Mumbling Madly

A day after my Big Block Watch Meeting I’m in Queen Anne, experiencing the awkward feeling of approaching my last few hours at the preschool, when I am approached by a man. He is a rough around the edges type of man, terrible teeth, scraggly hair, bleery eyed with a piece of lettuce stuck to his lip. He immediately launches in as if we’ve been having a conversation all morning, “My friend has lived at this house for YEARS and never had a single problem!” I said, “Well, that’s Queen Anne for you…I live in the south end and I wish I could say that.” His eyes brightened, “I lived there when I was a little boy! You’ll never believe me but I used to walk to school, down Rainier Avenue when I was in kindergarten.” I was amused, “Wow…that’s young.” He looked me over and said, “Are those your real teeth?” I smiled instinctively, “Yes.”
“They’re just beautiful,” he admired.

Last night I attended my first Block Watch meeting…it was actually the first meeting for many people in the neighborhood. It was confirmed that our neighborhood association has been defunct for a while–things went as far as LOSING our community center to the VFW two years ago. Part of this is that our hood has been fairly quiet in the past five years and the need for ‘community’ was minimal. With recent multiple break-ins and a sudden rash of ugly graffiti there are growing signs of some ugly business. The Gang Patrol is being revived (having actually retired this particular sector of law enforcement due to lack of gang activity in Seattle!) We learn that the graffiti we’re seeing is from a Latino gang and that they’re targeting the south side (specifically Beacon Hill, which is good for us but bad for them).

A couple of spunky ladies put fliers in all of our mailboxes saying “It’s time to unite! It’s time for a block watch! It’s time we make sure our neighborhood doesn’t spiral out of control!” We show up to a local church basement, sign in, and are immediately introduced to the officer in charge of our precinct. He warns us that most break-ins are during the day, so for God’s sake answer your door! Criminals will knock on your door to see if you’re home and then proceed to break in through the back when they don’t get a response. (I never answer my door, I guess that will change.) Answering your door is different then opening the door, you shouldn’t open the door to strangers. The police officer also confirms that majority of our local crime is done by youths–considering we’re right down the street from a high school. We also learn that the south side is grossly understaffed (but isn’t that the case? Aren’t we always short of police officers?)

Looking around the room, it is a pleasant mix of people. By a show of hands we learn that majority of those present have lived in their homes for over five years (putting Josh and I as some of the newest members of the hood). A spunky little old lady in the front row informs the officer of a dumpster sitting in front of an abandon house. “It needs to GO,” she says firmly. She also denounces the gang graffiti and says, “If their parents won’t discipline these youngsters then they’ll have to answer to ME.” She also shares, “When I moved here in 1972 we were looked at as out of place, because my son and I were black and this was a white neighborhood. Shortly after that I watched low income housing take over the neighborhood and rentals replace owners.”

Another lady is really MAD and uses the opportunity to talk to a real live police officer by wasting a ton of time giving him a piece of her mind. “There are inappropriate block parties in front of my house all summer long with people playing craps, drinking 40’s, and speeding down the street! I call EVERY day and no one takes me seriously!” I am actually reminded of her block, a certain block we ventured down last summer and vowed to never walk down again. Too many stares, awkward encounters with people who seem hostile and unfriendly. However, the police officer has a point: Unless someone is being physically hurt or a break-in is IN PROGRESS, a police officer is going to put your noise complaint at the bottom of the list. He also reminds us that there are neighborhoods far worse then ours (Capitol Hill and Belltown) and demand far more attention.

Which brings us to our guest speaker, some local activist from some sort of South Side Group For Peace or something like that. This woman was all about getting us riled up, “I wanna get you MAD!” she claimed. “50% of all people who live in the south side are living here with housing vouchers! No one takes us seriously down here! We’re discriminated against! All the low income housing is in the south which is driving our schools and neighborhoods into utter decay.” This woman whipped everyone up in the room into such a tense frenzy that one woman finally interrupted her with, “The problems with the day laborer center downtown is not because of the day laborers. You’re making it sound like it’s US against THEM, and that’s not how I feel, you don’t live in this neighborhood and you’re making me want to leave.” She was making me want to leave too, with all her doom and gloom and mean statistics about violent crime.

However, in the midst of her trash talking she had a few valid points: Many people are afraid of calling 911 in our neighborhood. Maybe they can’t speak English, or are here undocumented and don’t want to put themselves at risk. Maybe they’re from a country where law enforcement is so oppressive that they wouldn’t dream of calling a police officer to their home. We have to call 911 in greater numbers because of those who can’t or won’t. The more 911 calls we make, the more reporting of suspicious activity we make, the greater the chance our problems will be noticed (sad but true). She also brought to attention many wonderful local programs that focus on getting kids out of gangs, targeting crime prevention, and cleaning up graffitti.

