Chemicals

"Besides, I like chemicals!"

My landlady's boyfriend ("Harold") said this as I walked away from him down the street.

A local grocery chain sold out to Whole Foods this month and it's been a really big deal in our neighborhood because the chain store has a HUGE section of Latin American and Caribbean foods that you really can't find anywhere else. Also, of course because of WF's symbolism in the process of gentrification. There was a flyer in our mailboxes this morning that said "Whose Foods?" that Harold was commenting upon.

He was talking about how expensive WF could be, and I'd said noncommittally, "Oh, you know they carry a lot of expensive items, but you can shop there inexpensively too." When he countered with "Besides, I like chemicals. No really... Chemicals are way better for you than biology. That's something environmentalists always forget; biology can kill you. Microbes cause more deaths than chemicals 100 to 1!"

It's interesting to me... the more I think about things the more they tend to become closer together; lines get fuzzier and I see lots of connections. I love the idea of this guy and the clarity of his delineations; of a camp supporting the biological and the chemical, especially in light of this very difficult neighborhood dispute all about the inter-connected issues of empowerment, identity, community and access. Go Biology! Go!

Trash in the Sky Day

The back part of my classroom is all windows.  We eat back there, and we've spent a lot of time lately, watching the pigeons, squirrels and crows who visit our side yard and playground.  Today, I looked up and saw a big piece of paper floating on the breeze about 30 feet in the air.  As the spring breeze gently set it down on the playground, I looked up and saw another that looked like the paper wrapping for a toilet paper roll tossing around up there.  "Guys?  Did you see that trash?" I asked the three year olds around me?  They didn't so some of them said that they did as they looked wildly about, and the rest admitted they didn't.  They caught the next piece of garbage as it fell, though.  Our school is nestled in the bosom (or lap depending on your perspective) of a Harvard housing project of high-rises.  I imagined that someone had irresponsibly left garbage on their balcony and it was now being distributed by the elements.  

"Whoa!  There's another one!  Happy Trash in the sky day, everybody!"

"Happy Trash in the sky day, Kendra!" somebody hollered back.

About an hour later, we went out on the playground with another class.  A teacher and a kid were looking up for a long time, when I saw a stretch of paper towels drifting past the branches of a tree.  I wandered over with a wry, knowing smile, ready to tell them about trash in the sky day... and realized they were watching a squirrel build a garbage nest!  The little one would run into the dumpsters, grab some paper material and then drag it way up the tree and try to stuff it into the tiny stick frame it had constructed! 

Another sign of spring, and reminder that there are parts of THIS urban ecosystem that I'm just not prepared for.

UNICYCLE

Ok, so I bought a unicycle.
I went to EMS months ago for some yoga pants and saw it, and thought "Man, that would be cool."
Then, I needed some cold weather biking gloves and I saw it WITH its 30% off sign.
Wow. "How much could that be?!" I thought. I came home and asked Z "How much would be the right price for a unicycle?" He said "$200" (He's very kind and likes to let me splurge on yarn.) It was less than $100, so I got it. I live in a neighborhood with two big "walking around the pond" events per year, so I figure if nothing else, I've got those opportunities to unicycle. Also, of course, cross-lateral balance can be very helpful to our coordination and our brains as we age, and ... you know I'm aging as much as anyone.

The morning I went to buy it, I read everything I could about learing to unicycle. Everybody has differing opinions about surfaces (grass or concrete?) and support (pair of chairs? fence or wall? two friends? nothing?). One person said "Remember to flail your arms. This is very important, and will help." You wouldn't think I'd need help flailing about in such a situaltion, but I did... it took me 15 minutes of trying to balance!

I bought it during the two hour break I have on Wednesdays, then had some time practicing on the playground. (I bought a roller-blading pad set, so my knees and wrists are protected when I fall, which I do. Although I've landed on my feet every time.) Yesterday I could mount (while holding on to a thing), fall off, and then occasionally pedal a half rotation or so. I also learned not to unicycle in cordoroys for chafing reasons.

Today I balanced a little bit at home (to show off for Z, and before my downstairs neighbor/landlady came home from work) . Then I headed out to the tennis court near my house. I remembered teaching small children to ride bikes (I've probably taught 50 kids how to ride and take off their training wheels.) and how they fall off when they expect to instead of continuing to pedal. I decided to treat myself like a kindergartner during practice, and asked myself to pedal farther than I thought I could, and sang a little circus song (the tromboney one "da da dadda dah dah Da dah dah DA dah") to myself. It worked! I pedaled a few rotations, and even got it to go in a quarter circle (more or less on purpose!) It was awesome.

I've got a kickass bruise on my thigh from falling off, and am anticipating some SERIOUS shin injuries when I start hopping on it without support. It's exhilerating to try something so completely new, and to do it alone. Just wait till I can juggle on it!

