I finished The Grapes of Wrath and the next day when I bought a copy of Harper's, I found this story about retirement-age adults who live in RVs and travel the country following seasonal work. Jessica Bruder writes:
They call themselves workampers, travelers, nomads, and gypsies, while
history-minded commentators have labeled them the Okies of the Great
Recession. More bluntly, they are geriatric migrant labor, meeting demands
for seasonal work in an increasingly fragmented, temp-driven marketplace.
And whatever you call them, they're part of a demographic that in the past
several years has grown with alarming speed: downwardly mobile older
Americans.
I highly recommend reading this piece; if you're like me and had no idea about this group of people, you'll find it informative, frequently mind-boggling, and yet also an expected extension of economic and social trends. Just as the Joads find community in some places and (when there is work) hard work for little pay almost everywhere, the people Bruder interviews create communities at RV camps yet work long, exhausting days at Amazon warehouses and other sites. But one difference is that there are no Jim Casys in the 2014 story, no workers on strike.
Showing posts with label geography. Show all posts
Showing posts with label geography. Show all posts
Thursday, August 21, 2014
Wednesday, August 6, 2014
The Big Chill in Columbus
OK, I'm not done re-watching Family Ties - I'm only to episode five, season five - but already there's plenty new to discuss, and I just couldn't wait. Because, of course, I am a nerd.
In keeping with that nerdiness, I started doing research to see who else has written about the show, and one of the pieces, "The American Family on Television: From Molly Goldberg to Bill Cosby" from the Journal of Comparative Family Studies includes this passage:
In Family Ties, one of the few shows in which politics was even
mentioned, political preference is much like having an occupation.
The characters, especially Alex, talk about politics but hardly ever
participate in the political process. Characters do not battle for
social change.
Muriel G. Cantor does overlook the season one episode where the parents, Steven and Elyse, go to jail for protesting nuclear weapons, but I concede that there's a lack of engagement in subsequent episodes.
There is some engagement: Elyse leads a group fighting a re-zoning law at the end of season one, and in season two Alex pretends to support the Equal Rights Amendment in order to get a girl to like him and goes to jail in the process, but in season five when Steven has the opportunity to be part of the revival of a political magazine named Scavenger that he and a friend started at UC Berkeley, he finds that he's no longer radical enough for his old friend Matt.
There are fascinating details that emerge in this episode. For one, Steven expresses an aversion to being arrested, stating that "getting arrested is way down on my list now. Right below being shipwrecked." He does have a young child at home and more bills to pay - with two children in college and one in preschool - none of which he had in season one when he and Elyse were arrested, but it's still a telling shift. He's thinking ahead to the election in 1988 and which Democrats might run, an interest and investment in the two-party-dominated U.S. political system that his friend disdains; Matt is far more interested in anarchy.
Scavenger seems like a misnomer for their venture; a scavenger feasts on the dead, but Matt and the other contributors clearly think that the two-party system is still in need of killing. One of them criticizes Steven in a meeting by saying, "you're suggesting that people actually go out and vote for one of the two prevailing political parties…the only vote that counts is a vote against the system." But Steven wants to be neither a vulture nor a hawk - not only in the political sense of being to the right, but also not in the general sense of wanting to hunt, to be an activist. He's in all ways a dove.
Does this turn away from the Scavenger represent an actual shift in values for the character or the show, or a continuation? After all, we know from earlier episodes that Steven voted for McGovern in 1972, so the guy who wrote "The Two-Party System: Tweedledum and Tweedledee" for the original iteration of the Scavenger hasn't been around for awhile. While it may be a continuation that the character himself is only just now noticing, it does seem like a shift for the show, signaling that we won't have any repeat prison performances, or if we do, they'll be a joke, like Alex's, not a sincere extension of ideals. Steven may still voice his concern for nuclear disarmament and hang an old Ban the Bomb sign above the fireplace to welcome Matt, but it looks like Steven won't be going to jail for this cause, or any other, again.
There's a moment when it seems like the character and the show itself may be aware of this: when Steven asks Elyse if he's changed, she replies, "I think your social conscience has held up pretty well," and he laughs shortly and says, "Right. And the tax credit from Amnesty International proves it." Writing a check is different from other kinds of activism, the show observes. But then Elyse continues:
You do make a statement, Steven. You make a statement by the way
you live your life, by the way you raise your children, by choosing
a job that doesn't compromise your principles. Those are political
acts, as strong as anything you ever did back at Berkeley.
Here we see a character endorsing an argument that politics can be lived primarily through the family. It's not quite a disavowal of the public sphere, but it does argue that raising kids and going to work are enough, and in that regard it seems to join other works that seek to placate the idealistic young people of the '60s who have become the comfortably middle class parents of the '80s. It's OK, the show says through the character of Elyse. You're still a good person.