Once The Windbag was done (and let me tell you, the silence in the room after she asked if there were any questions indicated that we were all too happy to see her finish), one of the women who called the meeting said, “Well, I’ve been here 22 years and I don’t want to leave, I LOVE it here. It’s the best kept secret in Seattle. We can run our neighborhood with respect and community. Say ‘hello’ to your neighbors, pick up the trash on the ground, let your presence be known.” We nominated block captains, discussed concerns, hopes for the future and agreed to meet in one month. When the meeting adjourned we all pounced on each other, eager to get to know the people in our neighborhood. What fun! What a wonderful feeling! To know that there are people nearby who are kind and caring is immeasurable. This song from Sesame Street pretty much sums it up:

Mark’s Bollywood piece from a few weeks ago at The Annex (it’s long but worth it, I’m the one in bright red/orange):

Everyone knows about Vail…its big brother, Aspen, manages to stay just as well known but is largely associated with elitism and unattainability. Its beefy Colorado step-brothers (Breckenridge and Keystone), kid sisters (A-Basin and Loveland Pass), and secret love child (Copper) don’t hold a candle to Vail. As far as I’m concerned, Vail remains the most widely known mountain resort of the US (never mind its competition with Whistler as the Big Daddy of North America). It also recently received the title of Most Expensive Resort (take that Aspen!) and is swamped year round with tourists. When people asked where I was going on vacation I said ‘Vail’ (easily identifiable) but I was hoping to go elsewhere. While there is a certain amount of cache one has by saying, “I went snowboarding in Vail,” the reality is that Vail makes me cry. I’ve never had a successful time there, maybe it’s the mounds of skiers, rude international travelers, and the fact that one time I got tangled up in one of their shoddy, orange, plastic fences.

This is where our wonderful CO connections kicked in, specifically: Jodi. She and Josh met in 1999 at an SOS meeting (SOS is an organization that helps at-risk youth learn to snowboard) and have been friends every since. We’ve all been friends, truth be told, but I missed out on many of their earlier ‘weekend warrior’ trips from Fort Collins to the mountains in the early years. They slept in cars, parking lots, old cabins, all for the sake of snowboarding and teaching kids how to ride. Jodi is also an entrepreneur, a real business woman, currently heading Activity Sitters, a high end baby-sitting service she founded a few years ago. Having grown up in Vail, (not as a rich kid but actually a poor kid living in the mountains), she returned after college to have a go at making a living. The town home she co-owns with her bf and roommates is nestled in Avon, which also houses the Beaver Creek Resort.

The Vail Valley is filled with two types of people: The extremely wealthy and everyone who is making money off the extremely wealthy. The disparity is far greater then when we lived next door in Summit County. With rent, food, gas etc. at astronomical levels, cost of living is very high, but the pay off is that you get to live in the wonderful abyss: Far from highways, 9,000 feet above sea level, the terrain rocky and covered with snow peeks. The isolation is huge, as if you are squirreled away from all humanity with nothing but the mountain for entertainment. Going back up to the mountains was a test: are we really in the right place? Sometimes when I’ve returned from a long day of rush hour traffic I crave nothing more then the blinding sunlight at the top of a mountain. Sure, there’s no Nordstrom Rack, limited places to go out to eat, and a small pool of people to hang out with. However, your mind is practically forced to slow down as the demands on your time become very basic and simple. I can see why this is the lifestyle I chased after leaving high paced Seattle in the late 90’s.

I’ve never been to Beaver Creek, but because it was five minutes away from Jodi’s place it became not only convenient but a lot of fun. We enjoyed two bluebird days, filled with sun and decent groomed snow. I was clipped twice, first by a skier and the second time by an out-of-control female snowboarder. I’d forgotten the recklessness one experiences when you throw a bunch of tourists on the same mountain over a holiday weekend. I also marveled at the array of accents you find when your town is a melting pot, specifically from Jodi’s roommates who were from Milwaukee and had a very pronounced way of speaking.

Jodi’s two teenage cats, Tosh and Leo, provided endless entertainment as they galloped and chased each other all over the place.
Josh and I had forgotten the vitality that young cats have and marveled at their ability to PLAY (something Hobbes gave up long ago). Here is Josh and Leo spending some quiet time on the couch:

Suddenly our toothless, chubby, old cat seemed pale in comparison to the sheer entertainment of Tosh and Leo. That is, of course, until I opened the door to our room in the middle of the night for some air. The kitties ran in and proceeded to chase each other in mad circles at the foot of the mattress. ‘They’ll settle down eventually,’ I rationalized, trying very hard to fall asleep. The pair did not settle down, in fact, I realized that they had isolated their chase to a single solitary circle that would not let up. I closed the door and opted for less air in the room.