Anyhow, if you have parade coming up that needs someone to fall down every yard or so CALL ME!

Are you lookin at me?

Finally saw Taxi Driver.

YES I've made it to almost 30 years old without watching it. I DIDN'T watch it when I should have when I was a teenager, and desensitized to blood and guts and then I just never got around to it. Then tonight I was babysitting, and therefore knitting in front of the tv and checking out the list of "free" on-demand movies (which is a like a tiny, crummy, depressing video store. I can't remember most of the 100 or so movies there were, but The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas, Evil Dead 2, Leonard Cohen (A biography?) stuck in my mind. I stopped when I got to Taxi Driver, because, I thought, "When else will I sit down and watch Taxi Driver?" It was, of course, brilliant and awful, but I felt a little ashamed with all that cussing and assorted nastiness on the screen with a sweet little girl asleep upstairs.

I was babysitting for someone who lives in the Navy housing in the middle of a huge park near here. I felt a little creeped out driving through the unlit park at midnight, then once I got out, got lost in the suburb that surrounds the park. (Comically I got lost because I was behind someone. I thought I was going the right way, but the streets were little and quiet and I became unsure. As soon as I did, it occurred to me that if I were not on the arterial, then I was just following this car around a quiet neighborhood at night and probably making them nervous. This convinced me to NOT pull over to make them possibly feel better, which if FUCKED UP I know. As I pulled onto 15th at Dravus, there was a guy face down in the road who had obviously just fallen out of his wheel chair. I pulled over and helped him into his chair... and helped him cross the street. He was very drunk, and kept trying to tell me this over and over again but failing. I got him underway and went and sat in my car in an empty parking lot for a minute. I'd offered to call 911, but he'd told me not to(because he was drunk) but I was pretty worried for him since he was in a really busy place with people whipping around corners and very hight curbs... right before I saw him, I saw a dude totally blow through a red light.

In my head, Travis, the taxi driver was pissing and moaning about all the scum and trash and garbage in the street and scowling at the poor guy (Did I mention he was wearing only one shoe) and my favorite meditation teacher was telling me that nothing was wrong, that I just needed to see what is without judging it, and my yoga teachers were all telling me to do no harm. (?!) The bitter, scarred coworkers I had in the shelters told me I knew better than that guy about how to keep him safe, and the better ones told me that he deserves to make his own choices and I had no right to intervene and betray his privacy. Finally, exhausted and confused I stopped thinking and called. I took the easy way out. It's interesting to think about the things that are automatic for a person. Because of one job that I had, calling 911 is just as comfortable and mindless as moving a child's glass of juice away from the table's edge, blessing someone when they sneeze. Just automatic, easy. (The meditation teacher's got a lot to say about that, I bet.)

After I talked with the dispatcher I made a small loop, but I didn't see the guy. I felt dumb, because so many of the people I knew who wandered around this city at night in all kinds of vulnerable, loaded, disabled states were usually, stunningly fine. I felt a little better that he was gone, that he was right to tell me not to call, and my call only made me feel better and didn't do anything for him.

Then I came home and turned on some bright lights and drank some orange juice to cheer me up. It's almost working now.

And all I got was some feathers in my hair...

Sundays are my favorite day of the week. They always start with a walk to the Farmer's Market. If I'm early enough, I get eggs, if I'm not I've got to wait until next week. I stop at Anselmo's for onions and potatoes every week, and at Growing Things when I need soap. I stop and listen to some Bluegrass on the sidewalk and taste the cheese before I buy it.

The next stop is for coffee or tea at one of my favorite spots. I've headed to Floating Leaves with my friend David a couple of times in the last month, and I often go to Nervous Nelly's (Where they know my name and my drink, and assume I want toast with cheese and egg.)

Today, I decided to head to the Chai House instead. When I first moved to Ballard Mr. Spot's Chai House was one of my homes away from home. The first day we had keys to the place, actually, I went out in search of some sage and prayer flags for our new home and I found myself at the Chai House buying both, and a Ruby Tuesday (Chai, no milk, pomegranite syrup, juice of a whole lemon and some cayenne pepper. Yummy.) Since we decided to move away from Seattle, I'm occasionally wracked with nostalgia and fondness for my adopted city. Unlike when we left the Northeast (I always knew I'd be traveling back for friends and family.) I'm not sure when I'll be able to make it back here and how often.