And in case that message wasn't clear enough or the messenger was suspect for being a fellow member of that generation, after Elyse leaves the room, Alex walks in to reassure his father as well. "Listen, Dad," Alex begins. "Over the years, you and I have searched for some common political ground. We searched…and searched…and searched" (studio audience laughs). "And even though we haven't agreed on anything yet, I really respect your ideals, you know? And the fact that you respect mine. You set a good example." The child absolves the parent.
To be fair, raising children to be respectful, independent thinkers is no small thing; nor is having a job that reflects your values. There's also a point here to how people can change, how different we can be at 40 from 20, and research from Pew shows that many older adults are more conservative than they used to be. But it's impossible not to feel like the show is withdrawing politically at this point in the series, the protesting and getting arrested of 1982 replaced with the benign Reagan jokes of 1986. I'll write more about this is in a later post; in the meantime, I leave you with this great poster and some relevant Ohio ERA history...because I'm guessing if you've read this far, you're a nerd, too:
In keeping with that nerdiness, I started doing research to see who else has written about the show, and one of the pieces, "The American Family on Television: From Molly Goldberg to Bill Cosby" from the Journal of Comparative Family Studies includes this passage:
In Family Ties, one of the few shows in which politics was even
mentioned, political preference is much like having an occupation.
The characters, especially Alex, talk about politics but hardly ever
participate in the political process. Characters do not battle for
social change.
Muriel G. Cantor does overlook the season one episode where the parents, Steven and Elyse, go to jail for protesting nuclear weapons, but I concede that there's a lack of engagement in subsequent episodes.
There is some engagement: Elyse leads a group fighting a re-zoning law at the end of season one, and in season two Alex pretends to support the Equal Rights Amendment in order to get a girl to like him and goes to jail in the process, but in season five when Steven has the opportunity to be part of the revival of a political magazine named Scavenger that he and a friend started at UC Berkeley, he finds that he's no longer radical enough for his old friend Matt.
There are fascinating details that emerge in this episode. For one, Steven expresses an aversion to being arrested, stating that "getting arrested is way down on my list now. Right below being shipwrecked." He does have a young child at home and more bills to pay - with two children in college and one in preschool - none of which he had in season one when he and Elyse were arrested, but it's still a telling shift. He's thinking ahead to the election in 1988 and which Democrats might run, an interest and investment in the two-party-dominated U.S. political system that his friend disdains; Matt is far more interested in anarchy.
Scavenger seems like a misnomer for their venture; a scavenger feasts on the dead, but Matt and the other contributors clearly think that the two-party system is still in need of killing. One of them criticizes Steven in a meeting by saying, "you're suggesting that people actually go out and vote for one of the two prevailing political parties…the only vote that counts is a vote against the system." But Steven wants to be neither a vulture nor a hawk - not only in the political sense of being to the right, but also not in the general sense of wanting to hunt, to be an activist. He's in all ways a dove.
Does this turn away from the Scavenger represent an actual shift in values for the character or the show, or a continuation? After all, we know from earlier episodes that Steven voted for McGovern in 1972, so the guy who wrote "The Two-Party System: Tweedledum and Tweedledee" for the original iteration of the Scavenger hasn't been around for awhile. While it may be a continuation that the character himself is only just now noticing, it does seem like a shift for the show, signaling that we won't have any repeat prison performances, or if we do, they'll be a joke, like Alex's, not a sincere extension of ideals. Steven may still voice his concern for nuclear disarmament and hang an old Ban the Bomb sign above the fireplace to welcome Matt, but it looks like Steven won't be going to jail for this cause, or any other, again.
There's a moment when it seems like the character and the show itself may be aware of this: when Steven asks Elyse if he's changed, she replies, "I think your social conscience has held up pretty well," and he laughs shortly and says, "Right. And the tax credit from Amnesty International proves it." Writing a check is different from other kinds of activism, the show observes. But then Elyse continues:
You do make a statement, Steven. You make a statement by the way
you live your life, by the way you raise your children, by choosing
a job that doesn't compromise your principles. Those are political
acts, as strong as anything you ever did back at Berkeley.
Here we see a character endorsing an argument that politics can be lived primarily through the family. It's not quite a disavowal of the public sphere, but it does argue that raising kids and going to work are enough, and in that regard it seems to join other works that seek to placate the idealistic young people of the '60s who have become the comfortably middle class parents of the '80s. It's OK, the show says through the character of Elyse. You're still a good person.
And in case that message wasn't clear enough or the messenger was suspect for being a fellow member of that generation, after Elyse leaves the room, Alex walks in to reassure his father as well. "Listen, Dad," Alex begins. "Over the years, you and I have searched for some common political ground. We searched…and searched…and searched" (studio audience laughs). "And even though we haven't agreed on anything yet, I really respect your ideals, you know? And the fact that you respect mine. You set a good example." The child absolves the parent.