We were extremely lucky to be on the receiving end of such generosity. Jodi’s bf is a sommelier (read: fancy wine expert) and uncorked multiple bottles of fancy wine for us to sample. Despite the altitude playing havoc on my system, I graciously drank some excellent wine. I also made a big meatball dinner for Jodi and friends as thanks for the hospitality:

While driving back down the long winding highway away from the mountains I was reminded about CO drivers: no signals, tailgating, wandering over to our lane, high speeds, everyone owns a truck our an SUV. We sighed as we left the Vail Valley, certain we would have to visit again. We spent one last lingering night in Golden before heading out on Wednesday, my body immediately rewarding me with a Big Cold the second I stepped on the plane.

CO I miss you!

“TEXAS license plates? No way, we need a different car,” it was Saturday, Josh and I had been up since 5am and we were standing in the Alamo rental car parking lot. The sun was beautiful, blinding in its strength at 5,000 feet above sea level. Josh had waded through line after line, finally getting us a crappy American mid-size sedan for our Colorado trip. We had pre-paid for our rental car (the most expensive part of our trip besides the plane tix) through priceline but had forgotten that it was President’s Day weekend. EVERYONE had the same idea: let’s run away to Colorado where it’s sunny and there’s tons of snow in the mountains. The SUV’s were snatched up by eager New Yorkers, desperate for a slice of Rocky Mountain living–and driving. The forecast called for spotty snow but mostly sunny weather. Our sedan would be fine for the trip, but the Texas license plates offended me.

“We’re not trading,” Josh informed me. “This car is fine…let’s get out of here.” He was right, normally stuff like license plates don’t bother me, but I was super tired and hungry. I conceded, “Fine then, I’m going to have to find some super liberal bumper sticker for the back window…something really over the top, like: ‘Abortions For All’” (quote the space aliens from The Simpsons). Josh reminded me that we would have to go to Boulder to find something remotely liberal (and that was not in our trip plans). While waiting for Josh to get the rental car (guarding our heavily packed bags filled with snowboarding gear) I had made small talk with a couple from Belltown. They were equally shocked by the sunshine and we talked about the usual Seattle related things: the housing market, the cost of living, renting versus buying in the city, and the weather (specifically: the rain). The couple abruptly left me to pile into a very nice rented Range Rover while I half expected Josh to pull up in a car the size of a jelly bean. Turns out it was a nice size, our snowboards fit and that was all that mattered–who cares if Coloradoans think we’re from Texas on this trip.

The sun served as a salve as we began our first trip on the old familiar highway. It was as if the coldest parts of us were warmed, the soaking wet cold from the Seattle winter was temporarily dried. We were breathless, largely from the change in altitude, but also from the flat expanse of land and endless sky. My nose immediately started whistling and my lips automatically needed chapstick. Josh and I went to a sketchy 7 eleven where the cashier neglected to ring up Josh’s cheap sunglasses while bitching to her friend, “I don’t know why she doesn’t come to work, I mean what’s up with that shit?” While traveling in the car I ate some of the worst cheese I’ve ever had (the texture was chunky) and began my love affair with water.

My aunt and uncle always lived outside NYC when I was growing up so the fact that they now live in CO is still new to me. I felt very lucky to be a guest in their lovely home and was thrilled when we busted out the spaghetti press and made noodles.

The weather shifted from sunny and warm to snowy. The following day we went to Thornton where my bestest friend in the world lives. I hadn’t seen Courtney in three years and we immediately fell into a well worn groove of communication, locked in from years and years of confiding, gossiping, and sharing. Her son is huge (at all of four years old) and very sweet. Her husband, Lyle, and Josh chatted about motorcycles, work, and skateboarding. We ate stew, went on a walk, and watched the beginning of Flashdance. There is no way I could ever convince Court to return to the northwest, so I must be happy in the meantime with occasional correspondence and precious visits. Sometimes when I am running all over Seattle in my new, urban, lifestyle I miss Courtney deeply. When you spend the majority of your formative years with one person (age 5-22) they become ingrained in your spirit and you always miss them on some level. When pulling out of her driveway I realized I had no idea when I’ll see Courtney again and I cried in the car on our way out of Thornton.

Stay tuned for Part 2 of Colorado (How I Love Thee). And check out my flickr page for more glorious photos.

This is what I say to my tiny students all day, “Good job, good job, nice work, good job, thank you for doing that, great work, keep it up.” In order to encourage appropriate behavior I have over emphasis the good stuff. If a kid is being a naughty and you correct his behavior, the next time you see him making a good choice you have to support it with a “good job.” Who doesn’t want to hear that they’ve been doing a good job? This prompts better behavior and teaches them to avoid the old behavior (which is usually redirected or ignored–no need to dish out equal attention for naughtiness).

