First off, I know it's practically a mortal sin in this country to say anything negative about dogs. So let me be clear: This letter is directed to dog owners, not dogs themselves.
Secondly, this memo was not sparked by the actions of any dog owner I know personally. So, no, this is not a hint directed at you.
With those two caveats out of the way, it must be said:
Just because your dog is a "people dog," that does not mean I am a "dog person." So please, don't assume that I like being sniffed. Or nudged off a sidewalk into a mud puddle. Or climbed upon.
This is particularly true if your dog stands four feet from front paw to the top of the shoulder.
I know you think your dog is adorable. But, seriously, keep it in check. That's why God invented leashes.
Memo ended.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Crazy Crap Item #222: The part where the dead are seen to rise
In my grand tradition of pirating others' amusing stories to pad out my own observations, I include this exchange as reported by Jorge, brother to my good friend Roxi. Jorge is a speech therapist who works with children. This is an excerpt from a recent conversation with one of his students:
Jorge: Ok, Johnny, let's hear your report on Ulysses S. Grant.
Johnny: Ulysses S. Grant was our 18th President. He ran against Barack Obama.
Jorge: Wait, no, Johnny. Obama is alive today. He is our president now. Ulysses S. Grant has been dead a very long time.
Johnny: YOU MEAN HE'S A ZOMBIE?!
Jorge: Ok, Johnny, let's hear your report on Ulysses S. Grant.
Johnny: Ulysses S. Grant was our 18th President. He ran against Barack Obama.
Jorge: Wait, no, Johnny. Obama is alive today. He is our president now. Ulysses S. Grant has been dead a very long time.
Johnny: YOU MEAN HE'S A ZOMBIE?!
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Crazy Crap Item #221: The part where Jack shows himself to be a bottom-liner
As is well known, neighbor Jack is a fiddler. He's been playing violin since, I don't know, perhaps the womb, and is quite adept.
He's also learned to revel in the limelight, particularly during one of my favorite annual events: busking at the Andersonville Somerfest.
For those unaware, "to busk" is to perform some sort of act in public, with a hat, jar, or instrument case out for the collection of contributions. Sometimes such actions are frowned upon. Rarely are they disputed, however, when the busker is in the 5-year-old age range.
That is what we learned when Jack busked a few years ago, with his friend and contemporary Sam adding a dance interpretation, and netted quite a handy pile of cash. He generously used his earnings to buy ice cream for us all.
Last year, he did a repeat, and earned enough to buy himself some knickknack I can't quite recall.
Well, recently, his younger brother James has also taken up the bow. I was a little concerned. Would Jack resent his spotlight and thunder being stolen.
I was relieved when I asked about future busking plans, and his response was, "James can do it too this year. We'll make about a billion dollars."
Clearly, Jack knows which is worth more: ego, or cold hard cash.
He's also learned to revel in the limelight, particularly during one of my favorite annual events: busking at the Andersonville Somerfest.
For those unaware, "to busk" is to perform some sort of act in public, with a hat, jar, or instrument case out for the collection of contributions. Sometimes such actions are frowned upon. Rarely are they disputed, however, when the busker is in the 5-year-old age range.
That is what we learned when Jack busked a few years ago, with his friend and contemporary Sam adding a dance interpretation, and netted quite a handy pile of cash. He generously used his earnings to buy ice cream for us all.
Last year, he did a repeat, and earned enough to buy himself some knickknack I can't quite recall.
Well, recently, his younger brother James has also taken up the bow. I was a little concerned. Would Jack resent his spotlight and thunder being stolen.
I was relieved when I asked about future busking plans, and his response was, "James can do it too this year. We'll make about a billion dollars."
Clearly, Jack knows which is worth more: ego, or cold hard cash.
Crazy Crap Item #220: The part where I gather more lore of the famed O'Malley house
I have spoke oft and anon of the fabulous house I live in, located, as it is, on the best block in the universe: 1500 Norwood. We have, for example, many fantastic block parties. Neighbors organize "meal trains" when anyone is sick or has a baby. We gather for impromptu parties, gather for cookie parties, have backyard camp-outs, and watched the election of Obama in a huge 2-yard viewing extravaganza.
I can't help to think part of the fabulousness of this little community comes from the years of fabulous people who have gone before us, imprinting a path of fun that's as deep in the road as the potholes in our street that never seem to get fixed.
Today, I got yet another glimpse into that long legacy. My neighbor Florence recently had hip replacement surgery. Tonight was my night to bring over dinner. When I called to drop off lasagna, I had the chance to chat with her daughter, who is in town to help care for her during her recuperation.
"You're in the O'Malley house," she said. "I grew up there."
I looked puzzled, as she was clearly not an O'Malley, and she explained that she played there all the time.
"We used to have spitting contests off the back balcony," she revealed.
I also learned:
-- the funky room in the basement, with its shelves and paneling, was once, as I have always suspected, a Greg Brady-style oldest son's bedroom.
-- the dining room was formerly used as a den, with TV perched on the built-in breakfront.
--the dining room also housed a keyboard that was NOT TO BE TOUCHED, as it belong to an O'Malley uncle who played organ at Wrigley Field.
I revel in all these legacies, and look forward to the day when I, too, can host spitting contests off the back balcony.
I can't help to think part of the fabulousness of this little community comes from the years of fabulous people who have gone before us, imprinting a path of fun that's as deep in the road as the potholes in our street that never seem to get fixed.
Today, I got yet another glimpse into that long legacy. My neighbor Florence recently had hip replacement surgery. Tonight was my night to bring over dinner. When I called to drop off lasagna, I had the chance to chat with her daughter, who is in town to help care for her during her recuperation.
"You're in the O'Malley house," she said. "I grew up there."
I looked puzzled, as she was clearly not an O'Malley, and she explained that she played there all the time.
"We used to have spitting contests off the back balcony," she revealed.
I also learned:
-- the funky room in the basement, with its shelves and paneling, was once, as I have always suspected, a Greg Brady-style oldest son's bedroom.
-- the dining room was formerly used as a den, with TV perched on the built-in breakfront.
--the dining room also housed a keyboard that was NOT TO BE TOUCHED, as it belong to an O'Malley uncle who played organ at Wrigley Field.
I revel in all these legacies, and look forward to the day when I, too, can host spitting contests off the back balcony.
Crazy Crap Item #219: The part where I receive a pretty authoritative vote of confidence
Well, not to crib again from the annals of James Casey, but his mother Ann just sent along another anecdote that must be shared. To wit:
After swimming today James and I were in the locker room and he says "When we get home we should ask Kay to come over and build us an indoor pool"
me - "why would we ask Kay?"
him - "because Kay came make anything"
me - "is that right?"
him - "well, I HOPE so!"
After swimming today James and I were in the locker room and he says "When we get home we should ask Kay to come over and build us an indoor pool"
me - "why would we ask Kay?"
him - "because Kay came make anything"
me - "is that right?"
him - "well, I HOPE so!"
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Crazy Crap Item #218: The part where James demonstrates his knowledge of things spiritual
I crib this story from Ann, James' mother. James is 4.
James wanted to read a story so I told him to go pick out a book. He came back with one and I told him "This is a book about what happens after you die". (It's a picture book that Rose gave us when the boy's grandfather died called "The Next Place".) James said "I already know what happens after you die, they make a statue of you and put it in church.........................or you become a ghost and fly around a castle".
James wanted to read a story so I told him to go pick out a book. He came back with one and I told him "This is a book about what happens after you die". (It's a picture book that Rose gave us when the boy's grandfather died called "The Next Place".) James said "I already know what happens after you die, they make a statue of you and put it in church.........................or you become a ghost and fly around a castle".
