wind chill when living in climates such as New York or Boston. The temperature's dip to a single digit is alarming enough, but it's the wind chill that can make a grown adult weep while standing outside for a bus. Today, the third day of the first month of this new year, is one of those days when a brisk walk anywhere is recommended. Today is also the day of the much discussed, dissected, analyzed, and now much awaited, Iowa Caucuses. This may be the day when we may make history by having either an African-American man or a woman running for the highest office of this land, if not the world.
But instead of watching CNN all day long to see what the analysts will predict as the day's outcome, I find myself thinking about a New Yorker piece I'd read many years ago about a sales woman at the famous Steinway Piano store on 57th. The piece, like any in this magazine, was well written. But this particular story was especially moving in depicting one woman's dreams of a concert career sidelined into the selling of these venerable instruments. The part of this piece that resonated with me the most, and the part that made me weep, was when she called her dying father from the store after hours. After a few attempts at a conversation that didn't involve a great deal of hand wringing about the end being so near, he asked her to play for him. This woman, whose talents, which hadn't been great enough to solo in major concert halls, but good enough to showcase these instruments to potential buyers, sat down and played while her father listened on the other end, most likely lying in a hospital bed. That profile was one I'd thought about, and never forgot, so you can imagine my surprise and delight as I walked down 57th and walked past this very store. Of course I peered inside, noticing the beautiful instruments, but also two women, sitting at desks. I couldn't help but wonder if one of them had been the one who'd given her dying father the gift of music in that deserted music store, so famous for the instruments, but also for those who've played inside.
And in the end, the writer, whose name I never can recall, did his or her job in relating this very human story about thwarted dreams and mortality. That is, ultimately, what good writing should do, isn't it? I think about that every day as I sit, and sometimes sit, for hours with my fingers splayed across the keyboard, struggling with one word that would, or could, convey the whole of the emotional landscape I'm trying to paint. Someday, I will get the courage to go inside that store, trying hard to appear as I'm there, for no other business than, to pick out a piano, all the while wondering if she is the one.
But instead of watching CNN all day long to see what the analysts will predict as the day's outcome, I find myself thinking about a New Yorker piece I'd read many years ago about a sales woman at the famous Steinway Piano store on 57th. The piece, like any in this magazine, was well written. But this particular story was especially moving in depicting one woman's dreams of a concert career sidelined into the selling of these venerable instruments. The part of this piece that resonated with me the most, and the part that made me weep, was when she called her dying father from the store after hours. After a few attempts at a conversation that didn't involve a great deal of hand wringing about the end being so near, he asked her to play for him. This woman, whose talents, which hadn't been great enough to solo in major concert halls, but good enough to showcase these instruments to potential buyers, sat down and played while her father listened on the other end, most likely lying in a hospital bed. That profile was one I'd thought about, and never forgot, so you can imagine my surprise and delight as I walked down 57th and walked past this very store. Of course I peered inside, noticing the beautiful instruments, but also two women, sitting at desks. I couldn't help but wonder if one of them had been the one who'd given her dying father the gift of music in that deserted music store, so famous for the instruments, but also for those who've played inside.
And in the end, the writer, whose name I never can recall, did his or her job in relating this very human story about thwarted dreams and mortality. That is, ultimately, what good writing should do, isn't it? I think about that every day as I sit, and sometimes sit, for hours with my fingers splayed across the keyboard, struggling with one word that would, or could, convey the whole of the emotional landscape I'm trying to paint. Someday, I will get the courage to go inside that store, trying hard to appear as I'm there, for no other business than, to pick out a piano, all the while wondering if she is the one.
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