Last night the cops knocked on our door. They were looking for a person who used to live here–we receive his mail often. The mail always looks really intense, like he’s in trouble with the government for unpaid parking tickets or taxes or something. At least that’s what I thought, until I looked him up online and found some old dirt. Domestic violence, a political career that probably went no where, and who knows where he is now? Well, folks are looking for him…and it was a little jarring to be watching “Gone Baby, Gone” in our living room (great flick, btw) and watch a cop car go by and flash a spotlight on our house. A few minutes later two fellows were on our front porch asking how long we’d lived at this location, if we bought the place from him, and where he might be.
Lately, there have been more sirens, more gang activity, and everyone seems to be a little bit on edge. Blame the economy…I know I do. While listening to Tavis Smiley on npr, one of his guests said, “When white folks catch a cold, black folks catch pneumonia.” He was referring to job loss, foreclosure, etc. As I look around at the wavering ‘for sale’ signs, the occasional abandoned home, and the packs of kids that move suspiciously around the neighborhood I wonder how true that is.
Last Friday, I performed two back to back shows at the Triple Door. The experience was almost too overwhelming to process. I was a rigid, fatigued, board when I lay down at 2am to try and sleep. I awoke at 10am, shaky and disoriented. The sun was barely shining, the light was orange, the temperature was cold. I felt an incredible peace, a happiness that comes from doing something deeply satisfying. I went on a walk and the neighborhood seemed beautiful and wonderful. I walked to the water. I didn’t know that at 4am the night before, multiple gunshots rang out two blocks from my house. I’m proud to say that 8 of my neighbors called 911–we don’t ignore gunshots in my hood! But when the cops arrived they found nothing and no one…a mystery.
I had Tuesday off…not because I wanted it, but because I’m in between a few teaching schedules. Over Thanksgiving our oven lost it’s turkey virginity, and well, the poor gal has been through the ringer. I mentioned scrubbing out the oven to my mom with brilo pads and she said, “No! No! You must use lye…here, I’m going to give you this book….it has all the basics.” So for Christmas, Mom gave me “Home Comforts: The Art & Science of Keeping House.” Inside this big book is everything from how to properly hang t-shirts on a clothes line to the details of every fork and spoon you might find on a table. It explores care labels, proper dusting techniques, and yes, how to clean a stove. There is also a big chapter on how to wrap your mind around housework–it’s not unfeminist to want a clean home after all. 100 years ago women took great pride in keeping up a nice home…now we have careers, kids, pets, etc. to contend with as well. Many of us also had working mothers who maybe couldn’t devote tons of time breaking it down to their kids, (although most of my housekeeping knowledge comes from Mom…like how to fold socks and stuff). I love this book, because it’s the art AND science of doing something that, well, I have to do in some capacity every day.
So, it’s my day off and what do I do? I THROW myself into housework with wild enthusiasm–inspired largely by the book. I wash the floor, I finish the odds and ends of laundry (I can never seem to follow through with a load, leaving the last batch of whites dry in the dryer to languish), I do dishes, I vacuum and wipe down the couch, I open windows to let natural air in, I change the sheets on the bed (but only after leaving the bed naked for an hour in order to properly vent the mattress), I bake a raspberry roll-up cake and then finish off with a baked chicken.
Oh, and this doesn’t count outdoors: slowly over the weeks I’ve been dismantling the uprooted bushes that lay waste after our sewer pipe was installed. This involves straddling the bush with a pair of dull clippers and pulling and wrenching until the branches snap into small, manageable, yard-waste bin pieces. Over and over I stuff branches into the bin, mashing them down with muddy boots and dusty gloves hands. Then I rake leaves–the grass underneath has been struggling to breath all winter. I pull out the extension cord and pretty soon I’m vigorously vacuuming my car out. (I spend a lot of time in my car and it sure feels better when it’s clean).
Then I balanced the checkbook, paid our mortgage over the phone…and watched a little Oprah (just like a real house wife!) Today, I have a wicked sore throat and it’s back to work. What happened? Did I get too much smog-filled air? Did the triple show duty over the weekend catch up with me? Did I unhinge too much dust with my new techniques? At any rate, it’s back to the grindstone.
A rancid nest of twigs and branches lay hidden in our gutter
Filled with ants
They lurk inside only to disperse madly across the narrow recesses of our roof
Could this be the answer to our ever pressing ant infestation?