“Putting you shoes on by yourself? Good job! Need to know what to do? You could look at ‘Lucy’ who is sitting criss cross with her hands in her lap, thank you Lucy! (Imagine the kids scrambling to mimic Lucy so they can get a ‘good job’ nod as well). At times I feel like I have an endless stream of positive feedback for every little child that stumbles my way. We have some very good times together, my preschoolers and I.

Because I am deep down a pessimist, I am constantly working on presenting the most positive image as possible in my adult life. Like my students, I revel in recognition, affirmation of a job well done, and therefore I am eager to make those around me feel successful. However, I am not doing very well with the adult aspect of this job, stumbling to learn the ropes, feeling constantly corrected, trying to do the right thing, and having many awkward moments. It’s not my home, not my program, not even my students and the negativity creeps up in my throat and threatens to lash out. I was reminded recently that I am, indeed, an open book. While I am determined to stay tight lipped and demure, something must come across my face like a shadow and my annoyance is betrayed. My face gives me away, which results in more tension.

For some reason, we went on a half mile walk with these tiny children and it was difficult for all of them. Walking in a single file line for a half mile with folders and bags and coats is a lot to ask of preschoolers. One of the smallest ones fell, splat, on her face and I swooped in and did what I do best: soothed. I have become very good at curing the barely injured–it used to be terrifying to me when a child hurt themselves, my stomach balling up in a knot at the sound of their cries. Now I use my patented technique of hugging and rubbing the injured spot (lot’s of rubbed elbows, hands, and heads). It works every time. As a huge cry baby myself, it’s amazing to me that I can cease other’s crying by simply rubbing their hand in my mitten and saying, “all better.”

When as children do we phase out the approval, the support, the positive feedback? Middle school? Surely by high school my teachers no longer felt the need to give praise, substituting a passing grade for approval. Perhaps, I have not outgrown the need to hear “all better.” I realize, as I try hard not to lose it driving home, that I need to treat myself like I do my students, and I tell myself, “It’ll be all right, it will be okay, you’re fine.” Even if I don’t believe it…

“Turn out that leg, girl, that’s right, I knew you had more turn out then that!” I am in à la seconde and the teacher lingering over me at my Friday ballet class is excellent. He is prestigious, (the first African American dancer at PNB I am told) and he is inexplicably teaching the open ballet class. I’m sure it is accidental because the company members look startled when he comes in, tittering lightly amongst themselves, the man is overdressed for teaching: he is wearing brown corduroys, a white button up, and a lovely cashmere sweater.

“I have more turn out?” I say meekly, my thigh shaking.

“Yes, you would be surprised how many people don’t use their full turn out,” he claims, putting a hand on my outstretched arm in seconde, “Now tighten up that arm, girl, make it look better.”

I am thrilled at the 360 degree improvement in my free Friday ballet class. I sweat buckets working the barre, his instructions simple and excruciating. He corrects everyone–including company members and the crazy swiveling hips lady in front of me (never again will I stand near her; several times I stepped into her stupid puddle of water). I decide that I admire him. Maybe it’s because he ‘noticed me’ in class, and took the time to point out my full ‘turn out potential’ (Me! Who can’t even do 5th position anymore and always sneak into 3rd!)

We swing our legs cheerfully back and forth, demi-pointe our feet into big fake arches, and drown our bodies with nourishing water.I am dressed like a teacher, a modern dancer, a slob in saggy, baggy black cotton lycra pants and ancient tank top. My boobs are mashed down by the typical sports bra. My dumb bangs hang in my face. This time I notice the prima ballerinas in their gorgeous Mirella Leotards and magnificent canvas slippers showcasing high arched feet. The modern male dresser with the back brace is not there, but another fellow treats us by removing his sweatpants to reveal the teeniest pair of white hot pants I’ve ever seen (WHITE, people, see-through white) showcasing his dance belt and hard rock abs. Even my new favorite teacher notices, “Short shorts are baa-ack!”

For some inexplicable reason I feel myself drawn to the Southcenter Nordstrom’s Rack. Maybe, it’s because I exchanged the Seven’s Josh gave me for an even better pair. Maybe it’s because they offer both the left and the right shoe to try on (unlike the downtown Rack which covets the left shoe). Perhaps it’s because the location is much closer to my home. But really it’s because I totally love Nordstrom’s Rack and I can’t seem to get away from it. I even started visiting the downtown Rack before performing over the weekend–both nights. It makes sense to get downtown early for parking and is a great time waster.

However, this still means that I have to contend with the latest poor choices in fashion:

It’s as if the fashion industry is punishing us. The obesity epidemic has spawned their wrath and the industry has made fat billowy clothes that look terrible on average individuals. In fact if you want to feel overweight (or look pregnant) just slip on any of these puffy little numbers in a dim fluorescent lit dressing room.

A friend of mind from CO posted this amusing dialog on gender with his toddler: