Haven’t we been here before? I wasn’t going to watch President Trump’s State of the Union address because I didn’t have much enthusiasm for what he might say, but in the end, I felt it was my duty as a citizen (and also, I was a little curious to see the reactions of the others in the room with him). When I turned the TV on, the President was still shaking hands with people and hadn’t begun speaking yet. When he did begin speaking, I listened intently for a while before the “yada, yada, yada” just became too much, and I couldn’t take it seriously any more. Just one more politician full of pretty words and short on substance, and it’s a tragedy.
Since I was critical of President Obama when he was in office and didn’t hold back on what I thought, I think it’s only fair to say that having given President Trump the benefit of the doubt for a while, I’m no longer doing so. In fact, by the end of his speech, I was calling out to the people in the room with him, as if they could hear me, “Don’t believe a word he says!” Despite not agreeing with his rhetoric, tone, or policies, I had been hoping that the President was actually intending to use his power to achieve some good. But a long year has come and gone and I’ve seen nothing but events and actions that alarm me, so I’ve had to conclude that his story is, unfortunately, one of Might makes Right. Mr. Trump evidently undertook to become president for purely selfish reasons, and I don’t see a good end to this story.
I told someone last summer that I was hoping Mr. Trump’s presidency would run more along the lines of an Oskar Schindler story than Lord of the Flies—although it had already begun to resemble the latter. Having seen so many examples of people who looked OK on the outside but were no good inside, I was hoping that he might turn out to be someone who went against type and tried to accomplish something good despite looking like a blowhard. It would have made a much better story if the brash and egotistical businessman had turned out to be a doer of good deeds in disguise, but I’m afraid the only way I’m going to get an outcome like that is to write the story myself. It’s a pity, because it would have been such a good one had it turned out to be true.
I’m glad I watched the address because the contrast between what the President was saying and reality as I know it was so strong that the dissonance eventually became too much, and that was very telling. I had started to wonder what the President was up to when FBI Director James Comey was fired last spring, but since it was only a few months into his term, I decided to wait and see. That was a strange thing to do, it seemed to me, and the reasons Mr. Trump gave for doing it didn’t make any sense, but having been disappointed by politicians of my own party for so many years, I was hoping that someone else might have something to offer. Alas for that.
As in times past, I ended up creating an impromptu soundtrack to go with the address, though I only started doing it during the latter half, so it’s a fairly short one. I especially enjoyed holding the iPad screen up to the TV so that Jimi Hendrix was wailing on his guitar while Mr. Trump was speaking—probably the best split screen video pairing ever, though it may be just as well that poor Jimi isn’t around to see what the world has come to.
Here’s my set list:
Jimi Hendrix—“The Star Spangled Banner”
Simon and Garfunkel—“American Tune”
Dave and Phil Alvin—“World’s in a Bad Condition”
The Grateful Dead—“Touch of Grey”
Lorin Maazel, Sinfónica de Galicia—Mozart, Symphony No. 41 (“The Jupiter Symphony”)
Wednesday, January 31, 2018
Tuesday, January 23, 2018
Fighting the Battle We Know
A few days ago, I read about a book in which author Colin Woodard, a journalist, attempts to explain cultural divides in the United States by identifying the characteristic attitudes and beliefs of various regions. I haven’t read his book, American Nations: A History of the Eleven Rival Regional Cultures in North America, but the premise is fascinating. His theory not only identifies eleven cultural nations that make up North America but also explains how this affects political polarization. In case you had the idea that modern American life has been homogenized coast to coast to a monotonous sameness by pop culture, media, advertising, and commerce, Mr. Woodard is prepared to propose that underlying regional differences, some as old as our nation’s origins (and even older), are real and persistent and continue to shape our outlooks to the present day.