To be fair, raising children to be respectful, independent thinkers is no small thing; nor is having a job that reflects your values. There's also a point here to how people can change, how different we can be at 40 from 20, and research from Pew shows that many older adults are more conservative than they used to be. But it's impossible not to feel like the show is withdrawing politically at this point in the series, the protesting and getting arrested of 1982 replaced with the benign Reagan jokes of 1986. I'll write more about this is in a later post; in the meantime, I leave you with this great poster and some relevant Ohio ERA history...because I'm guessing if you've read this far, you're a nerd, too:
 |
| He cares about the First Amendment, but, sadly, not this one. |
Tuesday, April 8, 2014
We Won't All Be Welders
There's another story in The Seattle Times about the changing landscape of my former city: a 1912 apartment building downtown is slated to be demolished, an office tower erected in its place, its mostly middle and low-income inhabitants displaced into a city with increasingly exorbitant rents. Congrats to Sanjay Bhatt and news researcher Gene Balk for an interesting, if depressing, article, and for getting great quotations from one of the building's owners. This closes out the article:
Stephanus, the building’s co-owner, said her business is owning places for people to live. While what’s happening to Williamsburg Court is sad,
she said, if people can’t afford downtown living, that’s for them to
figure out.
“If they find themselves in that position, there are a lot of jobs
out there but they have to train themselves a little bit,” she said.
“I’ve heard on TV they’re dying for people who can weld. I don’t see any
of them going out to be welders.”
My first reaction to this quotation, especially the last sentence, was anger. This feeling was tempered somewhat by reminding myself that this woman is in her 80s and is a landlord; those and possibly other factors make her less likely to have a sympathetic perspective.
But this idea that we all need to train ourselves for whatever the most lucrative hot new job is - it sidesteps questions like, Why can't the musicians and schoolteachers and others in her building get paid more for the jobs they already have? If we're all chasing the new, who will work at the old? It reminds me of when my favorite bowling and karaoke place closed six years ago. Who will live in Seattle after buildings like these are gone?
But this idea that we all need to train ourselves for whatever the most lucrative hot new job is - it sidesteps questions like, Why can't the musicians and schoolteachers and others in her building get paid more for the jobs they already have? If we're all chasing the new, who will work at the old? It reminds me of when my favorite bowling and karaoke place closed six years ago. Who will live in Seattle after buildings like these are gone?
Tuesday, February 11, 2014
Better Late Than Never
"That's my boyfriend," I announced, pointing at the actor on the TV screen.
"Philip Seymour Hoffman is your boyfriend?" my friend laughed, incredulous.
The implication, unspoken, was that Hoffman was a weird choice. Unattractive. I don't remember what I said in response, but I don't think I defended him articulately.
Who was the friend? I can't remember, except I know it was a guy. What was the movie, even? Probably The Big Lebowski; there was a time there when it felt like I watched that film every five minutes, and even with Hoffman's small part, his presence was one of my favorite things about it. I loved his nervous laughter, his bared teeth, the way he pronounced the word "Dude."
Like a lot of people, I have felt surprised at how much his death has upset me. I had all these immediate, ridiculous reactions, such as, "But I never knew that he struggled with addiction!" and "But I never got to write anything for him!" One of my dear college friends, a longtime New Yorker, knew where he bought his coffee, but even though my parents lived in the city, I lived 3,000 miles away: Hoffman was not in my life on the boyfriend nor coffee-level, not even in 2007, during the height of my love. (The Savages, Before the Devil Knows You're Dead, and Charlie Wilson's War - every five minutes that year, he was brilliant in a completely different way). And I don't really have anything to add to the conversation about his great work or heroin addiction. But I do have something to say about his appearance.
I've read a lot of articles about him this past week, and even in some of the ones I've liked the most, such as Anthony Lane's tribute, I'm struck by how often the writers claim that Hoffman was unattractive. It's often presented as a qualification, an acknowledgment before moving on to his range or the humanity he brought to even the smallest roles: "He wasn't a handsome actor, but..." Lane, for instance, uses the word "unbeautiful." I know he just means "not George Clooney," "not Tom Cruise" when he writes that - not cast in romantic, hero roles. But still.
I'm here to argue with the central claim. He was beautiful. He was handsome. He was cute. It's a late defense, but I wanted to say it. (Even if it's not a thing that needs a name).
And I know I'm not alone. I know I'm not the only person who pointed at him on a screen and declared him mine, or who thrilled to see him on lists like this one. I originally read the 2007 New York magazine "Reasons to Love New York" list in my parents' living room in Forest Hills, and I remember how the period after each part of his name felt like a declaration of the self-evident. Of course he's in the top 5 reasons, that punctuation seemed to say.
