More of photos of my vacation to Berlin and western Czech Republic can be seen here.
According to Assam it was God who guided her hand in the fatal shooting of 24 year old Matthew Murray shortly after he'd opened fire on parishioners of the expansive New Life Church in Colorado Springs. Murray killed two teenage girls in the church's parking lot before entering the building where he was apprehended by Assam and killed. The shooting followed on the heels of Saturday's incident at a youth mission center in nearby Arvada in which two were killed and others wounded. Murray is thought to be responsible for both attacks.
I don't believe in God, but if I did I 'd hope It wouldn't favor the micro-managerial style fundies often attribute as a divine presence dictating their actions. Does God really have to tell you to disarm a murderous gunman? This kind of rhetoric suggests that nothing short of a belief in God can inspire selfless acts like Assam's. Hearing people talk about their relationship with God is like listening to someone describe their own alien abduction, for me anyway. It's cool if you believe in that sort of thing but listening to you talk about it is just going to make me a little afraid of you.
It's sickening that more people have been killed in this manner- that goes for everyone including the gunman. Mainstream media's handling of these crimes is frequently cringe- worthy, but Tuesday's GMA interview with Assam was the most excruciating 30 seconds of programming I've witnessed in quite some time. A review of the facts of the church shooting were followed by questions about Assam's faith and how she came to be a member of the church (Assam stated that, like so many, she'd come to God "after hitting rock bottom"). As if that weren't painful enough the reporter turned the screws on Assam by delving further into her personal life. In a sing- song voice one might use on a kid he cooed something like, "And I hear that you've been looking for something...?"
Assam hesitated as if shocked before taking the bait, regrettably.
"Yeah, I'm looking for a good man. I know God will reveal him to me in His time."
Did the reporter set out to make Assam look foolish? I may not agree with her ideology, but there's no denying that she acted heroically in a horrible situation and should be commended for her level- headed marksmanship. What saving hundreds of human lives has to do with her dating prospects I'll never know. The 9/11 firefighters wouldn't have been subjected to discussions of their match.com accounts, so why was Assam considered fair game? I suspect it had something to do with the need to defuse a fine example of female spiritual power. Because it's much easier to reduce a woman to her sexuality than to form a portrait of her character in the space of time of a soundbite. ABC producers took the low road capitalizing on the (easily consumed) titillation afforded by casting Assam as a hot, gun- slinging ex- cop who kicks ass- AND she's single!!
My work is on view at VSAC in Denver. Hope some of you will head on over to this unique exhibit.
It's All About Touch
A juried show of tactile artwork from across the country. This show is all about artwork that is accessible through the sense of touch. National and local artists have contributed pieces to make this a memorable show including Ann Cunningham, Paul Bouchard, Jennifer Justice, Tina Blatter, Pam Cooke, Naomi Marrow and special musical guest – Eddie Salcido.
Featured Artist: Michael Naranjo is a recipient of the Life Time Achievement Award from the Southwestern Association for Indian Arts. Mr. Naranjo has pieces of work in the collections of the Vatican, the White House, and Phoenix’s Heard Museum.
Opening Night Reception, Friday, October 19: Close Your Eyes and Open Your Mind. The entire gallery will be darkened so patrons can experience the art tactually. Hosted by The National Federation of the Blind of Denver and the Colorado Center for the Blind with food provided by Little India.
Family Art Day, Saturday, October 27, 11am-1pm: Making your own tactile art, Ann Cunningham, author and nationally know tactile artist, and Pam Cooke will lead this workshop. Free and open to the public.
First Friday, November 2, 6-9pm: Hosted by The National Federation of the Blind of Denver and the Colorado Center for the Blind with food provided by Jose’s Restaurant. Special Musical Guest: Eddie Salcido.
Gallery Talk, Wednesday, November 7, 11:00am-1:00pm: A workshop for educators, arts administrators and designers facilitated by experts in the field Ann Cunningham and Buna Dahal on how to make shows more accessible for people who are blind or have visual impairment. Space is limited so please rsvp to vsaco@earthlink.net.
I've been pulled away from blogging due to a couple of self- imposed deadlines concerning vague academic ambitions that I'd rather not get into in detail just yet. Let the record show that personal statements are loathesome exercises in self- doubt. It's not that I have a problem with self- promotion, but I hate having to represent myself to an audience I know nothing about- save the fact that they are a shadowy ring of academics perhaps installed in a bunker atop the Alps. It's a daunting task. What do the high priests of intellectual taste want to know? Probably they'd like to know if I'd be any fun at a faculty party, but the zombie dialect of academic writing bars me from mentioning the time I was bitten on the knee under a bar table by my very inebriated and otherwise gay advisor.
The best I can do is mention this site, so that maybe someone will click on over on break from reviewing applications.
The nature of the work I want to do necessitates that I talk about my disability. Again, it helps to know your audience. Have they been educated on the rights of people with disabilities? Do I have some 'splainin' to do ? Or will revealing too much offend some one's need to perceive herself as politically correct and "supportive of diversity?"
Personal statements are a crazy maker.
I'll follow up on this thread soon.
When drawing a pile of rocks it is wise to start
at bottom, sisyphean this three flat walk up once day dreaming of all God's houses-
to believe would have been so much easier,
coughed up at Normandy, spitting ember sand pelt
hairline fissures issue soothsayer.
Visions would be embracing waves
and this would not be happening.
For it is necessary to build one's house on the rock
or so it was written before anyone bothered to write
things down, recollecting cataclysm best
thrown back on the limey ransomed shores.
Thought the Romans recycled their soldiers
in aftermath of Pomepie ticker- tape parade
reckoned all art was dead carbon, was okay with it.
Statues scrapped from quarries runners turned to ash
ancients forever spinning mannah, you could blame alchemy.
Mummy was a god was saint and monster
inlaid with ossuary cobbles.
"Ernesto" runs the cafe at the agency where I work. I noticed that my colleagues weren't encouraging E to do his job independently. I'd had some prior experience teaching cooking classes to blind teens, so I began working with him on grinding and brewing the coffee using nonvisual techniques. It's been a couple of months and he's completed training. He no longer needs our assistance to do his job. In fact, he's really great at it. He's a natural salesman, which I really envy.
My colleagues's have responded to all this not with encouragement as you would think but by grumbling about his "non- compliant behavior-" which I translate to mean that: they (the sighted staff) are made uncomfortable by the fact that Ernesto is doing his job independently- why? because said job involves handling hot liquids? And in what bizarre universe does wanting to do your job on schedule mark you as non- compliant?
Ernesto has come to me complaining about how these same staff members continue to tell him how to do his job. I suggested that he could go on strike on the days these folks' interferance becomes too much, but he has chosen to take the high road and negotiate, calling on a winning combination of charm and humor in dealing with these naysaysers.
I really don't care what they think. Ernesto loves his job and does it well. His social skilss are better than mine. End of story.
Simply the Best My friends are forever promising (or is it threatening?) to write a comic based on the antics of Jennifer Justice. I can live with it- kids need as many positive role models as they can get. But some of us are way too modest! I thought I would encounter more grandstanding, more swagger from our ranks. Not so!
It came clear to me that 'choice' could only be made where there was both self-esteem and assertiveness. I saw a definition of choice for people with disabilities that helped me think this through. Choice is uncoerced selection.
Most agencies are concerned about the opportunity for an increased number of 'selections' but have not put much emphasis on the 'uncoerced' part. There is only choice where there is no fear of punishment. Where there is safety to select. Where the word 'REALLY' as in, "Do you REALLY want dessert?" "Do you REALLY want to buy that blouse?" does not exist.
Last week as America railed against national tragedy (no, not that icky war stuff! I'm talking about our fallen mouseketeer- where are you priotities people?!), Tyra Banks was back in the talkshow studio tending to the thankless job of saving America's youth from themselves. Here's a brief recap of Wednesday's Teenville episode:
Wow, I feel safer knowing that Tyra is tackling this insidious social problem. I mean who knew that teenagers were succeptable to shallow, stereotypical behavior? What a scoop!
Brave kids from various races and backgrounds spend time in a fabricated community, where they are faced with making quick decisions based on their first impressions of each other. From assigning occupations such as garbage man, mayor and prostitute to deciding who to marry and even who should be exiled, the outcomes reflect stereotypes that still exist in society today.
The Resilience edition of the Disability Blog Carnival is up today at Reimer Reason. Next issue's theme is "Simply the Best," and girl, we are bringing it! And right on our home turf. That's right, I'll be throwing down and talking trash with the best of 'em right here at PH headquarters.
Simply the Best Your responses to this phrase may range anywhere from "whatever the hell that means!" to exploring the highs and lows of the SuperCrip phenomenon. You may have thoughts about those institutions that seek to decide what is "best" for others. I'm interested in everything from public swagger to revelations on personal folly. Of course, if you're really all that, or think you are, then be my guest honeyand bring it on!!! Send entries to thisislivingzine@gmail.com.
P.S. you don't have to be a saucy- mouthed teenager to participate, but it certainly can't hurt!
There's one thing I have on all y'all and that's my name which one could argue is both a blessing and a curse- but perfect for a disability rights activist/ SuperCrip heroine. I'm in talks with Marvel Comics as we speak! What makes you so special? Oh, right...
Visual description: This is a photo from an ABC news item about Jessica Parks, a high school cheerleader born without arms. Here Jessica practices a routine on an athletic field. She is held aloft by her squad mates who appear at the bottom of the frame with arms outstretched to catch her.
I'm taking part in Blogging Against Charity Day, hosted by Kara and Miss Crip Chick. Enjoy!
I remember watching the AMD telethon as a kid. I thought it was cool that kids with disabilities (who I totally identified with) got to hang out with celebrities for hours on end all in the name of a "good cause." The telethon looked like one big party- spoiled only by the pious whining of the host, who posed for pledge spots with children positioned like fashion accessories at his side. The unease I felt towards Jerry Lewis was similar to the heeby-jeebies I experienced at Christmas in the presence of Mall Santa.
Mall Santa was inauthentic, tatty, an impostor whose job it was to affect paternalistic concern, the careless voyeur to my fledgling consumerism. Mall Santa had freakishly youthful skin and eyes. he said "like" and "cool" a lot. He could have been my older brother pulling a prank.
"So you want a Snacktime Kid? Dude, I heard those things bite kids' fingers off! Better not let it near your hamster, if you know what I mean!"
Mall Santa had surprisingly muscular legs, a high school jock in a fat suit and beard. I was mortified knowing that if I could feel leg muscles through the cheap velour suit, then surely he could feel my bony little butt. I felt dirty, like I'd signed up to make kiddie porn without knowing it.
When I was three, my mom was interviewed for a local fundraiser for the March of Dimes. I watched the show from home with my grandmother, talking to my mom through the television's speaker. For years I thought laugh tracks were the guffaws of people watching the same shows I was in their own homes. I'd laugh extra loud trying to hear my own voice in the chorus of chuckles.
My mom sat on a carpeted stage next to a large mounted television monitor. On the screen was a picture of a young mother pushing a child on a swing in a wooded playground. I don't remember what was said about me during the interview as a second generation disabled person. My mom was wearing a wool plaid skirt, the kind that always makes me think of librarians, and I remember the host asking her about the crutch that lay at her feet, about having polio as a kid and the effects it had on having kids.
My disabilities were too rare and too numerous to warrant a telethon. Nor did my disabilities elicit the classic "aww" factor favored by TV execs. Too many extraneous troubling things going on with my body at any given time to be easily "read" by viewers. Looking back I have to face the fact that I was a punk right out of the gate: too brassy, too bold, too weird to be typecast.
Don't ask what forces led me to the pages of nursinghomeapparel.com (occasionally I run aground in my search for sculpture materials). But, I do have a thing for hospital swag. Hell, considering the price of in- patient care, an ambulance should come to your house and heap first aid supplies at your door all tied up with a pretty red bow!