The eleven nations are Yankeedom (New England, the Great Lakes Region, and the Upper Midwest); New Netherland (New York City, Northern New Jersey, and environs); Tidewater (the Mid-Atlantic coast, including Delaware, Maryland, Virginia, and North Carolina); the Deep South (from South Carolina down and as far west as East Texas); Greater Appalachia (which begins in Pennsylvania and includes much of what I would consider the “Upper South,” as far as Texas); the Midlands (starting in New Jersey and encompassing much of the traditional Midwest); New France (centered in New Orleans and Quebec in Canada); El Norte (the Southwest, including Southern California); the Far West (stretching from the Southwest up into the Rocky Mountain states); the Left Coast (coastal Northern California, Oregon, Washington, and Western Canada); and First Nation (the vast territory of Native Americans, with most of its population living in Canada).
That’s it, as I understand it. The nations don’t stop at state lines, of course, so your state may feel the cultural pull of three or four different regions. Most people in Kentucky, where I live, probably think of Appalachia as a particular region in the eastern part of the state, but I agree with Mr. Woodard that its culture is very influential outside the mountains proper. I also think the presence of regions near Kentucky, including the Midlands and Deep South, can be felt here. No doubt Mr. Woodard covers cross-influences and other complexities in his book, but the article (by Business Insider’s Matthew Speiser) just touched on the highlights.
The most interesting aspect of the Eleven Nations idea is the underlying “personality” of each region. You would probably not be surprised to hear that Yankees value education and citizen participation in government, that people in the Far West tend to resent intrusions by the Federal government and outside corporate interests, that Tidewater was settled by aristocrats and continues to reflect some support for tradition, and that Left Coasters maintain a mix of Utopian ideas and a yen for creative expression. I was a bit surprised to see that Southern California belongs to El Norte rather than the Left Coast, which seems to indicate that Mr. Woodard views the hard-working values of Latino culture as taking the upper hand there (I have to think that L.A. is at the confluence of these two nations; it definitely seems part of the Left Coast to me).
I was surprised to see the Midlands described as being very culturally diverse and welcoming; in many areas, I’m sure that’s true, but I have always thought of certain parts of the Midwest as being very “white bread.” The United States is becoming increasingly diverse, so perhaps this is an outmoded notion of mine that is true no longer. I was also surprised to see that the Left Coast is supposed to include strong influences of both Yankeedom and Appalachia; I wonder if that’s actually how Left Coasters see themselves. If there’s truth in this, Appalachian culture in Kentucky is of a quite different variety than I have seen out west, being somewhat more “grounded.” I get the Utopian leanings and emphasis on self-development in a place like San Francisco, but I have always experienced it as much more caught up in fantasy and play than the down-to-earth concerns that are pervasive here.
Interestingly, New Orleans is one of those places that operates almost in a world of its own, a sort of anomaly in the conservative Deep South around it. I’ve only been to New Orleans once, but I have to say it struck me that way, as a place in which I sometimes marveled to think that I was in the United States at all. The culture of fast food, chain stores, and suburbia almost seemed non-existent in the face of a very distinctive cuisine, evidence of refined tastes in everything from shopping to architecture, and a pastiche of cultural influences. Similarly, South Florida, in Mr. Woodard’s scheme, is allied with Caribbean culture, not the Deep South. In my experience of having lived there, long ago, this is true. It’s the tropics; you have to travel north in Florida before you begin to feel that you are entering the South. To move from South Florida to Kentucky, for example, is to experience profound cultural shock.
I was trying to think of a way to line up these Eleven Nations with some sort of mythological idea peculiar to each, and I’m sure there is one, though it also seems to carry the danger of over-simplifying things. Sure, the Tidelands respect for established ways and authority is a very Zeusian thing, and the El Norte identification with hard work and self-reliance might be thought of as Hephaestian, and the New Netherland preoccupation with business and trade might fall into the realm of Hermes, but when I think of the region I live in and know best, it’s hard to think of just one entity that really covers it. If pressed, I guess I might go back to the patron saint of bourbon I imagined in a post from several years ago, a sort of plain-spoken Old Testament type with a penchant for cussing and spitting and fiery speech. I’m just not sure where he fits in the Greek pantheon, which despite its variety doesn’t quite supply a deity for every occasion you might think of.