So maybe I shouldn't be surprised at how I, and so many of us, were so sad. Of course I miss him. Of course we miss him.
"Philip Seymour Hoffman is your boyfriend?" my friend laughed, incredulous.
The implication, unspoken, was that Hoffman was a weird choice. Unattractive. I don't remember what I said in response, but I don't think I defended him articulately.
Who was the friend? I can't remember, except I know it was a guy. What was the movie, even? Probably The Big Lebowski; there was a time there when it felt like I watched that film every five minutes, and even with Hoffman's small part, his presence was one of my favorite things about it. I loved his nervous laughter, his bared teeth, the way he pronounced the word "Dude."
Like a lot of people, I have felt surprised at how much his death has upset me. I had all these immediate, ridiculous reactions, such as, "But I never knew that he struggled with addiction!" and "But I never got to write anything for him!" One of my dear college friends, a longtime New Yorker, knew where he bought his coffee, but even though my parents lived in the city, I lived 3,000 miles away: Hoffman was not in my life on the boyfriend nor coffee-level, not even in 2007, during the height of my love. (The Savages, Before the Devil Knows You're Dead, and Charlie Wilson's War - every five minutes that year, he was brilliant in a completely different way). And I don't really have anything to add to the conversation about his great work or heroin addiction. But I do have something to say about his appearance.
I've read a lot of articles about him this past week, and even in some of the ones I've liked the most, such as Anthony Lane's tribute, I'm struck by how often the writers claim that Hoffman was unattractive. It's often presented as a qualification, an acknowledgment before moving on to his range or the humanity he brought to even the smallest roles: "He wasn't a handsome actor, but..." Lane, for instance, uses the word "unbeautiful." I know he just means "not George Clooney," "not Tom Cruise" when he writes that - not cast in romantic, hero roles. But still.
I'm here to argue with the central claim. He was beautiful. He was handsome. He was cute. It's a late defense, but I wanted to say it. (Even if it's not a thing that needs a name).
And I know I'm not alone. I know I'm not the only person who pointed at him on a screen and declared him mine, or who thrilled to see him on lists like this one. I originally read the 2007 New York magazine "Reasons to Love New York" list in my parents' living room in Forest Hills, and I remember how the period after each part of his name felt like a declaration of the self-evident. Of course he's in the top 5 reasons, that punctuation seemed to say.
So maybe I shouldn't be surprised at how I, and so many of us, were so sad. Of course I miss him. Of course we miss him.
Saturday, March 2, 2013
Savoring the springboard
I didn't want to leave the 6th grade, and two years later, I didn't want to leave middle school. I couldn't imagine leaving high school because it meant that I was definitely leaving behind my best friend, who had died 6 months before. I had to go though - my town was too full of ghosts. Four years later, I was sad to leave college. Well, you get the picture - I like to stay.
I know I love a place when I turn off the lights in its empty rooms. I would do that in my dorm - pass by the lounge, its television screen dark, the old maroon couches listless, no one in sight - and I'd flip the switch before continuing on. Now, nights when I'm the last one on the third floor of the Humanities building, I'll turn out the lights in our (very little) lounge too. It feels less environmentally-conscious than simply, oddly protective.
Barring the unexpected (and aren't we always barring that?), I graduate again in 4 months. I need to concentrate on applying for jobs, and I know that in the right one I'd be happy to commit all over again to a new place and its old, quiet furniture. It's just the dive that's difficult.
I know I love a place when I turn off the lights in its empty rooms. I would do that in my dorm - pass by the lounge, its television screen dark, the old maroon couches listless, no one in sight - and I'd flip the switch before continuing on. Now, nights when I'm the last one on the third floor of the Humanities building, I'll turn out the lights in our (very little) lounge too. It feels less environmentally-conscious than simply, oddly protective.
Barring the unexpected (and aren't we always barring that?), I graduate again in 4 months. I need to concentrate on applying for jobs, and I know that in the right one I'd be happy to commit all over again to a new place and its old, quiet furniture. It's just the dive that's difficult.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Old Home Week
Hi! Long time no write here! Thanks for returning with me...can't say how often I'll post now that I'm in school again, but I hope to be at least as prolific as I was in 2010 :)
One of my new professors is an alum of the same college as I, the University of Chicago. I knew this because I read his bio, and at the new student/faculty potluck, I bounded over to him to, well, basically interview him about his experience there and regale him, unsolicited, with mine. (I was there for undergrad, '97-'01; he was there for a PhD, '98-'05). Despite my eagerness/earnestness about meeting a fellow U of C-er (Alumni Association, take note: I REFUSE to refer to this school as "Chicago," the way you would like us to in your recent-ish re-branding campaign. Chicago, to quote Sandburg, is big-shouldered. You U of C, wonderful and flawed as you are, really aren't that wide), I think I comported myself reasonably well.