Fleetingly obsessed with the absurd possibilities posed by buying 100 sets of disposable slippers, I noticed this photo of a pair of paper slippers reminiscent of pointed toed wooden clogs. But, do you have to have two right feet to be able to wear them?
Visual description: Two brown paper slippers against a white backdrop, both made to be worn on the right foot.
Check it out- a cable channel tuned in to the disabled community! Read their mission statement here and add your support by signing the guestbook. Here's what I wrote:
As a person with a disability, I have aways been accutely aware of theMany leaders in the disability rights community have already pledged their support. The project is in its early stages, so audience support, participation and influence is crucial to future successes. Influence the scope and flavor of programming!
exclusion of people with disabilities from mainstream media outlets- their
stories, their images, their say in the production of culture. This opportunity
is long over due and eagerly anticipated!
Today I received an email from a friend whose working in Germany. He wanted to know if I'd like to dine at Unsicht- Bar in Berlin during my vacation, scheduled for late fall. For some reason, I'd thought this restaurant was located in the UK- perhaps their is one like it there. I believe there's one located on the west coast too- owned and operated by a blind chef if my memory serves.
By "like it" I mean a restaurant with a truly unique twist. Patrons dine in total darkness, experiencing elegant three- and- four course meals served by blind/ visually impaired waiters.
Unsicht- Bar (meaning invisible or unseeable) has locations in Berlin, Hamburg and Cologne and should not be confused with Blindekuh (the Blind Cow), a restaurant with locations in Zurich and Basel. According to Wikipedia, Blindekuh was established by the Swiss- German Blind- Leicht Foundation to create employment opportunities for blind people in the food service industry. The name comes from the German equivalent of Blind Man's Bluff. I've yet to translate the German language press releases about Unsicht- Bar to determine if it too is a Blind- Leicht project. Obviously this is a story which begs more research and a first- hand account (I love it when research involves food)!
The Unsicht- Bar website explains that table settings are arranged to coordinate to the numbers on a clock face. Fair enough, I can see how this might help the uninitiated sighted person to navigate their first meal in the dark. The site also notes that the food is prepared in bite- sized portions so that visitors don't have to worry about cutting their food!
As someone with a vision impairment, I find this consideration amusing as well as a wee bit troubling. It reminded me of a meal at a friend's house when I was nine. My friend's mom made us lunch. Setting the plate in front of me, she picked a knife and began cutting the food for me! We tried to laugh it off- my friend had certainly eaten with me enough to know I could cut my own food. But her mom made an assumption based on damaging misconceptions of what blind/ visually impaired people are thought to be able to do.
I remember her mom getting really embarrassed and hurriedly saying something like, "Oh I'm so used to cutting other people's food, I don't know when to stop!" My friend offered that she still tried to cut up her food too sometimes, but it was a weak cover up.
I'm quite sure I could cut a steak or debone a fish without looking. But then, I've relied on my sense of touch much longer than Unsicht- Bar's sited patrons. For me, touch has always been an integral component and allie to seeing. For years I thought that everyone linked sight to touch like I did, that if you love art and aesthetics then you're a sensualist to boot. I now know that isn't necessarily the case. Perhaps Unsicht's boneless/ knifeless policy is nothing more than a bit of hand- holding intended for ambivalent guests, the clock face analogy extended to touch- phobic foodies who want to know exactly what they're putting in their mouths.
It just so happens that Eastern Europe is flecked with diamonds- in- the- rough tourist attractions of particular interest to PWDs and "With-" minded folk. Other sites on my Hit List: the Kasper Hauser Museum in Ansbach, Germany for a peak into a decidedly intriguing passage in the history of early specialized education. Too bad I won't be there in time for the festival held in Hauser's honor each September.
I'm beginning to think that Ansbach just may be my spiritual home, as their other major attraction is none other than the extravagant Rococo Festival held in July. I'll take any excuse to dress up in skirts and big hair! I am a southern girl at heart.