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Crazy Crap Item #217: The part where James sums things up quite nicely
Recently, my neighbor Ann had to go to the dentist to get a crown. She asked if I would hang out with James (age 4) while she did so.
I cherish any time I can spend with either or both of the Casey boys under any circumstances, so I readily agreed.
Most of the hour or so were spent with him demonstrating his many toys, making my knight battle his (I always lose), and with the eating of snacks. But we also steeped ourselves in philosophical discussion. To wit:
James: What comes before 4 and 102?
Kay: I don't think I understand your question.
James [said with greater emphasis]: What comes before 4 and 102?
Kay [not wanting to have to count from 1 to 101]: Well, every number before 102 is what comes before 1o2.
James: Yes, and 1, 2, 3 come before 4.
Kay [relieved]: Yes, that's exactly it.
James: 1 you wear diapers; 2 you wear diapers; 3 you wear underpants; 4 you wear underpants.
Kay: Yes. And what comes after 4? What do you wear then?
James: After 4, it's all underpants, all seasons.
And....scene.
I cherish any time I can spend with either or both of the Casey boys under any circumstances, so I readily agreed.
Most of the hour or so were spent with him demonstrating his many toys, making my knight battle his (I always lose), and with the eating of snacks. But we also steeped ourselves in philosophical discussion. To wit:
James: What comes before 4 and 102?
Kay: I don't think I understand your question.
James [said with greater emphasis]: What comes before 4 and 102?
Kay [not wanting to have to count from 1 to 101]: Well, every number before 102 is what comes before 1o2.
James: Yes, and 1, 2, 3 come before 4.
Kay [relieved]: Yes, that's exactly it.
James: 1 you wear diapers; 2 you wear diapers; 3 you wear underpants; 4 you wear underpants.
Kay: Yes. And what comes after 4? What do you wear then?
James: After 4, it's all underpants, all seasons.
And....scene.
Crazy Crap Item #216: The part where I share important information
From Elizabeth's England: Everyday Life in Elizabethan London, by Liza Picard
"Farting, like pissing, should ideally be done when alone, if at all possible, but if it is not possible to withdraw, 'let a cough cover the sound', which is not the whole answer to the problem. In all this, one has to remember that there were few lavatories, public or private, to which one could withdraw. The unfortunate Earl of Oxford farted as he bowed before Queen Elizabeth one day. He was so mortified that he left the Court for seven years. On his return the Queen greeted him reassuringly. 'My Lord, I had forgotten the fart.'"
"Farting, like pissing, should ideally be done when alone, if at all possible, but if it is not possible to withdraw, 'let a cough cover the sound', which is not the whole answer to the problem. In all this, one has to remember that there were few lavatories, public or private, to which one could withdraw. The unfortunate Earl of Oxford farted as he bowed before Queen Elizabeth one day. He was so mortified that he left the Court for seven years. On his return the Queen greeted him reassuringly. 'My Lord, I had forgotten the fart.'"
Crazy Crap Item #215: The part where I am delighted by my homecoming surprise
OK, so I just returned from Banning, blah blah blah. Aside from being seated next to the WORLD'S ANGRIEST TODDLER for 3 hours of my trip, the trip was fairly uneventful.
Just prior to my return, Eamon posted a most enticing Facebook status update:
Eamon hopes Kay likes her surprise!
Well, I'm always someone who likes to come home, but this little missive really sealed the deal. But before I reveal said surprise, I must back up a bit.
I, dear friends, can charitably be called a "picky sleeper." I started developing insomnia in college, and committed myself fully to this endeavor by graduate school. My good friend, Mr. Czjaka, was always amused by my capacity to awake for no good reason at all, and stay awake for hours. "Are you like Jane Eyre," he'd ask. "Were you awakened by a shaft of moonlight breaking through your curtained window?"
This eventually led to a phenemenon I like to call "migratory sleeping." Fed up with my inability to sleep in one location, I'd move to another--a couch, the floor, whatever came to hand as a reasonable sleep surface.
My restlessness has also led to a phenomenon my brother has recently dubbed "pillow madness." It started as an attempt to pin myself down. I found that after tossing and turning for several hours, putting my pillow on top of my head would secure me in place and, sometimes, anyway, allow me to drift off.
Later, I discovered that a pillow laid along one side of me only helped matters. And then one on the other side.
It was only when I met Eamon that I was introduced to the greatest invention mankind has yet to create: the body pillow. For the unenlightened, this is an ENORMOUSLY long pillow that runs the full length of the body.
So, for those of you keeping up, at this point in our story, I am sleeping with:
-a pillow under my head
-a pillow over my head
-a body pillow on one side
-a pillow on the other side
As if this weren't insane enough, then came the physical woes. Chronic shoulder pain. Chronic hip pain. On opposite sides of the body. This means, of course, that I cannot sleep comfortably on either my left or my right side. (Later, I developed a carpal tunnel-esque condition that seemed to kick in when I lay on my back ... cruel irony ... but I've managed to get that under control).
So, anyway, to properly bolster all my body parts, I found I needed:
- aforementioned pillows over and under head
- body pillow with additional pillow on it when lying on side opposite my sore shoulder (so as to prop it up)
- two pillows laid end to end on the other side, so as to bolster my sore hip when lying on that opposite side
I call it the Kay Daly Sleep System (tm). Patent pending.
Clearly, I'm now taking up enough bed space for three stout souls. Eamon and I can no longer fit in our queen-size bed. Add in my migratory sleep patterns, and I'm soon permabulating from one guest bedroom to the other. In the wake of my recent nervous breakdown, I finally settled into our haunted guestroom. It's dark and soothing, quiet as a tomb, and has a mattress I quite like.
But I miss, you know, my actual bedroom, and the guy I share it with, so this makes me a bit sad.
Which brings us to my SURPRISE.
Upon arriving home from Banning, I'm escorted to the bedroom where Eamon has contrived THE BIGGEST BED THE WORLD HAS EVER KNOWN. It's bigger than a King-size bed. It's bigger than a California King.
He has moved out our previous bed, a queen-size Comfort-aire, which had always made me feel like I was sleeping in a hammock, no matter how much I filled my side with air. It now lives in the haunted guestroom.
He has moved the double bed that I like from the haunted guestroom into our bedroom.
He has moved an old twin bed from our basement up two flights of stairs to our bedroom.
He has cunningly pushed these two beds together to form one TITANIC SUPER-BED.
He has purchased new, high-quality sheets for each of the components of this new bed (unlike the nasty, low-thread-count affairs I usually cheap-out with).
He has purchased coverlets and decorative pillows to match the brown pillowcase I had chosen for my body pillow.
And thus it is, we now own the largest bed in the western hemisphere, and I am the happiest of girls.
P.S. I'm also a sheet stealer. But we found a solution for that as well.
Just prior to my return, Eamon posted a most enticing Facebook status update:
Eamon hopes Kay likes her surprise!
Well, I'm always someone who likes to come home, but this little missive really sealed the deal. But before I reveal said surprise, I must back up a bit.
I, dear friends, can charitably be called a "picky sleeper." I started developing insomnia in college, and committed myself fully to this endeavor by graduate school. My good friend, Mr. Czjaka, was always amused by my capacity to awake for no good reason at all, and stay awake for hours. "Are you like Jane Eyre," he'd ask. "Were you awakened by a shaft of moonlight breaking through your curtained window?"
This eventually led to a phenemenon I like to call "migratory sleeping." Fed up with my inability to sleep in one location, I'd move to another--a couch, the floor, whatever came to hand as a reasonable sleep surface.