There I sat, knitting on the couch, gazing at the really bad art on the wall, sipping my Ruby Tuesday (fantastic for the immune system) and spacing out.
The incredibly competent barista with a subtle jerry curl kind of mohawk asked a woman who appeared to be a customer to cover for her. A few minutes later I happened to look at the people in line. They had snow in their hair! It wasn't warm today, but not cold enough for snow by at least 20 degrees! I looked outside... nothing. I looked back at the growing line and realized that they had feathers in their hair. Like, goose down. In fact... there was a young man with what looked like a pillow under his jacket. ? I looked outside again and discovered that feathers were blowing down the sidewalk, as if... as if there had been a pillow fight in the small park next to the Chai House. This is a bizarre thought to have, but the only solution to the evidence in front of me. The barista ran in, feathers in her mohawk and tagged out with her temporary replacement. I headed outside and sure enough there were a couple of pillows in sight, but a lot more hair full of feathers. In any case the entire park was FILLED with goose down. I wish I could have gotten a picture, but I'm sure some will appear in the next couple of hours.

When I got home, I googled "Ballard Pillow Fight" and found out that it was a "Flash Mob Pillow Fight."

I missed it! Something bizarre happened and I only got to see the aftermath! But really, the aftermath was more mysterious and lovely than witnessing the event without taking part would have been.

(In this one you can see the Barista in the sleeveless sweatshirt in the center.)

Metaphysical Poll

This is so fantastic and a perfect antidote for those of us who have spent way too much time staring at Geraldine Ferraro.

It's a place where folks post their dreams about Obama, Clinton and McCain. It's called the Metaphysical Poll because it's, like, where our subconscious can vote. It's also really fun to read. I had a dream about Obama early in the campaign, but can't find it in my journal, so I'll just have to spectate. Enjoy.

A first

In the last four years, I've learned a kind of sign language called SEE so that I can communicate with a kid (Call him M) in my group who is deaf and uses a cochlear implant. That's the serious part... forthcoming is the part where I can hardly TYPE these words without blushing, and dying laughing.

This afternoon I was playing a game with some kids (Including M). It's a little like a cross between Set and Boggle. Anyway, a third grader said "I wish there was a 'T' so I could spell 'Shit'." She said it so matter-of-factly, I adored her for it. She smiled at me when I said, shocked and charmed "That's a bad word, you can't say that here." She nodded. I congratulated myself on my measured reaction. I'ts not life and death, noone's in trouble. I'm not freaking out like her "real" teacher might be, because I'm cool. All the kids who are old enough (and one precocious Kindergartner with big sisters) gasp and look at each other and me, frantically. I continue playing it cool.

M says "What did she say?"

All 5 sets of eyes swing over to me, tennis-spectators' style. They've seen me interpret as much as I possibly can for M, even stuff that he's bored by or doesn't want to "hear".

"She said a bad word, and I..."
"Which one?"

I hoped I could get out of this somewhat gracefully.

"The 'S-H' one." beat... beat...

"What is that word?"

I feel a tremendous urge NOT to censor. Generally, when kids use language they shouldn't use around me, I use it back to them in my message, to disempower the word, take the sting out. "Please quit saying "hell" in this classroom, you know that's not appropriate." is a sentence I've used many a time. (With more complicated language when I worked with adolescents.)

At that moment though, I had to TEACH the kid a cuss he doesn't know... in front of other kids who KNOW the word and know that a teacher should NOT be saying it in any form. The kids stared at me as though I was a volcano about to explode, a kid about to eat something on a dare... could it happen?!!

I "whisper" to M. I fingerspell behind my hand s-h-i-t. He watches attentively. I'm relieved by his wise nod.

"How do you say that?" ugh!
"I'll tell you later."
"How do you say it? I want to know!"
"I can't say it, M. I'm a teacher and you're my kids I can't say a bad word right now."
"Write it down and I'll sound it out."

Ok. Fine. I'll rely on literacy practice to rationalize this one. Better on my notepad than on some bathroom wall, I guessed. Astounded at what I was doing, I wrote "SHIT" in all capital letters on the page because capitals are easier for kids to sound out and I wanted this over as quickly as possible. The other kids, compassionate as always stayed quiet and didn't laugh or anything. They could see that this was just another kind of development, another way to pick up information to which they already had access.

It hadn't occurred to me that he would sound it out OUT LOUD.
"Shit" he said clearly, looking at my pad.
I tried not to laugh and not to look at any of the other kids.
"Yes. Good reading. Now don't say it anymore, it's a bad word that you can't say at school or here."
"Ok. What does it mean?"
"It's another name for poop. But it's not just a bathroom word, it's a BAD word and you might get in trouble for saying it."

and then it was over. The other kids have all been trained in careful politeness, and they acted as though nothing had just happened. As I stared at the letter cards, I thought of my sister who told me that women in the deaf community tended to get pregnant more often by accident because they miss out on so much nuance and overheard sex education that the rest of us pick up from our surroundings and popular culture. I comforted myself with this.