[Visual description: A double portrait of Kasper Hauser in bronze or possibly iron, stands in a cobble stone square. The figure in the foreground has a disheveled appearance and stands with head cast downward. He holds a battered satchel in one hand and a letter in the other. The companion figure in the background is poised and finely dressed. His hat lies on the ground at his feet, as if knocked off or lost in some unseen disturbance.]
Cross- posted at [With-tv]
Lately, I've been caught up in a flurry of activity hailing from the fabulous ranks of disabled bloggers who are hell- bent on transforming people's attitudes about what it means to be a PWD. These are revolutionary times, but those of us furiously typing away at our computers have surely earned at least a virtual vacation? Perhaps a trip to the Carnival where Andrea Is Buzzing About- what else? Being on holiday!
If you haven't heard of the highly- addicting blog carnival phenomenon, there's no need to feel left out. The Web is teeming with fascinating disability- positive posts. It seems I wasn't the only BlogHer partipant with mixed feelings about poorly- considered conference accessibility and swag overload. Are you the woman I saw getting on the elevator with the red and blue flashing wheelchair spokes? Girl- those are bitchin!
Penny linked to a number of resoruces recounting the delightfully eccentric history of prosthetics. Also be sure to check out her latest posts.
Kaye claims to be taking a vacation from blogging this month, but I can't resist imagining her sipping mint juleps at CNN headquarters in Atlanta, following her excellent commentary on the institutionalization of children with developmental disabilities during the 40s, 50s and 60s.
The Austin, Texas Chapter of the National Federation of the Blind is partnering with the Umlauf Sculpture Garden to promote blindness awareness in the community. This fall they will be presenting a temporary exhibition of the work of blind sculptors and are currently accepting submissions.
The hope is to have pieces to put up by September 23, or at the latest, October 7, 2007.
If you would be interested in having your work shown, or if you know a blind sculptor that might be interested, please contact me at thisislivingzine@gmail.com for more details.
Okay, so I'm watching the CBS evening news, and I want to make it clear that I'm NOT saying this because I like John Roberts- I'm annoyed by the tone of the news coverage that assumes that if a person becomes ill his/ her ability to work must be thrown into question, analyzed and then ever so graciously (read: with great condescension) approved by- whom? journalists? the public at large? George Bush? Really the Cheif Justice only retains the public's support by virtue of the fact that he's received a managable prognosis. And that seizure he had was ever so polite, earning the qualifiers "benign" and "idiopathic." Robert's seizure was nothing like those icky, scary seizures disabled people have- heavens no!
An earlier news story at NBC noted that a person who has more than one seizure over a span of years is considered to have epilepsy, but no one at CBS has dared suggest that Roberts in fact has epilepsy. No, the CBS team prefers to soft pedal the facts: the Cheif Justice may have to take anti- seizure medication from here on out, but what does that prove? Nothing! Scads of people take anti- seizure meds for the street cred alone! Doesn't mean they have epilepsy! No, instead CBS deemed it necessary to reassure its audience by recapping the recent ailments of other Supreme Court Justices as further evidence of Roberts staying power. There were charts and shit. I couldn't take the visual aids.
Also, Kay Olsen comments on a disturbing case in California involving the alleged murder and unauthorized organ farming of a disabled man.
And earlier in the week, perhaps prophetically, she remarked on the perils of bad epilepsy jokes as told by weather men.
A truly great side note to promoting my zine was getting an email from body artist and longlost pal Vonetta Berry last week. We met as undergrads at an over- priced art school. We soon discovered that we'd each spent unsettling periods of our adolescence sharing a zip code with a chemical weapons facility run by the U.S. army in northeast Alabama. Now there's a bond that makes me feel positively ooey- gooey inside- though it could just be the radiation poisoning kicking in. Back then, Ms. B introduced my lilly white self to the joys of the Wiz and the X- Men- cultural icons that serve as influences in her work to this day.
Anyhoo, I can't wait to take in one of Vonetta's painterly burlesque "mutasias" the next time I'm in Houston.
Things I am passionate about:
1. gorgeous disabled bodies, art, culture and minds
2. fashion (there I said it- guess the cat's out of the bag! But it really shouldn't be 2. should it?
Hmmm, I must be shallow....)
3. writing/ self- publishing shit
4. making art however and whenever I feel like it sans academe
5. film
6. books by brilliant and seductive word smiths
7. making lists
8. Saturday mornings- ah, the weekend stretches before me languid & cat- like
9. learning that Yoko Ono believes in ghosts
10. a peach pie on the kitchen counter!
I stopped by the Thompson Center today to see how my zine give- away was going. I am happy to report that after only two days the table was completely bare! So from this we may conclude that people really! do! love! free! art! That and folks are mesmerized by my lovely drawings, of course.
My overall printing quality of life has improved thanks to the discovery of a copier conveniently housed near the 9 to 5 haunt of my latest Older Man Crush.
So requesting copies of TIL is an endeavor that not only exposes you to great art but one that brings me closer to a sexy French Canadian. Everyone's a winner!
If you happen to be in the Chicago Loop this week, be sure to stop by the Thompson Center at Clark and Lake for an exhbitit celebrating the 17th anniversary of the Americans with Disabilities Act.
Take home a complimentary copy of my new zine This Is Living, where I recount the adventures of a disability rights activist embedded deep within the social service ghetto. Also on display- works by artists from the Little City Foundation, Espiranza and sculpture by Steve Handschu. I'll be hanging out for a few hours on the 19th so come by, rock out to the R&B cover band and show your support!
Coming to the pages of TIL this winter: Ernesto shows us how to survive a brain injury with flair, I compile my list of the best disability flicks (films on disability- you do the semantics) of all time- send me your recommendations! Plus, highlights from the kickass disability community to be had online! Notes on all that glitters, twitches, rocks, rolls, limps, stutters and blogs!
I just watched Werner Herzog's 1987 Cobra Verde over a bowl of mint chocolate chip ice cream - a great combination. I highly recommend it. The film is nowhere near as good as The Enigma of Kasper Hauser or Fitzcarraldo or Aguirre, but there's no shortage of gorgeous scenes. I read that Kinkski got completely fed up with Herzog over his handling of the film extras while on location in Ghana, though I'd say it was to great effect (Klaus getting pissed, not the alleged exploitation). He bristles like a Ferrel cat in just about every scene. Raging and preening about (if one can do both at the same time) he engages a field of Amazon warriors in frenzied army drills. The effect astonishing and grandly absurd. African women (the free Africans or newly- enslaved, those who have not yet been forced to leave their homeland) figure heavily in the film, though their narrative presence is not well - defined. Still, there insertion intimately informs the films' deeply troubled conscience.
I was disturbed to read this review that tries to make Kinski's da Silva a sympathetic character. I mean this is a film about a raping, murdering bandit turned slave trader - a self conscious RMBRS as some closing dialogue suggests, but what's the point really for such observations? Does a criminal's capacity for introspection and moral ambivalence make him a lesser tyrant? I suspect this mindset serves as the fulcrum point for many of our current social problems. Herzog has made a brilliant career of exploring ideas about human culpability.
I'm becoming more than a bit obsessed with Herzog's tangential obsession with disability. Cobra Verde is bracketed by images of disabled people. The film opens on a blind Brazilian troubadour plucking a violin and ends with Kinski's da Silva collapsing on the shore in despair as a man bent with polio approaches from the distance, walking on all fours. The new king and former ally of the slave trader da Silva has sent a number of young polio survivors to the slave fort in a symbolic gesture (as in, the slave trade has crippled the nations of Africa, or something along those lines). But its easy to overlook this heavy - handed "message" when confronted with these unforgettable young men.
My viewing was colored by the knowledge that Herzog (as is his custom) used real polio survivors as opposed to actors portraying disabled people. This awareness took me out of the film in a way that defied all my expectations about narrative filmaking. Instead, my reaction was something like, "Oh shit! People still contract polio in Africa! Someone should make a film about THAT, and why the fuck people still suffer from totally preventable diseases!" This was quickly followed by, "People are big colonialist assholes!" A smashing example of what the director calls "ecstatic truth" in filmaking, but one that ironically speaks to the ndustry's idiotic refusal to cast disabled actors. Of course, casting directors seem incapable of wrapping their heads around even the simplest physiological concepts, like normal female lifespans and body types. So what can you expect?