But as I was leaving his office hours today, I couldn't resist asking, "Were you there when Homi Bhabha and Toni Morrison got stuck in the Classics building elevator?" Homi Bhabha was (still is, but he decamped to Harvard not long after the elevator incident) a renowned theorist. My friend Katherine liked to say his name and wave her hands around to show what a big deal he was...to other people who actually, you know, had read him or taken classes with him (I don't know if he even taught undergrads). And Toni Morrison was a visiting professor one quarter and was similarly unreachable to us. So this elevator snafu was a minor amazement for Katherine and me, that two such luminaries could be so...stymied. I think I might have even saved the little blurb that ran about it in the campus paper.
Maybe it wasn't the most professional way to exit a professor's office. But
there's just so few people in the world I can ask that of! And fewer still who will answer with a satisfying, "Yes." I couldn't resist the chance to combine history, nerdiness, and inside-baseball glee. There should really be a name for alumni connections that, however trivial, are so precise as to make you feel like yes, I really was there. A lifetime ago, I was a student there.
One of my new professors is an alum of the same college as I, the University of Chicago. I knew this because I read his bio, and at the new student/faculty potluck, I bounded over to him to, well, basically interview him about his experience there and regale him, unsolicited, with mine. (I was there for undergrad, '97-'01; he was there for a PhD, '98-'05). Despite my eagerness/earnestness about meeting a fellow U of C-er (Alumni Association, take note: I REFUSE to refer to this school as "Chicago," the way you would like us to in your recent-ish re-branding campaign. Chicago, to quote Sandburg, is big-shouldered. You U of C, wonderful and flawed as you are, really aren't that wide), I think I comported myself reasonably well.
But as I was leaving his office hours today, I couldn't resist asking, "Were you there when Homi Bhabha and Toni Morrison got stuck in the Classics building elevator?" Homi Bhabha was (still is, but he decamped to Harvard not long after the elevator incident) a renowned theorist. My friend Katherine liked to say his name and wave her hands around to show what a big deal he was...to other people who actually, you know, had read him or taken classes with him (I don't know if he even taught undergrads). And Toni Morrison was a visiting professor one quarter and was similarly unreachable to us. So this elevator snafu was a minor amazement for Katherine and me, that two such luminaries could be so...stymied. I think I might have even saved the little blurb that ran about it in the campus paper.
Maybe it wasn't the most professional way to exit a professor's office. But
there's just so few people in the world I can ask that of! And fewer still who will answer with a satisfying, "Yes." I couldn't resist the chance to combine history, nerdiness, and inside-baseball glee. There should really be a name for alumni connections that, however trivial, are so precise as to make you feel like yes, I really was there. A lifetime ago, I was a student there.
Saturday, August 13, 2011
Ten Years Later: Seattle Shout-Outs, Metro Edition
On August 27, 2001, I flew from New York City to Seattle. I moved, sight unseen (site unseen!), to a duplex across the street from I-5, with 3 gals I'd never met, one of whom was also going to be in my AmeriCorps program. I'll barely celebrate my 10th anniversary in Seattle when it will be time to move again, this time for grad school.
These upcoming events - the anniversary and the move - as well as a friend's recent post about her one-year anniversary here - have put me in a contemplative mood. And the recent announcement that a 17 percent cut to Metro bus service will be averted has me in a thank-you-public-transit frame of mind. So, born of that mix:
To the other downtown-bound Metro riders at the corner of Eastlake and Lynn on the morning of September 11, 2001: I still think about you sometimes and am grateful for your combination of sobriety, sympathy, and dark humor, and the way, when the bus finally arrived, we all sat at the back, strangers compelled to stay together.
To the Metro driver whose sign read Ryerson Base but who stopped at the Ballard Bridge and picked me and a man up anyway, drove us downtown, and deposited us exactly where we wanted to go even though those places weren't bus stops: you are awesome.
To the driver who spontaneously let my friends and me turn your 44 into a party bus, complete with flashing interior lights, dancing in the aisles, and Right Said Fred accompaniment on the PA: you are even awesomer.
To every driver who saw me in their rear view mirror, running and running late, and stopped: your ordinary kindness makes the world a better place.
These upcoming events - the anniversary and the move - as well as a friend's recent post about her one-year anniversary here - have put me in a contemplative mood. And the recent announcement that a 17 percent cut to Metro bus service will be averted has me in a thank-you-public-transit frame of mind. So, born of that mix:
To the other downtown-bound Metro riders at the corner of Eastlake and Lynn on the morning of September 11, 2001: I still think about you sometimes and am grateful for your combination of sobriety, sympathy, and dark humor, and the way, when the bus finally arrived, we all sat at the back, strangers compelled to stay together.