My restlessness has also led to a phenomenon my brother has recently dubbed "pillow madness." It started as an attempt to pin myself down. I found that after tossing and turning for several hours, putting my pillow on top of my head would secure me in place and, sometimes, anyway, allow me to drift off.
Later, I discovered that a pillow laid along one side of me only helped matters. And then one on the other side.
It was only when I met Eamon that I was introduced to the greatest invention mankind has yet to create: the body pillow. For the unenlightened, this is an ENORMOUSLY long pillow that runs the full length of the body.
So, for those of you keeping up, at this point in our story, I am sleeping with:
-a pillow under my head
-a pillow over my head
-a body pillow on one side
-a pillow on the other side
As if this weren't insane enough, then came the physical woes. Chronic shoulder pain. Chronic hip pain. On opposite sides of the body. This means, of course, that I cannot sleep comfortably on either my left or my right side. (Later, I developed a carpal tunnel-esque condition that seemed to kick in when I lay on my back ... cruel irony ... but I've managed to get that under control).
So, anyway, to properly bolster all my body parts, I found I needed:
- aforementioned pillows over and under head
- body pillow with additional pillow on it when lying on side opposite my sore shoulder (so as to prop it up)
- two pillows laid end to end on the other side, so as to bolster my sore hip when lying on that opposite side
I call it the Kay Daly Sleep System (tm). Patent pending.
Clearly, I'm now taking up enough bed space for three stout souls. Eamon and I can no longer fit in our queen-size bed. Add in my migratory sleep patterns, and I'm soon permabulating from one guest bedroom to the other. In the wake of my recent nervous breakdown, I finally settled into our haunted guestroom. It's dark and soothing, quiet as a tomb, and has a mattress I quite like.
But I miss, you know, my actual bedroom, and the guy I share it with, so this makes me a bit sad.
Which brings us to my SURPRISE.
Upon arriving home from Banning, I'm escorted to the bedroom where Eamon has contrived THE BIGGEST BED THE WORLD HAS EVER KNOWN. It's bigger than a King-size bed. It's bigger than a California King.
He has moved out our previous bed, a queen-size Comfort-aire, which had always made me feel like I was sleeping in a hammock, no matter how much I filled my side with air. It now lives in the haunted guestroom.
He has moved the double bed that I like from the haunted guestroom into our bedroom.
He has moved an old twin bed from our basement up two flights of stairs to our bedroom.
He has cunningly pushed these two beds together to form one TITANIC SUPER-BED.
He has purchased new, high-quality sheets for each of the components of this new bed (unlike the nasty, low-thread-count affairs I usually cheap-out with).
He has purchased coverlets and decorative pillows to match the brown pillowcase I had chosen for my body pillow.
And thus it is, we now own the largest bed in the western hemisphere, and I am the happiest of girls.
P.S. I'm also a sheet stealer. But we found a solution for that as well.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Crazy Crap Item #214: The part where I rechristen the cat
Well, not to beat a dead horse, but I'm currently in beautiful Banning, Ca., home of my parents, assisting as my father recovers from a broken arm.
Local lore says my dad was felled by a small tabby kitten. Aforementioned feline had been purchased in the hopes that she would provide some nice distraction and amusement for my parents, whose range of activities have become a bit more constricted of late.
We, you see, are cat people. Worry not: I shall not digress into some cliche about "dog people" versus "cat people." Instead, I will note that throughout the years of my growing up, we owned somewhere in the neighborhood of 20 cats. Not at once, mind you. The most at one blow was five, and that was because of the birth of kittens, which were quickly dispersed to good homes.
And let me say, in our defense, we actually sought out only very few of these cats. Rosie, our first cat, was picked up, I believe, from a "free kitten" box at the local Gemco. She was promised to my sister Liz--her sole pet. Liz soon proved too young to take on such a responsibility, and was manipulated into making Rosie the "family cat" in exchange for what was termed a "knickknack doll." I'm not sure what a "knickknack doll" actually is, but it is family lore, and must be reported accurately.
Of our other cats, I recall selecting a feisty white kitten with orange tail, dubbed Boris, from a local pet shop, in later years. I believe our two Petunias, Petunia 1 and Petunia 2, were also deliberately acquired.
But more typically, our cats found us. There was Blue Eyes (named for her blue eyes), who I believe was found on the shoulder of the freeway and taken home. Also, there was Bones (a quite skinny cat, you see), who, emaciated and weak, wandered out in front of my mother's car as she drove down the street. My sister leapt out to put him back on the curb, only to have him wander suicidally back into the road. Into the car he went.
Then there was my personal favorite, "Little Kitty" (by this time, we'd given up trying to come up with names). She simply wandered up on our front porch and peered in the front window (a large, plate glass affair). My dad opened the front door, and inquired, "What do you want?" She skipped merrily in, and we had ourselves a cat.
Sparky, a feisty, fire-engine red kitten who later grew to a lazy, grumpy, strawberry blond, similarly wandered into our yard, and lodged himself under our house. Several claw swipes and one big bite to the thumb (my brother's), and he was ours.
I'll omit the rest, except a brief mention of Roger (who turned out to be a girl) and Jubilations, a wild tom cat who never really "belonged" to us, but rather lived off the bounty of our offerings of backyard snacks.
In fact, I've always rather suspected that we operated something like the underground railroad for cats. I've imagined whispered mews in back alleys, consisting of, "If you're ever in trouble, hit up the Petersons." Perhaps they even had a code of hobo symbols that had been scratched into the olive tree in our front yard. "Endless kibble, guaranteed home, moderate teasing."
But I digress. Back to the main topic, the borderline-insane kitten who currently makes her home in Banning. Like Roger, she looks like a boy to us all, but she is in fact a girl. Due to her boundless energy and penchant for flying around the house as if the very devil were on her tail, she has been named "Zipper."
It was during one of these wild sprints that she careened into my dad, knocking him off balance on a slippery kitchen floor. The result: one broken arm (not the cat's).
So, it was assumed, the cat was a very bad idea. A menace, one might say.
Subsequent to this, my dad had yet another fall, non-cat-related, and was taken to his doctor. In the waiting room, he fell again. Since there were now no cats to be implicated, it was decided that further investigation was required.
A trip to the emergency room later, a check-in to the hospital, and a very thorough exam by a wonderful intern named Dr. Haddad, and some interesting results developed. My dad, it seems, has sky-high sodium levels. He is chronically dehydrated. His kidneys are struggling. His blood pressure is a perilously low 60 over 40 (normal is 120 over 80).
Dr. Haddad looks at his entire medical record and concludes that the approximate 412 water pills they have him taking (an exagerration on my part) are EXCESSIVE IN THE EXTREME. His current doctors (seen for a variety of issues) have simply not gotten on the same page, and by not looking at the big picture, have created a whole parcel of new woes.
So, given my dad's extreme dehydration, weak kidneys and low blood pressure, it's no wonder a kitten could knock him over.
In fact, one could argue that if it hadn't been for our small spastic tabby friend, none of these issues would've been uncovered. The broken arm put my dad in a position to receive thorough and comprehensive treatment--something he apparently had not been receiving.
Given all this, I've decided Zipper needs a new name. I have thus dubbed her: "Lucky Break." "Lucky" for short.
Local lore says my dad was felled by a small tabby kitten. Aforementioned feline had been purchased in the hopes that she would provide some nice distraction and amusement for my parents, whose range of activities have become a bit more constricted of late.