My husband balances precariously on a ladder, trowel in hand
Bits of debris come sailing down
Hitting the lawn in large clumps
The gutters, once sprouting ferns and small maple trees, are washed cleaned by the ominous hose
Ants go careening into the sky
As if they are little fighter pilots expelled from their planes in battle
There is nothing attractive about gang graffiti. It’s careless, sloppy, angular, gross, and mean-spirited. I almost bit my sister’s head off when she tried to defend urban graffiti-which is not what I’m talking about. I’m not referring to beautiful, bubbly letters filled in with gorgeous colors and witty characters. And I know that often graffiti is immediately assumed to be gang related when it’s not, (a point my sister was trying to make). I’m not talking about railway art, murals done in alleyways, or rouge graf artists scouring the urban landscape with stencils. No…I’m talking about idiots coming into my neighborhood from a rival gang, crossing out existing tags and scrawling their own on top as a form of intimidation and take-over. They tag fences, sidewalks, and actual houses. If you have a fence right now you’re in big trouble…at least in my hood.
There’s a retaining wall holding up a sloppy rental house opposite of the corner of my street. It’s been hit three times. It took a long time to get covered the first time. The second time the writing was so big and profane it was covered promptly but poorly (white spray paint was used to cover the letters which remained visible despite the attempt). A week ago a nasty black tag covered the wall from head to tow. It remained there, a shocking ugly sign of the recent deterioration of our neighborhood (‘Highest rate of graffiti in 10 years,’ according to the cop at our block watch meeting). Pulling out of my alleyway in the morning, that tag ruined my day.
On Saturday, we participated in the Block Watch clean up. It turned out to be a poorly attended neighborhood clean-up sponsored by the city. I immediately snagged the little red wagon containing a drum of paint and rollers. While Josh struck out alone with a garbage bag and tongs I made it my mission to stamp out gang graffiti. I enlisted the help from the only neighbors I’m on regular speaking terms with. ‘J’ and her husband, ‘K’, knocked on the rental property’s door with their two-year old in tow (nothing neutralizes a situation then a toddler). The woman wouldn’t even answer her door, instead she spoke to us through a screen window. “You can paint over it but they’ll just come back,” she said uncertainly. My neighbors and I attacked the retaining wall with our rollers and neutral gray paint. It was incredibly satisfying and fast.
While we were painting an old woman came out of her house and approached us. She was wearing a robe and slippers. “What are you doing?” she asked curiously. J explained that we were part of a neighborhood clean-up. The woman had brought tiny bottles of water and an orange for the toddler. This simple gesture completely melted my heart. I was so overcome I couldn’t even pause from my painting to properly introduce myself to this woman. This act of kindness carried me throughout the day when we took our red wagon down to Rainier and painted out random tags. People stared at us from dilapidated businesses, car repair places, and the beauty salon. I felt like: Watch out! Here comes Whitey with her “stamp out graffiti” mission! Don’t get in the way of my oppressive paint roller.
We passed a ravine where two of our neighbors were hauling out junk: mattresses, car batteries, tires, it was disgusting. The ravine backs up into their property and the woman mentioned they’d actually found a dwelling down there. “Someone has a pretty nice set up with couches, a mattress, and furniture.” I learned that this space has recently been declared a wet land–which makes building difficult on this property. The woman said she wants it to remain a green space, a park that could be cared for by the city, instead of condos that would bump up into her backyard. I was torn. On one hand we need more green space in the city, but on the other hand we need viable development in our neighborhood. This space is two blocks away from the water and would make gorgeous property with water views. What to do? “I’ve watched trucks back into this ravine and dump garbage, I’ve gotten their license plate numbers and took pictures…the city did nothing.” These stories are all too common. It also fills me with despair and a desire to give the finger to Seattle.
I dragged the red wagon up the hill, dropped off my neighbors, and sat on the front porch of the Presbyterian church that holds services in Tongan. I drank one of the tiny bottles of water given to me by the woman in slippers and chatted with the organizer of the day. “Keep the paint,” she said after learning about my graffiti crusade.