To the Metro driver whose sign read Ryerson Base but who stopped at the Ballard Bridge and picked me and a man up anyway, drove us downtown, and deposited us exactly where we wanted to go even though those places weren't bus stops: you are awesome.
To the driver who spontaneously let my friends and me turn your 44 into a party bus, complete with flashing interior lights, dancing in the aisles, and Right Said Fred accompaniment on the PA: you are even awesomer.
To every driver who saw me in their rear view mirror, running and running late, and stopped: your ordinary kindness makes the world a better place.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Who Steals a Tree?
The title of this post, minus an expletive, is courtesy of my friend Wes. This was his reaction when he found out that a magnolia sapling, used in my wedding ceremony, was stolen from our front courtyard yesterday. The tree is not much taller than a foot inside its orange plastic pot. Did I mention that the pot is plastic? Lots of value there.
Feeling an odd mix of dorky and enraged, I fliered our neighborhood this morning with "Missing Plants" signs. (The thieves also took a daisy and a shamrock). I doubt anything will come of this, but I can't do nothing.
The double injury here is that we had just taken it to Swanson's nursery four days before for a primer on how to better care for it. We're garden novices, but the helpful woman at the Info desk showed us how to trim dead leaves, told us how often to water, advised us to get fertilizer for it, recommended when we should put it in the ground, etc.
Apparently plant theft in Seattle is not uncommon. Which brings me to my phenomenon: dark aspects of a city that you won't hear about from the Chamber of Commerce. In my first ignorant years here, I thought hills, traffic, and gentrification were Seattle's biggest issues. I don't want to suggest that plant theft is more problematic than gentrification. Um, no. But learning firsthand about Seattle's rat problem at our old place, and now this...I feel like there should be a name for going from total ignorance of some piece of your city one day to unwanted club membership the next.
Feeling an odd mix of dorky and enraged, I fliered our neighborhood this morning with "Missing Plants" signs. (The thieves also took a daisy and a shamrock). I doubt anything will come of this, but I can't do nothing.
The double injury here is that we had just taken it to Swanson's nursery four days before for a primer on how to better care for it. We're garden novices, but the helpful woman at the Info desk showed us how to trim dead leaves, told us how often to water, advised us to get fertilizer for it, recommended when we should put it in the ground, etc.
Apparently plant theft in Seattle is not uncommon. Which brings me to my phenomenon: dark aspects of a city that you won't hear about from the Chamber of Commerce. In my first ignorant years here, I thought hills, traffic, and gentrification were Seattle's biggest issues. I don't want to suggest that plant theft is more problematic than gentrification. Um, no. But learning firsthand about Seattle's rat problem at our old place, and now this...I feel like there should be a name for going from total ignorance of some piece of your city one day to unwanted club membership the next.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
North Seattle vs. North Seattle
Last December, Dani Shapiro reviewed "Poser," Claire Dederer's memoir of regaining her life through yoga, for the New York Times's Sunday Book Review. I have not read the book but plan to if only to tease out for myself what is tongue-in-cheek and what is earnest. For instance, this paragraph (from Shapiro's review; italics mine):
“We were a generation of hollow-eyed women, chasing virtue,” she tells us. “We, the mothers of North Seattle, were consumed with trying to do everything right.” North Seattle — a first cousin of Park Slope, the Upper West Side, Berkeley and dozens of other such enclaves around the country — was a place where attachment parenting was all the rage. Kids weren’t weaned until they spoke in full sentences. Families all slept in the same bed; ate the same organic, locally produced food; and lived in an enriching environment safe from the dangers of plastic toys and disposable diapers.
Is Dederer making fun of the idea that all mothers in one section of a city could be monolithic? Or is she subscribing to that very idea? Furthermore, is Shapiro echoing Dederer when she lumps North Seattle in with other stereotyped areas - or is this her own take on the situation? The word "affluence" never appears in this paragraph. But it doesn't have to.
Homonyms are words that look and sound the same but have different meanings. The phenomenon I want a name for today is the sense of dislocation one feels when one encounters an unexpected homonym; North Seattle, in the quotation from the book and in the review, is that for me. The North Seattle I know does encompass the wide-stroller-wielding, latte-sipping women of Dederer's Green Lake. But it also includes the mom headed to the new DSHS offices at North Seattle Community College for food or work assistance and the women, some mothers themselves, caring for a gaggle of preschoolers, many of whom have mothers who must go to work, at Lake City library's story time.
Satirical or earnest, my hope for "Poser" is that it doesn't commit the sin of omission, of erasing those other mothers of North Seattle. I'll report back after I've read the book.