We, you see, are cat people. Worry not: I shall not digress into some cliche about "dog people" versus "cat people." Instead, I will note that throughout the years of my growing up, we owned somewhere in the neighborhood of 20 cats. Not at once, mind you. The most at one blow was five, and that was because of the birth of kittens, which were quickly dispersed to good homes.
And let me say, in our defense, we actually sought out only very few of these cats. Rosie, our first cat, was picked up, I believe, from a "free kitten" box at the local Gemco. She was promised to my sister Liz--her sole pet. Liz soon proved too young to take on such a responsibility, and was manipulated into making Rosie the "family cat" in exchange for what was termed a "knickknack doll." I'm not sure what a "knickknack doll" actually is, but it is family lore, and must be reported accurately.
Of our other cats, I recall selecting a feisty white kitten with orange tail, dubbed Boris, from a local pet shop, in later years. I believe our two Petunias, Petunia 1 and Petunia 2, were also deliberately acquired.
But more typically, our cats found us. There was Blue Eyes (named for her blue eyes), who I believe was found on the shoulder of the freeway and taken home. Also, there was Bones (a quite skinny cat, you see), who, emaciated and weak, wandered out in front of my mother's car as she drove down the street. My sister leapt out to put him back on the curb, only to have him wander suicidally back into the road. Into the car he went.
Then there was my personal favorite, "Little Kitty" (by this time, we'd given up trying to come up with names). She simply wandered up on our front porch and peered in the front window (a large, plate glass affair). My dad opened the front door, and inquired, "What do you want?" She skipped merrily in, and we had ourselves a cat.
Sparky, a feisty, fire-engine red kitten who later grew to a lazy, grumpy, strawberry blond, similarly wandered into our yard, and lodged himself under our house. Several claw swipes and one big bite to the thumb (my brother's), and he was ours.
I'll omit the rest, except a brief mention of Roger (who turned out to be a girl) and Jubilations, a wild tom cat who never really "belonged" to us, but rather lived off the bounty of our offerings of backyard snacks.
In fact, I've always rather suspected that we operated something like the underground railroad for cats. I've imagined whispered mews in back alleys, consisting of, "If you're ever in trouble, hit up the Petersons." Perhaps they even had a code of hobo symbols that had been scratched into the olive tree in our front yard. "Endless kibble, guaranteed home, moderate teasing."
But I digress. Back to the main topic, the borderline-insane kitten who currently makes her home in Banning. Like Roger, she looks like a boy to us all, but she is in fact a girl. Due to her boundless energy and penchant for flying around the house as if the very devil were on her tail, she has been named "Zipper."
It was during one of these wild sprints that she careened into my dad, knocking him off balance on a slippery kitchen floor. The result: one broken arm (not the cat's).
So, it was assumed, the cat was a very bad idea. A menace, one might say.
Subsequent to this, my dad had yet another fall, non-cat-related, and was taken to his doctor. In the waiting room, he fell again. Since there were now no cats to be implicated, it was decided that further investigation was required.
A trip to the emergency room later, a check-in to the hospital, and a very thorough exam by a wonderful intern named Dr. Haddad, and some interesting results developed. My dad, it seems, has sky-high sodium levels. He is chronically dehydrated. His kidneys are struggling. His blood pressure is a perilously low 60 over 40 (normal is 120 over 80).
Dr. Haddad looks at his entire medical record and concludes that the approximate 412 water pills they have him taking (an exagerration on my part) are EXCESSIVE IN THE EXTREME. His current doctors (seen for a variety of issues) have simply not gotten on the same page, and by not looking at the big picture, have created a whole parcel of new woes.
So, given my dad's extreme dehydration, weak kidneys and low blood pressure, it's no wonder a kitten could knock him over.
In fact, one could argue that if it hadn't been for our small spastic tabby friend, none of these issues would've been uncovered. The broken arm put my dad in a position to receive thorough and comprehensive treatment--something he apparently had not been receiving.
Given all this, I've decided Zipper needs a new name. I have thus dubbed her: "Lucky Break." "Lucky" for short.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Crazy Crap Item #213: The part where Mom hits the nail right on the head
Currently still with parents in Banning, Ca. A recent conversation:
Mom: So now, will your husband take you out to dinner tonight after you take me home?
Kay: No, mom. I'm staying with you tonight. I live in Chicago now.
Mom: Chicago! Why did you come all the way out here?
Kay: To help with dad's broken arm.
[pause]
Mom: Well, no offense, but I think we'll want to see a doctor for that.
Mom: So now, will your husband take you out to dinner tonight after you take me home?
Kay: No, mom. I'm staying with you tonight. I live in Chicago now.
Mom: Chicago! Why did you come all the way out here?
Kay: To help with dad's broken arm.
[pause]
Mom: Well, no offense, but I think we'll want to see a doctor for that.
Crazy Crap Item #212: The part where I make a totally predictable discovery
Still in lovely Banning, Ca., that bastion of the 55-and-older set, and enjoying the quirks of a community that has molded its offerings entirely around the needs of those in the autumn of their years.
At a recent trip to the grocery store, I thought to myself that since I'm here for the semi-long haul, I'll purchase some foods that suit my discriminating palate and fit well with my beleagured jaw. Hummus, I thought. That delicious puree of the chickpea, so favored by those of the Middle East. Surely, this most cosmopolitan of communities would offer such a delicacy.
No such luck. Ranch dressing they had. Salsa by the tub. Spinach dip. But hummus, no siree bob.
Not such a surprising revelation, but an unfortunate oversight. I think hummus and dentures would be a natural pairing.
At a recent trip to the grocery store, I thought to myself that since I'm here for the semi-long haul, I'll purchase some foods that suit my discriminating palate and fit well with my beleagured jaw. Hummus, I thought. That delicious puree of the chickpea, so favored by those of the Middle East. Surely, this most cosmopolitan of communities would offer such a delicacy.
No such luck. Ranch dressing they had. Salsa by the tub. Spinach dip. But hummus, no siree bob.
Not such a surprising revelation, but an unfortunate oversight. I think hummus and dentures would be a natural pairing.
Crazy Crap Item #211: The part where I benefit from being such a pill-pusher
So, as many know, I am currently in Banning, California, assisting my father, who broke his arm while doing mighty battle with a small tabby kitten.
While packing for this trip, I was a little alarmed to realize that I had packed far more in the way of pharmaceuticals, home remedies, over-the-counter tonics, and physical therapy equipment than I had clothes. Healthy I will be. Healthy and naked.
Once here, my hypochondria had an unexpected benefit. My dad was released from the hospital one day after surgery, and I whisked him homeward. My greatest concern was to get his prescription for pain pills filled, so that he'd have relief on hand ASAP.
I didn't, however, want to leave him and my mom alone with him fresh from the hospital, and while my sister Liz was hot-footing it out to join us, she was still about an hour out. What to do?
So I asked, "What is this painkiller you need?" The prescription listed a mouthful of chemical gobbledy gook which meant nothing to me, and on a whim, I double checked the doctor's original order. The alphabet soup name turned out to be the generic. The brand name: Vicodin.
As luck would have it, as I packed my many, many remedies, I had tossed in a bottle Vicodin I had left over from my recent jaw procedure. I don't take them, but as I packed, I thought, "Why not?"
So all was solved: Dad had his Vicodin -- or at least an interim bandaid -- until I could get out to fill his official prescription.
Hypochondria: we salute you!
While packing for this trip, I was a little alarmed to realize that I had packed far more in the way of pharmaceuticals, home remedies, over-the-counter tonics, and physical therapy equipment than I had clothes. Healthy I will be. Healthy and naked.