It's raining. Mumble muble muble.This from a conversation overheard on the train. Only a voice steeped in weariness and nicotine could convey the essence of a hard rain- a thing to be endured. Somehow the Bob Dylan song never fully got the point across. It's all in the voice.
It's a hard rain.
I don't like a hard rain. Mumble mumble...
May is the season for slasher flick weather, rainy hot nights that make the hairs on the back of my neck do the electric slide. I rounded the corner by the train station armed with a new umbrella. I held the umbrella in front of me like a lion tamer, sheilding my torso from rain that falls impossibly sideways in this town, in a maneuver known well to Chicago residents. All I could see from this vantage was a patch of sidewalk at my feet. But when a long shadow slid across my path I hesitated. Looking up I sort of gawked in surprise at my companion on an otherwise empty street. He muttered something like, "Don't be afraid- it's just the neighborhood."
Oh yeah? And what about the flannel- loving chauvinists who inhabit said neighborhood? I wanted to yell. Instead I hurried home, concentrating on the lesser hazards to be found on my block. As in the countless kids who make the sidewalks their Indie 500 on scooters with flashing tail lights and wobbly miniature bikes that never saw a training wheel. There's the icecream truck that only plays Christmas music, the liquor store bouncer who sits in the doorway, a fat chijaujuas atop each knee. The sweet- faced liquor store maven at the other end of the block looks like my friend's mom.
The ancient textile outlet boasts magnificent pine wood floors that sigh underfoot. A Polish matron sits at a card table, dispensing hand- written receipts for cuts of cloth. Dollar store merchants wire strollers and christening gowns to their awnings, as if urging people to procreate. Musty Italian restaurants share ramshackle blocks with offbeat rehabs and hand- painted storefronts. We recently acquired a soul food coffee house, and there have always been panaderias with thin metal trays and tongs and ornate cases stocked with cakes.
Women stand on their front steps, babies resting on one hip and bored men, finding nothing better berfore them, follow the women with sad eyes.
"Can I walk you?" asked a short rotund man. A little girl squatted on a tricycle at his feet. It was my first summer in Pilsen. I stared at him in confusion. "To the bus stop? Can I walk you?" he asked. All summer hang- dog packs of men offered me beers from their front stoops, offered to "walk me" God knows where. High school kids cruised by slowly in their cars or walked hand- in-hand with girlfriends swaying in very high heels
It's just the neighborhood but now people have bigger concerns, deportations to avoid, legislation to fight and immigration reforms to uphold. It's a sort of cultrual staring contest we're in, waiting to see who will blink first. I don't really understand the intricacies in policy that make immigration such a contentious issue. All the reasons I've heard politicians state as causes for concern are just plain classist and/ or racist.
Yes Babies, it's been some time since I've posted. A few major changes to report: I have a new job as an art instructor and advocate working with developmentally disabled adults. With the new job came a new beau. And I successfully completed DSP (Direct Support Professional) training, which means that I am legally certified to push people around in wheelchairs and take a rectal temperature, should the need arise. Actually, that last skill is no longer in demand, as our instructor kindly assured us, thanks to the glorious invention of the ear thermometer. Still, the mention of it drove me to ridiculous (anxiety induced?) fantasies of temperature- taking ornithologists (you know, birds don't have ears on the outsides of their heads...).
In other news, my friend Suzanne tells me that Kurt Vonnegut's death interrupted what was to be a year- long celebration of the author's life, sponsored by his hometown of Indianapolis. That's SO Kurt!! I never knew he had a mustache. I still can't picture it. All I see is that Magritte painting of the man with an apple hovering in front of his face, except in my version he has really wavy hair and does a cameo in a Rodney Dangerfield flick.