“We were a generation of hollow-eyed women, chasing virtue,” she tells us. “We, the mothers of North Seattle, were consumed with trying to do everything right.” North Seattle — a first cousin of Park Slope, the Upper West Side, Berkeley and dozens of other such enclaves around the country — was a place where attachment parenting was all the rage. Kids weren’t weaned until they spoke in full sentences. Families all slept in the same bed; ate the same organic, locally produced food; and lived in an enriching environment safe from the dangers of plastic toys and disposable diapers.
Is Dederer making fun of the idea that all mothers in one section of a city could be monolithic? Or is she subscribing to that very idea? Furthermore, is Shapiro echoing Dederer when she lumps North Seattle in with other stereotyped areas - or is this her own take on the situation? The word "affluence" never appears in this paragraph. But it doesn't have to.
Homonyms are words that look and sound the same but have different meanings. The phenomenon I want a name for today is the sense of dislocation one feels when one encounters an unexpected homonym; North Seattle, in the quotation from the book and in the review, is that for me. The North Seattle I know does encompass the wide-stroller-wielding, latte-sipping women of Dederer's Green Lake. But it also includes the mom headed to the new DSHS offices at North Seattle Community College for food or work assistance and the women, some mothers themselves, caring for a gaggle of preschoolers, many of whom have mothers who must go to work, at Lake City library's story time.
Satirical or earnest, my hope for "Poser" is that it doesn't commit the sin of omission, of erasing those other mothers of North Seattle. I'll report back after I've read the book.
Monday, June 13, 2011
Iowa Imposter
Today I wore my IOWA t-shirt, a gift from a friend who grew up there and knows without being told that the black and gold of my shirt are Hawkeyes' colors. As I neared the hub that is my local post office, an elderly gentleman walking past me said, "Go Iowa!"
"What?" I called back, not sure if I'd heard him correctly.
"I grew up in Nebraska," he explained, "right next to Iowa."
"Nice!" I said, because I like pleasant interactions with fellow pedestrians even when they turn into unsolicited educational moments, and turned back toward the post office.
This conversation was another example of quietly letting someone - usually a stranger, usually during what promises to be only a brief exchange - assume something about you that you know to be incorrect. I was born in North Dakota, grew up in Connecticut, went to college in Illinois, and have lived in Washington for almost 10 years; I've barely even visited Iowa. But I didn't yell this to the man in front of the post office; I let him believe that we were former state-neighbors.
Nannies and babysitters have a lot of these moments, and the challenge is in deciding when to tell that complimentary or chummy mom on the playground that this kid? Not mine. Sometimes it's clear-cut, as when a woman trailing behind me and a toddler-age charge announced, as we all entered the bathroom of a fancy restaurant, "These years go by so fast! Mine are teenagers now."
I smiled and said, "I'm the babysitter," and that was that. But other times it's not so clear what anyone is thinking, and it can feel awkward to halt the flow of a conversation to vocalize a distinction that might change everything - or, conversely, nothing - for the other person.
The best-worst example of this for me was on a playground two years ago. I was hovering near the little girl I nannied for, and a woman said, "I love her haircut."
"Yeah," I agreed. "Her mother did a great job."
"Her mother?" the woman asked, clearly confused. "You're not her mother?"
"No, I'm her nanny," I said, in a tone I hoped sounded cheerful.
"But you're so good with her!" the woman exclaimed.
Well. You can be good to a kid without being his or her parent. And strangers - and even family and friends - don't need to know everything about you. Go Hawkeyes!
"What?" I called back, not sure if I'd heard him correctly.
"I grew up in Nebraska," he explained, "right next to Iowa."
"Nice!" I said, because I like pleasant interactions with fellow pedestrians even when they turn into unsolicited educational moments, and turned back toward the post office.
This conversation was another example of quietly letting someone - usually a stranger, usually during what promises to be only a brief exchange - assume something about you that you know to be incorrect. I was born in North Dakota, grew up in Connecticut, went to college in Illinois, and have lived in Washington for almost 10 years; I've barely even visited Iowa. But I didn't yell this to the man in front of the post office; I let him believe that we were former state-neighbors.
Nannies and babysitters have a lot of these moments, and the challenge is in deciding when to tell that complimentary or chummy mom on the playground that this kid? Not mine. Sometimes it's clear-cut, as when a woman trailing behind me and a toddler-age charge announced, as we all entered the bathroom of a fancy restaurant, "These years go by so fast! Mine are teenagers now."
I smiled and said, "I'm the babysitter," and that was that. But other times it's not so clear what anyone is thinking, and it can feel awkward to halt the flow of a conversation to vocalize a distinction that might change everything - or, conversely, nothing - for the other person.