Once here, my hypochondria had an unexpected benefit. My dad was released from the hospital one day after surgery, and I whisked him homeward. My greatest concern was to get his prescription for pain pills filled, so that he'd have relief on hand ASAP.
I didn't, however, want to leave him and my mom alone with him fresh from the hospital, and while my sister Liz was hot-footing it out to join us, she was still about an hour out. What to do?
So I asked, "What is this painkiller you need?" The prescription listed a mouthful of chemical gobbledy gook which meant nothing to me, and on a whim, I double checked the doctor's original order. The alphabet soup name turned out to be the generic. The brand name: Vicodin.
As luck would have it, as I packed my many, many remedies, I had tossed in a bottle Vicodin I had left over from my recent jaw procedure. I don't take them, but as I packed, I thought, "Why not?"
So all was solved: Dad had his Vicodin -- or at least an interim bandaid -- until I could get out to fill his official prescription.
Hypochondria: we salute you!
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Crazy Crap Item #210: The part where I share beard lore
Well, I'm about to head out to Southern California. Sailor Jack has fractured his arm -- and injury encountered in a violent brush with a kitten, or so I'm told. I think he just regularly breaks or replaces body parts to ensure I come out to visit.
Before I go, however, I must share two recent beard-related phenemona.
Phenomenon #1: Eamon's out of control facial hair
As many know, Eamon has ceased removing any hair from his head. No hair cuts, no beard trims, nothing. This has been going on since August.
Me, I'm cool with it. I've enjoyed tracking the various characters he takes on as the hair grows. These have included:
-- A young Santa Claus
-- A cast member of Cats
-- A Greek god
-- The Gorton's Fisherman (from Gorton's of Glouchester)
-- A Russian mobster
-- Rasputin
His two latest favorite phrases have been, "Go ahead! Tug on it! It's strong!" and "It's like wearing a mink on my face."
Recently, he decided to memorialize his growth in fantastic collage entitled "Things my beard can lift." The set of photos also include closeups of various components he is lifting.
Phenomenon #2: A wonderful new ode to the beard and what it goes with
We do not know the master songsmith who created this ditty, but we were directed to it by Mr. Chris Czajka.
Before I go, however, I must share two recent beard-related phenemona.
Phenomenon #1: Eamon's out of control facial hair
As many know, Eamon has ceased removing any hair from his head. No hair cuts, no beard trims, nothing. This has been going on since August.
Me, I'm cool with it. I've enjoyed tracking the various characters he takes on as the hair grows. These have included:
-- A young Santa Claus
-- A cast member of Cats
-- A Greek god
-- The Gorton's Fisherman (from Gorton's of Glouchester)
-- A Russian mobster
-- Rasputin
His two latest favorite phrases have been, "Go ahead! Tug on it! It's strong!" and "It's like wearing a mink on my face."
Recently, he decided to memorialize his growth in fantastic collage entitled "Things my beard can lift." The set of photos also include closeups of various components he is lifting.
Phenomenon #2: A wonderful new ode to the beard and what it goes with
We do not know the master songsmith who created this ditty, but we were directed to it by Mr. Chris Czajka.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Crazy Crap Item #209: The part where Sailor Jack cracks wise
In a recent email, my father updated me on the latest in his California homefront:
Today, rain, snow, (SNOW!) 32 deg. temp., and 15 MPH wind. Throw in a crooked governor and we'd have Chicago.
Love to both,
^^^^ SJ ^^^^
Today, rain, snow, (SNOW!) 32 deg. temp., and 15 MPH wind. Throw in a crooked governor and we'd have Chicago.
Love to both,
^^^^ SJ ^^^^
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Crazy Crap Item #208: The part where I marvel at the gall
Okay, so, as many will recall, I just spent the worst summer and fall ever, which included six weeks of physical therapy for mis-diagnosed and mis-treated TMJ syndrome.
Last week, we finally got the bill.
Today, I got a call from her billing service to "remind you of your balance."
I'm like, yeah, we got the bill A WEEK AGO.
So I guess they're not so good about diagnosing and fixing ailments, but really good at demanding payment.
Last week, we finally got the bill.
Today, I got a call from her billing service to "remind you of your balance."
I'm like, yeah, we got the bill A WEEK AGO.
So I guess they're not so good about diagnosing and fixing ailments, but really good at demanding payment.
Monday, December 15, 2008
Crazy Crap Item #207: The part where Piatt and Eamon quip
Last Friday night, Eamon and I found ourselves at the Bong Ho, our favorite local Korean karaoke dive bar. Shiow, a long-time friend of young Roxi and the original source of knowledge about this oasis of off-key singing, was planning a birthday celebration behind the mic. So how could we not go?
Though he doesn't know Shiow, I invited our good friend, Mr. Christopher Piatt, theater editor extraordinaire and all-around man-about-town. He has taken up the mic at the Bong before (his "Mac the Knife" always brings down the house), and knows well the allure of this stinkiest of nightspots. (Yes, that is pee you smell. Pee and Raid ant spray.)
After reviewing two shows and enduring a commute that involved no fewer than three CTA buses, he arrived at midnight, just as I was preparing to leave. So, of course, my plans changed.
He'd missed my dazzling rendition of Billie Holiday's "Come Rain or Come Shine" and my signature show-stopper "Cabaret" (a la Liza), but he was lucky enough to catch my eerie evocation of Leslie Gore ("It's My Party) and Petula Clark ("Downtown").
Finally, as I finished a gut-wrenching "Hopelessly Devoted to You" (Olivia Newton John, Grease), he turned to Eamon.
Piatt: How does it feel to be married to a gay icon.
Eamon: In some circles, I'm considered a gay icon.
And ... scene.
Though he doesn't know Shiow, I invited our good friend, Mr. Christopher Piatt, theater editor extraordinaire and all-around man-about-town. He has taken up the mic at the Bong before (his "Mac the Knife" always brings down the house), and knows well the allure of this stinkiest of nightspots. (Yes, that is pee you smell. Pee and Raid ant spray.)
After reviewing two shows and enduring a commute that involved no fewer than three CTA buses, he arrived at midnight, just as I was preparing to leave. So, of course, my plans changed.
He'd missed my dazzling rendition of Billie Holiday's "Come Rain or Come Shine" and my signature show-stopper "Cabaret" (a la Liza), but he was lucky enough to catch my eerie evocation of Leslie Gore ("It's My Party) and Petula Clark ("Downtown").
Finally, as I finished a gut-wrenching "Hopelessly Devoted to You" (Olivia Newton John, Grease), he turned to Eamon.
Piatt: How does it feel to be married to a gay icon.
Eamon: In some circles, I'm considered a gay icon.
And ... scene.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Crazy Crap Item #206: The part where my father taunts me
I just received this email from my father:
DBK [Doctor Baby Kay],
Your governor is corrupter than our governor. (to the tune of Nya-Nya)
^^^^ SJ ^^^^ [Sailor Jack]
DBK [Doctor Baby Kay],
Your governor is corrupter than our governor. (to the tune of Nya-Nya)
^^^^ SJ ^^^^ [Sailor Jack]
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Crazy Crap Item #205: The part where Roxi weighs in on a proposed charitable act
I have not cut my hair for a year. Last holiday season, I decided, in a fit of tipsy philanthropy, that since my hair was just sitting there, doing nothing, I should harvest it for Locks of Love, an organization which supplies wigs for kids who, due to medical reasons, can't grow their own hair.
I've had long hair in the past. It's been straggly, thin. In a word: unfortunate. So I was not looking forward to this.
But lo and behold, it's grown out rather nicely, lovely layers and all. Which led young Roxi to say to me, just last night:
"Screw the kids with cancer. You look great with long hair."