Finally, Mr. Woodard explains that the most profound political influence coming out of the Eleven Nations is the conflict between Yankeedom and the Deep South, whose very different ideas and attitudes are tough to reconcile. It almost sounds as if we’re still fighting the Civil War, doesn’t it, at least on the political level, Blue against Red. With the nation becoming so much more diverse than it used to be, it’s interesting that this old dynamic is still so strong. The research I’ve done on political divisions indicated that polarization has increased over the last couple of decades, which means that there is an ebb and flow to it, and its strength is dependent on many factors. Perhaps the rapid rate of change has been partly responsible for the nation falling back on this earlier pattern of conflict; it’s certainly a fight we know. It surely seems possible that the influx of new groups and changing demographics might re-shape this conversation over time, though it might be a slow change. It seems to me that the United States, to all appearance a 21st-century nation, has never really healed from the battles of the 19th, and that it is holding us back more than we realize.
To put a mythological face on this aspect of it, Yankeedom’s values, in my mind, align most closely with Athena, goddess of wisdom and intellectual strategy. The values of the Deep South favor a fixed social structure and independence from government control, a sort of authoritarian, self-governing paradigm that speaks of Zeus. Zeus was the father of Athena, who supposedly sprang from his head fully grown, and in that sense perfectly fits the paradigm of this conflict the way I see it. The Deep South traditionally has had a patrician cast to it, and it makes perfect sense that it would resent any “upstart” attempts at influence from a perceived youngster, even if she is a chip off the old block—in some ways, that actually makes it worse. The Deep South rarely responds well to being told what to do, and Yankeedom has its own innate pride in its intellectual attainments and accomplishments. Nevertheless, there will always be goals these regions share, points of common interest, since they are part of the same country. Finding the place where their interests meet most closely seems like the place to start. Of course, that is easier said than done.
The eleven nations are Yankeedom (New England, the Great Lakes Region, and the Upper Midwest); New Netherland (New York City, Northern New Jersey, and environs); Tidewater (the Mid-Atlantic coast, including Delaware, Maryland, Virginia, and North Carolina); the Deep South (from South Carolina down and as far west as East Texas); Greater Appalachia (which begins in Pennsylvania and includes much of what I would consider the “Upper South,” as far as Texas); the Midlands (starting in New Jersey and encompassing much of the traditional Midwest); New France (centered in New Orleans and Quebec in Canada); El Norte (the Southwest, including Southern California); the Far West (stretching from the Southwest up into the Rocky Mountain states); the Left Coast (coastal Northern California, Oregon, Washington, and Western Canada); and First Nation (the vast territory of Native Americans, with most of its population living in Canada).
That’s it, as I understand it. The nations don’t stop at state lines, of course, so your state may feel the cultural pull of three or four different regions. Most people in Kentucky, where I live, probably think of Appalachia as a particular region in the eastern part of the state, but I agree with Mr. Woodard that its culture is very influential outside the mountains proper. I also think the presence of regions near Kentucky, including the Midlands and Deep South, can be felt here. No doubt Mr. Woodard covers cross-influences and other complexities in his book, but the article (by Business Insider’s Matthew Speiser) just touched on the highlights.
The most interesting aspect of the Eleven Nations idea is the underlying “personality” of each region. You would probably not be surprised to hear that Yankees value education and citizen participation in government, that people in the Far West tend to resent intrusions by the Federal government and outside corporate interests, that Tidewater was settled by aristocrats and continues to reflect some support for tradition, and that Left Coasters maintain a mix of Utopian ideas and a yen for creative expression. I was a bit surprised to see that Southern California belongs to El Norte rather than the Left Coast, which seems to indicate that Mr. Woodard views the hard-working values of Latino culture as taking the upper hand there (I have to think that L.A. is at the confluence of these two nations; it definitely seems part of the Left Coast to me).