The best-worst example of this for me was on a playground two years ago. I was hovering near the little girl I nannied for, and a woman said, "I love her haircut."
"Yeah," I agreed. "Her mother did a great job."
"Her mother?" the woman asked, clearly confused. "You're not her mother?"
"No, I'm her nanny," I said, in a tone I hoped sounded cheerful.
"But you're so good with her!" the woman exclaimed.
Well. You can be good to a kid without being his or her parent. And strangers - and even family and friends - don't need to know everything about you. Go Hawkeyes!
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Tornadoes and Census Figures
My friend Sasha and her husband live in Springfield, MA, the site of recent freak tornadoes. They are both fine; while their building was heavily damaged in places, they got lucky: other than broken windows and lots of dust and dirt, their apartment is OK.
Like many people, I have friends in pockets around the country, and the world feels especially small when headline news happens to one of their regions.
But are other forces making our world larger? The percentage of people moving to other counties is at its lowest since 1947, a fact that is largely attributed to the recession. So if the economy doesn't improve significantly over the next few years, I wonder if our lowered mobility will lead to a collective personal lessening of these small-world feelings? Or will the pace of social networking overshadow any physical-world limitations?
Like many people, I have friends in pockets around the country, and the world feels especially small when headline news happens to one of their regions.
But are other forces making our world larger? The percentage of people moving to other counties is at its lowest since 1947, a fact that is largely attributed to the recession. So if the economy doesn't improve significantly over the next few years, I wonder if our lowered mobility will lead to a collective personal lessening of these small-world feelings? Or will the pace of social networking overshadow any physical-world limitations?
Friday, May 6, 2011
Good Old 1995
My parents have been mailing me boxes of my stuff from high school and college on and off for almost a year now; they moved back to Connecticut in June 2010 and, though they now have a huge basement, still (understandably) would like me to take possession of that which is mine. So. Boxes.
I have unearthed some treasures: articles from Parade magazine on the "cyberspace" fight to save "My So-Called Life" from cancellation; a beloved cassette tape, "TV Hits Vol. II" from the Meadowbrook Pops Orchestra, featuring classic '80s shows (who doesn't want to listen to the theme song from "Murder, She Wrote" on demand?); and my first pair of glasses (huge frames!) But the overwhelming majority of space is filled with letters.
I attended the University of Virginia's Young Writers Workshop in Charlottesville in the summers of 1994 and 1995, and, in those early-email days, it was natural to write to new friends through the trusty U.S. Postal Service. I was 14 and 15 and prolific, and so were my friends from Pittsburgh; St. Petersburg, FL; Brookline, MA; Ridgewood, NJ; and beyond. We may have only spent 3 weeks together in the same space, but some of us wrote to one another for years.
I love those letters now, both for their often-quirky, handmade, collaged envelopes and for the high school obsessions detailed within, but it also makes me sad to read them. A lot hadn't happened yet in 1995, including the deaths of two close friends and three of my grandparents. I'm no longer in as frequent or meaningful of contact with any of those people: college, significant others, jobs and new friends intervened. And in many cases we've just grown apart.
I'm not sure what you call it when you keep lots of things, pages and pages, that you can't bear to look at for very long, but that's what I'm doing. I'm an archivist, and I want to be able to remember Bug and Chris and Emily and Dave and everyone else, as they were.
I have unearthed some treasures: articles from Parade magazine on the "cyberspace" fight to save "My So-Called Life" from cancellation; a beloved cassette tape, "TV Hits Vol. II" from the Meadowbrook Pops Orchestra, featuring classic '80s shows (who doesn't want to listen to the theme song from "Murder, She Wrote" on demand?); and my first pair of glasses (huge frames!) But the overwhelming majority of space is filled with letters.
I attended the University of Virginia's Young Writers Workshop in Charlottesville in the summers of 1994 and 1995, and, in those early-email days, it was natural to write to new friends through the trusty U.S. Postal Service. I was 14 and 15 and prolific, and so were my friends from Pittsburgh; St. Petersburg, FL; Brookline, MA; Ridgewood, NJ; and beyond. We may have only spent 3 weeks together in the same space, but some of us wrote to one another for years.
I love those letters now, both for their often-quirky, handmade, collaged envelopes and for the high school obsessions detailed within, but it also makes me sad to read them. A lot hadn't happened yet in 1995, including the deaths of two close friends and three of my grandparents. I'm no longer in as frequent or meaningful of contact with any of those people: college, significant others, jobs and new friends intervened. And in many cases we've just grown apart.
I'm not sure what you call it when you keep lots of things, pages and pages, that you can't bear to look at for very long, but that's what I'm doing. I'm an archivist, and I want to be able to remember Bug and Chris and Emily and Dave and everyone else, as they were.
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