I told his dad at pick up time, of course. No big whoop, which is what I expected.
"Third grade, that's about right." He said. M came over.
"What are you talking about?"

We both started signing. I said "I told him that I taught you a bad word."
"Oh yeah. Shit."
I giggled a little I think and reminded him not to say it. His dad clarified "it's rude". I like that better. As someone who cusses all the time (outside of the classroom) I obviously don't feel that the word is "bad". But I know that it's rude, and that's why I didn't point it out to the little girl when all the letters for piss came up.

"You called at exactly the right time."

I was just walking home by myself when I decided to call my friend Kyle. When Kyle and I talk on the phone, overhearing it actually tends to irritate other people (esp Z). I think it's because our conversations are absurd, and jump around from one ridiculous (often invented and/or juvenile) topic to the next. Because of this I prefer to call Kyle when I will not be overheard. I frequently get his voicemail, so I was mentally preparing my message when he answered in a peculiar tone.

Kyle: Kendra! His voice sounds louder and even more theatrical than usual... I become suspicious. The first thing that you say will be very important.

Kendra: accidentally interupting Hello. I am grateful that he ignores this, the first thing that I ACTUALLY say, because, that would be a real bummer.

Kyle: I am speaking to you from a darkened planetarium filled with people. these people (mostly children) begin to laugh We are talking about dreams tonight, and we need your help. What I'd like you to do is pick up a book. Any book. Just walk over to the bookshelf, pick up a book, open it...
now at this point I know that I cannot lie. I cannot walk down 8th Ave and pretend that I am in my living room holding a book.

Kendra: Can I walk to the bookshelf in my mind?

Kyle: Yes, I'm putting you on speakerphone. You may walk to the book case in your mind. What we need from you is the title of the book.

Kendra: I think as fast as I possibly can. At first, I figure I should try to think of a book title that would be ironic, or deep, or funnily appropriate in THIS moment. But, I knew better. I cleared my mind, and then said the first book title that I called up. The Little House on the Prairie?I hear children squeal and giggle.

Kyle: Little House on the Prairie, everyone! everyone in the place is cracking up. I have inadvertently made a joke I don't understand. That is perfect. Thank you, Kendra.

Kendra: You're welcome, Kyle. Goodbye.

Kyle: Goodbye Kendra. You called at exactly the right time.

Pronunciation Key

Last night I went to a Karaoke bar to celebrate a friend's birthday. This is a story about the wonder that is spoken and written English. It is relevant that I mention here that I don't believe I've ever had a manicure from a professional. I've got this feeling that MAYBE when I was in my friend's wedding years ago and we all went to a salon together, it could have happened, but perhaps not. In any case, I view manicure culture as foreign, bizarre, and probably quite charming, like the cultures of rugby, or rock collecting.

The bathroom at the Rickshaw is very small and very mirrored. In this way, it reminds me of affordable restaurants in New York City. As I waited for one of the two stalls to become vacant, I read a handmade manicure "menu" on the door. I learned that Nikki would come to my house if I liked, and that there I could partake of services like "Full something or other...Tips... Fill etc." There was something that stopped me in my tracks. (Those of you who ARE familiar with manicure culture, suspend your knowledge for just a moment, and join me in a world where "Polish" means "from Poland".)

One of the items on the menu was "Polish Change".

"Like an oil change? But Polish? What is the implication?" I thought. My temperature began to rise at the perceived indignity. (I, myself, am NOT Polish, but in 8th grade I found a book of "Portuguese jokes" that were Polish jokes with the word "Portuguese" inserted in the appropriate places, and have since felt a kind of soul-fraternity with Polish Americans.) "Why would a manicure be called 'Polish'?" I needed someone who either knew more about manicures or more about the specifics of anti-Polish slurs. Very likely, most people on the planet could therefore have been of service.

At that moment, I heard a flush and before me stood a Karaoke patron who probably fit the bill.

"Do you know anything about manicures?"

"Uh, not really. Kind of...."

"What do you think this is?" (I pointed.)

"Um, I guess it's like, when they change the polish... take it off and put a new one on I guess?"

(As she spoke the word "polish" (rhymes with 'smallish')my face displayed my sudden enlightenment. I know because there were mirrors everywhere... it looked pretty silly, all that realization right there in a humid, cramped bathroom. "Aha! Polish, not Polish!" (rhymes with "trollish") I thought.

I am the kind of person who wears her heart (and sometimes her interior monologue) on her sleeve. I also prefer not to see my fellow humans in the dark any longer than necessary, so as the woman trailed off quizzically at the end of her answer I explained my mistake. Happily for me, she is the sort of person who laughs when illiterate strangers detail their personal shortcomings at her in the ladies room.