God bless us, every one.
I've had long hair in the past. It's been straggly, thin. In a word: unfortunate. So I was not looking forward to this.
But lo and behold, it's grown out rather nicely, lovely layers and all. Which led young Roxi to say to me, just last night:
"Screw the kids with cancer. You look great with long hair."
God bless us, every one.
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Crazy Crap Item #204: The part where I attempt an essay on a seemingly arbitrary topic
So, today is Thanksgiving. And I suppose I should compose some paean to the day--thanks for our many blessings, mullings over the sacrifice of the pilgrims who founded our great nation, panegyrics on founding fathers and fruited plains.
But instead, I feel like writing about a topic that just keeps popping up in my life over the last few weeks. And if it doesn't initially seem like it's a topic relevant on a day of national thanksgiving--of celebrating the plenty in our lives, the traditions we share, the communities that bring us together--then stick around. You might just be surprised.
The topic is hair. Specifically, black hair. Now, of course, I have black hair (see profile photo), but that's not what I mean. I'm instead referring to what we used to call "African American hair." Someone told me recently that "African American" is over, and now it's all about "black," but I may be confused on that point. So for the sake of this exercise, I will stick to the term "black hair" to refer specifically to hair on the heads of black people--those of African American descent. I just can't see typing "African American" over and over and over on a holiday.
But to resume my theme: I'm embarrassed to admit that it wasn't until I was well into my 20s--teetering, in fact, into my 30s--that the idea that black hair was significantly and fundamentally different than white hair entered my consciousness. It's not that I hail from some snooty, all-white suburb. San Gabriel, Ca., my home town, was integration-central, but in our neck of the woods, the idea of "race" entailed the almighty triad: white/Latino/Asian. And I think, in terms of demographics, the Latinos were winning. There was a small handful of black kids in our school; few enough that, paradoxically, the fact of their blackness was incidental. So my exposure to black America was slight, at best.
So fast forward to--gulp--graduate school. One afternoon, I stop by the apartment of my friend Nicole. We had plans later that day, and since I was killing time, she told me just to stop on by. When I arrived, she had some mysterious cream smeared along the roots of her hair. She said, "Sorry, you caught me in the middle of an African American hair ritual."
This is the embarrassing part: It had never before entered my mind that Nicole straightened her hair. That OF COURSE she straightened her hair. That her hair, which always was so carefully coiffed, didn't just grow out of her scalp that way.
Now, this realization was strange and embarrassing because, although I did not grow up in a neighborhood replete with black kids, I had somehow picked up the knowledge that black people generally have curly, kinky hair. That cropped close, it makes tight little curls. That grown long and picked out, it makes wild, wonderful Afros that I've always secretly coveted. In fact, as a child, I purchased at a local flea market a little fashion doll that was black, and I always loved her tight little 'fro. I used to pat it lovingly after dressing her up for a night on the town. So, clearly, I had lurking in my brain a basic knowledge of black hair and its characteristics.
So it was with great mortification that I realized not just how remarkably ignorant I was--but how unable to see what was right in front of me. And trust me, that's an unsettling realization.
Fast forward about six years. I'm out of graduate school. I'm part of the work force, taking the Red line downtown everyday to work. During my commute, sometimes I'd read, sometimes I'd gaze out the window. But sometimes, I'd just stare at the heads in front of me. And since Chicago--though still shockingly segregated--holds a healthy mix of black and white, often the heads I found myself staring at were black.
It was at this moment that little kernel of realization planted by Nicole and her hair-straightening ritual took root. I started to notice--really notice--the remarkable variety in black women's hair and how they had dressed it. I became aware of the many options they were choosing from--straightened, au natural, extensions, colorings. And wigs! Why had I never noticed how many black women were wearing wigs?
Next, I began to reckon with the sheer amount of effort that went into these creations. The straightening alone, I knew, must be time-consuming, annoying, and must be done with steady regularity. But then there were pasted-down curls and squiggles of hair, arrangements of braids, careful interweavings of hair, natural and synthetic.
Dear God, I thought. How much time must that take? Hair-wise, I've always been pretty darn close to au natural. There was a spiral perm in the late '80s, but that was never repeated. My entire first year of graduate school, I stopped getting my hair cut at all, just to see what would happen. Turns out, it got really long.
My main point is, besides washing, cutting, blowdrying, and a very infrequent spritz of hairspray (for special occasions), I don't really spend a heck of a lot of time on my hair. And I resent the small amount of time its maintenance does require.
As I pondered the hair of my train-mates, I began to appreciate that, given how little inclined I am to dress and attend to my hair, I'm lucky I've got white-girl hair. It's straight. It's durable. It grows ridiculously fast, and it can be easily coaxed into just about any style. Or it can be pulled back in a ponytail and ignored.
So I mused on this fact, and decided I needed to learn more. Pushing aside all apprehensions about being one of those annoying liberal white folk who want to appreciate the "black experience" as a way to show how enlightened they are, I gingerly instant-messaged Nicole. My message was something along the lines of: "So, this black hair thing, it takes a lot of work. What's up with that?" But, I hope, with more grace, tact, and clarity.
Nicole, being a patient and amiable soul, helpfully enlightened me. She opened my eyes to the world of black hair maintenance. The regular visits to the neighborhood salon that take up the entirety of one's Saturday. The painful process of cornrow braiding. The ongoing, never-ending toil to keep one's hair up to code. (Believe it or not, I still have the transcript of the conversation saved in a Word file. It was that significant to me.)
But she also gave me a glimpse into the culture of the black hair--that when she used the phrase "African American hair ritual" so many years before, she wasn't being glib. She was referring--tip-of-the-iceberg style--to a rich, complex node of community life and culture. She told me how the local salon or barbershop was a neighborhood institution. One spends so much time there, one can't help but make it a center of shared culture.
Her account put me in mind of a salon that Eamon and I used to pass when we lived in Rogers Park that advertised "Styling, Weaves, Braiding, Neighborhood Folklore." We'd always loved that sign; now I felt I actually, in some way, understood more fully its significance.
So, I decided, I wanted to learn more. Mind you, this was before the outbreak of Barbershop, Salon, and Hair Show movies. This was before Tyra compassionately explained to a white girl contestant on America's Next Top Model that, yes, extensions hurt like the bejesus, and you have to pat them so you don't scratch your scalp and cause more problems down the line. So really, I was ahead of the white-folk curve, I like to think.
Naive and presumptuous as I was, I thought maybe I'd try to write an article about this phenomenon. I did a little research to see what else was written on the topic, and ran across an exhaustive book about the history of black hair. I was so blown away by the book that, paradoxically, I have kept no notes from it, not even its title. Googling like a fiend just now, I suspect it was Hair Story: Untangling the Roots of Black Hair in America, by Ayana Byrd and Lori Tharps.
How, you may wonder, could I have failed to keep note of the book title--especially considering I kept an entire transcript of my IM conversation with Nicole on the same topic? The truth is, as I read the book, I could not escape the dawning realization that any role I'd try to play in recording or reporting on this cultural phenomenon was pretty suspect. Who was I? The great white translator of black experience? Did I think black writers couldn't sufficiently describe, analyze and celebrate this tradition on their own? And who was my audience? Clearly, black folk already know about this stuff. So I'm just talking to a non-black audience, which once again raised this spectre of the great white translator. Ick.
So while I pored over the book, intrigued by its scrupulous tracing of the history of black hair culture, stemming back from its African roots, through centuries in America, and up to today, I realized this was a conversation I needed to enjoy as audience, and keep my big, blabby mouth out of. As a result, I took no notes. Not even the title. Dang.
But the topic has stuck in my head. And in the last few weeks, it just keeps coming up. A friend of mine who is a teacher in the public school system was recently bemoaning the fact that she only just learned about the need to "pat" new cornrows to lessen the pain till they loosen up (revealing, in her mind, her ignorance about her students' experience). I've mulled over accounts I've read of cross-racial adoption--in which white parents must educate themselves in hair maintenance for their child, and how hard it is to cross that cultural line.
And then last night, Nicole posted as her status on Facebook the following: "Nicole is looking forward to the meeting of the White House and the hot comb."
As I drowsed into consciousness this morning, all these notions stewed in my brain, and I began to ponder the paradox at the heart of black hair culture. As was explained in that wonderful book I read, black hair culture grew out of the need to try to conform blackness to whiteness--to force kinky hair into straight silky locks--as a way, if not to gain the power of the dominant race, at least to align oneself with it aesthetically. At best, it was a means to get a toehold into that power. But at the least, it was a way to avoid calling attention to one's "difference"--a difference that could, as history all too clearly attests--be deadly.
But there's more to the story. This drive to conform, of course, starts as a sort of imposition from without. But soon enough, it's internalized. Black culture forms its own rules about how one manages one's "difference" via hair. There develop standards within the culture itself for the proper upkeep of one's hair--standards the dominant culture (white America) hasn't a clue about. It becomes self-policing.
And if that sounds grim and disappointing, there's actually a flipside to consider--one that's far more encouraging and even inspiring. In creating these internal standards, black America creates its own law, its own identity.
This can lead to concrete power. As recounted in the regrettably untitled book I consulted, the development of black hair culture both drove and was fed by the rise of black-owned businesses that served a black market, a chief example being Madame C. J. Walker, a pioneering entrepreneur in the field of beauty products designed especially for black women.
So some blacks gained real power--financial, political--from the industry that arose around black hair care. But hand-in-hand with this--and probably with more impact on the lives of everyday blacks--the culture of how one cares for one's hair provided a powerful community-building force: the neighborhood barbershop and/or salon. As Nicole had recounted to me so many years ago, the trip to the salon was like a weekly hajj to Mecca, and that many women travel miles to return to their childhood salons after they've moved out of the neighborhood. And where salons weren't plentiful, an aunt's house or Grandma's kitchen could fulfill the same purpose.
Mulling over this, I think back to my own childhood. I had a close, loving family. I was briefly a Girl Scout. (Hated it.) I was a member of several choirs. My family went to church. But I can't say I had a "community." If anything, I'd say my experience was "anti-community." We belonged to one parish, but another church was closer, so we went there. We weren't "joiners." I never felt a love for my Alma Mater. I've yet to go to a football game at the two universities I've attended, and can't even imagine going to an alumni event. Hell, I didn't even attend any of my three college graduations (undergrad, masters, doctorate).
Only now, as an adult, do I grasp what it means to be in a "community." I live on a fantastic block. As I've often recorded, whenever possible, we gather at the benches in front of Ruth's house and while away the hours sharing recipes and gossip. We keep an eye out for each other, and lend cups of sugar.
It's in experiencing this sense of "community"--and how it's formed by some accident of habit or behavior or geography--that I feel like I begin to experience something like the black hair thing. Here on 1500 Norwood, "community" has formed around the ritual of the sitting on the benches in front of Ruth's house and the fact that 6-year-old boys need to spend at least 3 hours a day simply running around and shooting fake guns at each other. For black communities, it's the fact that every week, you must spend hours tending to your hair.
I have no doubt that black hair experience has caused psychic scars for many--the push to conform, the belief that one must alter one's appearance to be acceptable. But I know that it's also provided strength and cohesiveness, a sense of shared experience that has empowered millions. I have no doubt that the civil rights movement found its impetus in the barbershop chair or while a small child wept from the sting of chemical straightener on her poor, red scalp.
And that's the weird, rich paradox of America and of human nature. Don't think any phenomenon will have a single, predictable outcome. Oppression become conformity becomes solidarity becomes a dream of power.
And then, suddenly, you've got hot combs in the White House. Amen.
But instead, I feel like writing about a topic that just keeps popping up in my life over the last few weeks. And if it doesn't initially seem like it's a topic relevant on a day of national thanksgiving--of celebrating the plenty in our lives, the traditions we share, the communities that bring us together--then stick around. You might just be surprised.
The topic is hair. Specifically, black hair. Now, of course, I have black hair (see profile photo), but that's not what I mean. I'm instead referring to what we used to call "African American hair." Someone told me recently that "African American" is over, and now it's all about "black," but I may be confused on that point. So for the sake of this exercise, I will stick to the term "black hair" to refer specifically to hair on the heads of black people--those of African American descent. I just can't see typing "African American" over and over and over on a holiday.
But to resume my theme: I'm embarrassed to admit that it wasn't until I was well into my 20s--teetering, in fact, into my 30s--that the idea that black hair was significantly and fundamentally different than white hair entered my consciousness. It's not that I hail from some snooty, all-white suburb. San Gabriel, Ca., my home town, was integration-central, but in our neck of the woods, the idea of "race" entailed the almighty triad: white/Latino/Asian. And I think, in terms of demographics, the Latinos were winning. There was a small handful of black kids in our school; few enough that, paradoxically, the fact of their blackness was incidental. So my exposure to black America was slight, at best.
So fast forward to--gulp--graduate school. One afternoon, I stop by the apartment of my friend Nicole. We had plans later that day, and since I was killing time, she told me just to stop on by. When I arrived, she had some mysterious cream smeared along the roots of her hair. She said, "Sorry, you caught me in the middle of an African American hair ritual."
This is the embarrassing part: It had never before entered my mind that Nicole straightened her hair. That OF COURSE she straightened her hair. That her hair, which always was so carefully coiffed, didn't just grow out of her scalp that way.
Now, this realization was strange and embarrassing because, although I did not grow up in a neighborhood replete with black kids, I had somehow picked up the knowledge that black people generally have curly, kinky hair. That cropped close, it makes tight little curls. That grown long and picked out, it makes wild, wonderful Afros that I've always secretly coveted. In fact, as a child, I purchased at a local flea market a little fashion doll that was black, and I always loved her tight little 'fro. I used to pat it lovingly after dressing her up for a night on the town. So, clearly, I had lurking in my brain a basic knowledge of black hair and its characteristics.
So it was with great mortification that I realized not just how remarkably ignorant I was--but how unable to see what was right in front of me. And trust me, that's an unsettling realization.
Fast forward about six years. I'm out of graduate school. I'm part of the work force, taking the Red line downtown everyday to work. During my commute, sometimes I'd read, sometimes I'd gaze out the window. But sometimes, I'd just stare at the heads in front of me. And since Chicago--though still shockingly segregated--holds a healthy mix of black and white, often the heads I found myself staring at were black.
It was at this moment that little kernel of realization planted by Nicole and her hair-straightening ritual took root. I started to notice--really notice--the remarkable variety in black women's hair and how they had dressed it. I became aware of the many options they were choosing from--straightened, au natural, extensions, colorings. And wigs! Why had I never noticed how many black women were wearing wigs?
Next, I began to reckon with the sheer amount of effort that went into these creations. The straightening alone, I knew, must be time-consuming, annoying, and must be done with steady regularity. But then there were pasted-down curls and squiggles of hair, arrangements of braids, careful interweavings of hair, natural and synthetic.
Dear God, I thought. How much time must that take? Hair-wise, I've always been pretty darn close to au natural. There was a spiral perm in the late '80s, but that was never repeated. My entire first year of graduate school, I stopped getting my hair cut at all, just to see what would happen. Turns out, it got really long.
My main point is, besides washing, cutting, blowdrying, and a very infrequent spritz of hairspray (for special occasions), I don't really spend a heck of a lot of time on my hair. And I resent the small amount of time its maintenance does require.
As I pondered the hair of my train-mates, I began to appreciate that, given how little inclined I am to dress and attend to my hair, I'm lucky I've got white-girl hair. It's straight. It's durable. It grows ridiculously fast, and it can be easily coaxed into just about any style. Or it can be pulled back in a ponytail and ignored.
So I mused on this fact, and decided I needed to learn more. Pushing aside all apprehensions about being one of those annoying liberal white folk who want to appreciate the "black experience" as a way to show how enlightened they are, I gingerly instant-messaged Nicole. My message was something along the lines of: "So, this black hair thing, it takes a lot of work. What's up with that?" But, I hope, with more grace, tact, and clarity.
Nicole, being a patient and amiable soul, helpfully enlightened me. She opened my eyes to the world of black hair maintenance. The regular visits to the neighborhood salon that take up the entirety of one's Saturday. The painful process of cornrow braiding. The ongoing, never-ending toil to keep one's hair up to code. (Believe it or not, I still have the transcript of the conversation saved in a Word file. It was that significant to me.)
But she also gave me a glimpse into the culture of the black hair--that when she used the phrase "African American hair ritual" so many years before, she wasn't being glib. She was referring--tip-of-the-iceberg style--to a rich, complex node of community life and culture. She told me how the local salon or barbershop was a neighborhood institution. One spends so much time there, one can't help but make it a center of shared culture.
Her account put me in mind of a salon that Eamon and I used to pass when we lived in Rogers Park that advertised "Styling, Weaves, Braiding, Neighborhood Folklore." We'd always loved that sign; now I felt I actually, in some way, understood more fully its significance.
So, I decided, I wanted to learn more. Mind you, this was before the outbreak of Barbershop, Salon, and Hair Show movies. This was before Tyra compassionately explained to a white girl contestant on America's Next Top Model that, yes, extensions hurt like the bejesus, and you have to pat them so you don't scratch your scalp and cause more problems down the line. So really, I was ahead of the white-folk curve, I like to think.
Naive and presumptuous as I was, I thought maybe I'd try to write an article about this phenomenon. I did a little research to see what else was written on the topic, and ran across an exhaustive book about the history of black hair. I was so blown away by the book that, paradoxically, I have kept no notes from it, not even its title. Googling like a fiend just now, I suspect it was Hair Story: Untangling the Roots of Black Hair in America, by Ayana Byrd and Lori Tharps.
How, you may wonder, could I have failed to keep note of the book title--especially considering I kept an entire transcript of my IM conversation with Nicole on the same topic? The truth is, as I read the book, I could not escape the dawning realization that any role I'd try to play in recording or reporting on this cultural phenomenon was pretty suspect. Who was I? The great white translator of black experience? Did I think black writers couldn't sufficiently describe, analyze and celebrate this tradition on their own? And who was my audience? Clearly, black folk already know about this stuff. So I'm just talking to a non-black audience, which once again raised this spectre of the great white translator. Ick.
So while I pored over the book, intrigued by its scrupulous tracing of the history of black hair culture, stemming back from its African roots, through centuries in America, and up to today, I realized this was a conversation I needed to enjoy as audience, and keep my big, blabby mouth out of. As a result, I took no notes. Not even the title. Dang.
But the topic has stuck in my head. And in the last few weeks, it just keeps coming up. A friend of mine who is a teacher in the public school system was recently bemoaning the fact that she only just learned about the need to "pat" new cornrows to lessen the pain till they loosen up (revealing, in her mind, her ignorance about her students' experience). I've mulled over accounts I've read of cross-racial adoption--in which white parents must educate themselves in hair maintenance for their child, and how hard it is to cross that cultural line.
And then last night, Nicole posted as her status on Facebook the following: "Nicole is looking forward to the meeting of the White House and the hot comb."
As I drowsed into consciousness this morning, all these notions stewed in my brain, and I began to ponder the paradox at the heart of black hair culture. As was explained in that wonderful book I read, black hair culture grew out of the need to try to conform blackness to whiteness--to force kinky hair into straight silky locks--as a way, if not to gain the power of the dominant race, at least to align oneself with it aesthetically. At best, it was a means to get a toehold into that power. But at the least, it was a way to avoid calling attention to one's "difference"--a difference that could, as history all too clearly attests--be deadly.
But there's more to the story. This drive to conform, of course, starts as a sort of imposition from without. But soon enough, it's internalized. Black culture forms its own rules about how one manages one's "difference" via hair. There develop standards within the culture itself for the proper upkeep of one's hair--standards the dominant culture (white America) hasn't a clue about. It becomes self-policing.
And if that sounds grim and disappointing, there's actually a flipside to consider--one that's far more encouraging and even inspiring. In creating these internal standards, black America creates its own law, its own identity.
This can lead to concrete power. As recounted in the regrettably untitled book I consulted, the development of black hair culture both drove and was fed by the rise of black-owned businesses that served a black market, a chief example being Madame C. J. Walker, a pioneering entrepreneur in the field of beauty products designed especially for black women.
So some blacks gained real power--financial, political--from the industry that arose around black hair care. But hand-in-hand with this--and probably with more impact on the lives of everyday blacks--the culture of how one cares for one's hair provided a powerful community-building force: the neighborhood barbershop and/or salon. As Nicole had recounted to me so many years ago, the trip to the salon was like a weekly hajj to Mecca, and that many women travel miles to return to their childhood salons after they've moved out of the neighborhood. And where salons weren't plentiful, an aunt's house or Grandma's kitchen could fulfill the same purpose.
Mulling over this, I think back to my own childhood. I had a close, loving family. I was briefly a Girl Scout. (Hated it.) I was a member of several choirs. My family went to church. But I can't say I had a "community." If anything, I'd say my experience was "anti-community." We belonged to one parish, but another church was closer, so we went there. We weren't "joiners." I never felt a love for my Alma Mater. I've yet to go to a football game at the two universities I've attended, and can't even imagine going to an alumni event. Hell, I didn't even attend any of my three college graduations (undergrad, masters, doctorate).
Only now, as an adult, do I grasp what it means to be in a "community." I live on a fantastic block. As I've often recorded, whenever possible, we gather at the benches in front of Ruth's house and while away the hours sharing recipes and gossip. We keep an eye out for each other, and lend cups of sugar.
It's in experiencing this sense of "community"--and how it's formed by some accident of habit or behavior or geography--that I feel like I begin to experience something like the black hair thing. Here on 1500 Norwood, "community" has formed around the ritual of the sitting on the benches in front of Ruth's house and the fact that 6-year-old boys need to spend at least 3 hours a day simply running around and shooting fake guns at each other. For black communities, it's the fact that every week, you must spend hours tending to your hair.
I have no doubt that black hair experience has caused psychic scars for many--the push to conform, the belief that one must alter one's appearance to be acceptable. But I know that it's also provided strength and cohesiveness, a sense of shared experience that has empowered millions. I have no doubt that the civil rights movement found its impetus in the barbershop chair or while a small child wept from the sting of chemical straightener on her poor, red scalp.
And that's the weird, rich paradox of America and of human nature. Don't think any phenomenon will have a single, predictable outcome. Oppression become conformity becomes solidarity becomes a dream of power.
And then, suddenly, you've got hot combs in the White House. Amen.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