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:
While mopping my front porch I listened to the loudest domestic fight I’ve ever heard. I’m assuming the couple was about a block away but the guy was screaming so loud his voice echoed and reverberated against every house in the neighborhood. The funny thing is he was yelling about how he was ‘the original gangster.’ You know how it is when you’re overhearing a fight, you kind of don’t want to listen but you do anyway because it’s sort of thrilling. Of course, everything you’re hearing is out of context. She could very well be a no good ho who cheated on him with her baby’s daddy (sorry, that’s the worst I could think up). However, it was my assumption that he was trying to prove to her that he was ‘thug’ enough by throwing in as many f-bombs as possible and hollering at the top of his lungs. No context and I even I could tell he was a loser, gangster or not. She threw him out of her house. I know this because, despite not raising her voice hardly an octave, I heard her say, “Get out of my house, this is MY house.” And so, the shouting stopped, and I’m assuming he went away…hopefully far far away.
During this whole time I was clutching a broom on my front porch, having just dusted out all of the old spider webs and nests that had taken over the roof of the porch. I only heard the tail end of the fight, and I had already formulated my 911 plan. First I would have to sneak down the path of my front lawn and try and figure out where the argument was taking place so I could describe the location to a dispatcher. This was scary since there was no way I wanted to be seen by the ‘original gangster’ and receive any of his wrath. Plus, I wasn’t sure at what point to call the cops: do you wait until you hear someone be personally threatened? Do you wait until you’re certain someone is in near danger? Do you call the moment you hear voices raised because of the possibility of violence? Do you call regardless because it is disturbing the peace? By the time I had pondered all of these questions the fight was over.
While enduring the fight I realized I was clenching my stomach; nothing ruins a holiday more then rage. Despite the angry voices, Hobbes was rolling around happily on her back during the entire altercation (she loves being outside). One of my plans involved scooping her up and running back inside the house. ‘Domestic fights happen in every neighborhood,’ I told myself. “They usually don’t last long.” Over the weekend my brother-in-law tactfully inquired about gang activity in our neighborhood. I responded that because we don’t run with those type of crowds we’re typically unaffected. Josh and I have lived in this house for a year and all in all it’s been uneventful. We parked the Suburu on the street for several days and nothing was broken or stolen. I’ve left the front door unlocked a few times and no one bothered to steal anything. Despite a few angry neighborhood outbursts no one makes waves. Sure, I’m still stared at when taking walks around the neighborhood, but I continue to say ‘hello’ to everyone I walk by. I realized after overhearing this fight (and being scared) that we really are not part of the neighborhood. We don’t ‘run with the crowd,’ hence we’re unaffected by its low-lifes, but not included in anything else…like the good things. The trade off for being left alone is not having a community to turn to in case anything really did happen to us.
Wanting to know my neighbors became important the second I became a homeowner. I want my street to be the nice, I want my neighbors to be looking out for me, I want to be respected. The other night Josh parked our Suburu in front of the house across the street to accommodate his sister’s boat. I noticed they were generating a lot of cars; probably their huge extended family was coming over for dinner again, and our car was obviously in the way. “Here, let me move my car,” I offered to a young teen emptying bags out of his backseat. “Oh,” the kid mumbled, and while I didn’t expect a conversation I would have appreciated some recognition or maybe a thank you. I moved the car and silently returned to our house, aware that a group of teenagers were staring at me out of the windows. “It’s the thought that counts,” I thought to myself. “It’s the gesture, the act of doing something neighborly that’s more important then receiving any sort of gratitude.”
So, I want to know my neighbors but it’s not like I’ve been banging on doors or starting up any block parties. When we arrived no one except the folks who sold us the place next door introduced themselves. No casseroles or welcome wagons, so we returned the favor and sat on our hands. Is it because we obviously plopped roots down in an incredibly racially divided city? Yes, definitely. I don’t want to intrude or make any waves. I just want my neighbors to know that I’m a decent person with a job and a husband and a cat I would appreciate they not run over. But this also means I won’t hesitate to call the police if I think someone is being threatened or if it’s 1am and the bass is still bumping down the street. I would do that in any neighborhood and even though we agreed we were not going to be the ‘new sheriff in town’ I still have limits.
We have been blessed by a series of surprise visitors: ants. The LITTLE kind, thank God, the tiny kind that look like crawling specks. They were initially congregating around Hobbes’ food bowl and in the kitchen, ok, I understand that…but now they’re crawling around the shower–clearly no food in the shower. They infested a house plant (why?!) and started ganging up in the spare bedroom. Last week I doused them with vineger…which they hated and fled screaming. But as soon as the vinegar dried up they quickly regrouped. We tried ant traps–the kind where they eat poison and then go home and spread it around like an std. They are so little they couldn’t even get up the lip of the trap and into where the yummy poison was.
We sucked it up and bought the awesomely effective RAID. However, it makes me feel sick to my stomach–even though the manufacturers were kind enough to give it a sweet smell. The RAID works…sort of. After a few days it goes away and they show up again. We also discovered that the ants are coming through the floor boards…this sucks. It means they are hanging out in the huge crawl space under our house and breaking and entering through the cracks. So, we’ve sprayed their entrances and opened up windows to ventilate the poison. Josh bought a bug bomb with the intent of sticking it under the house. However, it would mean both man and cat would have to evacuate for four hours. We might put Hobbes upstairs with food and litter box and bomb under the house while we’re away at work. Or we could just wait it out…continuing to kill them with RAID, vacuuming them up alive, and cursing every time we see a group of them. Advice?
It has come to my attention that someone nearby has a rooster. A ROOSTER. We live in the city! Now, I understand the benefit of having chickens around…we saw several places during our house hunting that had old chicken coops as part of the backyard. But you don’t need a rooster for chickens to lay eggs…you only need a rooster if you want to make other chickens. WHO NEEDS MORE CHICKENS? Isn’t there more benefit to having more eggs? So, perhaps the point of having a rooster is to annoy the crap out of your neighbors. (Oh, man, maybe they’re having cock fights…I didn’t even think about that). As far as noise goes, the chihuahuas are worse…the rooster simply startles me. Every time I hear a cock-a-doodle-doo my brain thinks, “Was that a ROOSTER I just heard?” Then my brain wanders down the same path that I just wrote about (why have a rooster when they don’t lay eggs?) and I forget about it…until a few moments later when the rooster crows again; (“Was that a rooster I just heard?”) And so on and so on…
I shoveled cat poop out of my bulb beds…it’s no wonder nothing is growing where the cat turds lie–that and I’m not sure if they’re getting enough sun. I talked to Hobbes about how inappropriate it is of her to poop on my bulbs. Sure, it might very well be other cats and I understand we don’t do the greatest job of cleaning out her litter, but still…(Side note: I recently taught a three-year-old boy whose name is Hobbes. I almost said, ‘that’s my cat’s name!’ but realized I shouldn’t plague him with the comment that’s probably going to follow him throughout his life).
I hacked away a little bit at the shrubs that separate our property from the sidewalk. They’re getting tall and out of control–they also serve as trash receptacles. Using a dull clipper was dumb: It hurt and was slow. An electric bush trimmer popped into my head: how great would that be? Just pull a string and RRRRRRR there goes the overgrowth. Maybe I could even start shaping the bushes into animals like Ed Scissorhands.
Josh made Chicken Pot Square the other night. I’m always pretty thrilled when Josh decides to cook. A friend of his served it to him recently and he got the recipe because Josh loves naughty food. Of course it involves puff pastry, canned vegetables, chicken, and Cambell’s cream of rice soup. Of course the pastry makes it that much more FANTASTIC and we wolf it down while watching Children of Men. The movie makes my stomach hurt, a dismal portrait of our future where everyone gets shot, the kind of sci-fi that makes me cringe. I leave and return to my latest book The Time Traveler’s Wife which is SO GOOD and everyone should rush out and read it right now. After the movie is over I convince Josh to walk to Safeway so we can buy Dreyer’s Low Fat ice cream bars.
I am ecstatic that it is a three day weekend. I am thrilled, overjoyed, and I revel in it. I clean my kitchen floor by skating across it with old towels, (my mop has disappeared). I’m planning my 30th birthday–cupcakes, coffee, and crafts. I wasn’t sure about the crafts but I brought it up to KT and now she is insisting we paint blocks of wood on my lawn. This is fine. I want it to be joyous and fun. Josh made a comment to me, like, “Sexiest thirty-year-old I know” and I had a quick second where I thought, “What the hell is he talking about? Sexiest thirty-year-old? Oh, right, he means ME. I’m almost thirty.” It doesn’t help that my sister is in Portugal right now…I feel old and out of touch. I feel like I’m missing something huge by never having been to Europe…or Asia…or anywhere else other then Canada.