I was surprised to see the Midlands described as being very culturally diverse and welcoming; in many areas, I’m sure that’s true, but I have always thought of certain parts of the Midwest as being very “white bread.” The United States is becoming increasingly diverse, so perhaps this is an outmoded notion of mine that is true no longer. I was also surprised to see that the Left Coast is supposed to include strong influences of both Yankeedom and Appalachia; I wonder if that’s actually how Left Coasters see themselves. If there’s truth in this, Appalachian culture in Kentucky is of a quite different variety than I have seen out west, being somewhat more “grounded.” I get the Utopian leanings and emphasis on self-development in a place like San Francisco, but I have always experienced it as much more caught up in fantasy and play than the down-to-earth concerns that are pervasive here.
Interestingly, New Orleans is one of those places that operates almost in a world of its own, a sort of anomaly in the conservative Deep South around it. I’ve only been to New Orleans once, but I have to say it struck me that way, as a place in which I sometimes marveled to think that I was in the United States at all. The culture of fast food, chain stores, and suburbia almost seemed non-existent in the face of a very distinctive cuisine, evidence of refined tastes in everything from shopping to architecture, and a pastiche of cultural influences. Similarly, South Florida, in Mr. Woodard’s scheme, is allied with Caribbean culture, not the Deep South. In my experience of having lived there, long ago, this is true. It’s the tropics; you have to travel north in Florida before you begin to feel that you are entering the South. To move from South Florida to Kentucky, for example, is to experience profound cultural shock.
I was trying to think of a way to line up these Eleven Nations with some sort of mythological idea peculiar to each, and I’m sure there is one, though it also seems to carry the danger of over-simplifying things. Sure, the Tidelands respect for established ways and authority is a very Zeusian thing, and the El Norte identification with hard work and self-reliance might be thought of as Hephaestian, and the New Netherland preoccupation with business and trade might fall into the realm of Hermes, but when I think of the region I live in and know best, it’s hard to think of just one entity that really covers it. If pressed, I guess I might go back to the patron saint of bourbon I imagined in a post from several years ago, a sort of plain-spoken Old Testament type with a penchant for cussing and spitting and fiery speech. I’m just not sure where he fits in the Greek pantheon, which despite its variety doesn’t quite supply a deity for every occasion you might think of.
Finally, Mr. Woodard explains that the most profound political influence coming out of the Eleven Nations is the conflict between Yankeedom and the Deep South, whose very different ideas and attitudes are tough to reconcile. It almost sounds as if we’re still fighting the Civil War, doesn’t it, at least on the political level, Blue against Red. With the nation becoming so much more diverse than it used to be, it’s interesting that this old dynamic is still so strong. The research I’ve done on political divisions indicated that polarization has increased over the last couple of decades, which means that there is an ebb and flow to it, and its strength is dependent on many factors. Perhaps the rapid rate of change has been partly responsible for the nation falling back on this earlier pattern of conflict; it’s certainly a fight we know. It surely seems possible that the influx of new groups and changing demographics might re-shape this conversation over time, though it might be a slow change. It seems to me that the United States, to all appearance a 21st-century nation, has never really healed from the battles of the 19th, and that it is holding us back more than we realize.
To put a mythological face on this aspect of it, Yankeedom’s values, in my mind, align most closely with Athena, goddess of wisdom and intellectual strategy. The values of the Deep South favor a fixed social structure and independence from government control, a sort of authoritarian, self-governing paradigm that speaks of Zeus. Zeus was the father of Athena, who supposedly sprang from his head fully grown, and in that sense perfectly fits the paradigm of this conflict the way I see it. The Deep South traditionally has had a patrician cast to it, and it makes perfect sense that it would resent any “upstart” attempts at influence from a perceived youngster, even if she is a chip off the old block—in some ways, that actually makes it worse. The Deep South rarely responds well to being told what to do, and Yankeedom has its own innate pride in its intellectual attainments and accomplishments. Nevertheless, there will always be goals these regions share, points of common interest, since they are part of the same country. Finding the place where their interests meet most closely seems like the place to start. Of course, that is easier said than done.
Monday, January 15, 2018
Pauvre vs. Pobre
I may have mentioned that I was trying to brush up on my Spanish before I went to California. It’s true; I took Spanish as an undergraduate, but it was the reading approach only, and I don’t remember most of what I learned. According to an online test I took one time, my Spanish is at an intermediate level, but that’s a vastly over-generous interpretation of things. I never understood spoken Spanish well, and my reading skills have grown rusty over the years. I was hoping to attain a moderate level of speaking ability in California.
That sounds like a modest hope, and I believe it is, but the first thing I noticed was that I felt shy about trying to speak Spanish once I was actually in So Cal. I guess I knew how shaky my skills were and didn’t want to embarrass myself by acting too gung-ho. At first, the only native speaker of Spanish I came in contact with was the housekeeper at my hotel, and she spoke English, so we conducted our conversations in that language. I didn’t come across anyone in my admittedly limited social sphere who didn’t speak English until I was downtown one day. On Olvera Street, I tried to talk to a shopkeeper, and it took me a minute to realize that she only knew a few words of English. I had gone from assuming I’d have lots of chances to practice my Spanish to making the opposite error of assuming a knowledge of English where none existed.
I summoned up enough Spanish to go back and apologize to her once I realized what had happened. “Mi español es pobre” was a helpful phrase I pulled out more than once, so while I was disappointed that my Spanish skills didn’t advance much all summer, I was kind of proud of being able to make myself understood in that one instance. I only wanted to be respectful of the culture I was in and was very aware that textbook Spanish is a good start but that immersion in the language is the only way to become really fluent.
Somehow, once I came back to Kentucky and realized that a lot of the staff where I’m staying are native Spanish speakers, my shyness about speaking the language went away. I guess I just felt less pressure here to make a good showing, as Lexington isn’t quite the multicultural melting pot that Los Angeles is. I started making lists of phrases and discovered that it’s quite possible to conduct an entire conversation as long as you have recourse to Google. I told someone today that I speak “Google Spanish.” I’m never certain whether I’m pronouncing the words correctly and whether some of the phrases are idiomatically correct, but I seem to get my meaning across most of the time. I don’t feel comfortable not speaking to someone who’s doing something for me, and it’s good practice. Occasionally, someone will even tell me I’m saying something the wrong way, which is actually more of a compliment than anything. It makes me feel that my efforts are being respected and that I’m not just being humored.
Of course, you know the Wordplay mantra of “Do No Harm”: the last thing I want to do is to create any cross-cultural misunderstandings. I vividly remember the time I was in Germany and tried to ask for a carton of milk to go. I was certain I was pronouncing the phrase just the way I was supposed to according to the phonetic German phrase book only to see the server double over in an apparently difficult attempt to hold back laughter. OK, so I don’t know any German, and it was a brave attempt to break new ground. But there was also the time, on the same trip, that I asked for hot tea with milk in a Paris restaurant (a phrase I was certain I knew from my French course) only to have a very confused looking waitress produce a glass of lukewarm milk with the air that she was certain this wasn’t what I had asked for but she was darned if she knew what to do about it. And I had been brushing up on the language for weeks just prior to the trip, so I still haven’t figured out how that happened.
With Written Spanish for my undergraduate language and Written French in graduate school, I probably know just enough to confuse the heck out of people in two or three different languages. Sometimes I’ll think of a phrase and know what it means but am not sure whether it’s Spanish or French. Just yesterday, I had a simple, impromptu, “Good Day, How Are You?” conversation with someone, and was feeling kind of proud of myself until I thought about it afterwards and realized that while the other person was speaking entirely in Spanish, I had replied to her inquiry of how I was doing with a confident “Très bien!”—which isn’t even Google Spanish but undeniably nothing other than Pure French.
Oh, well, as the French would say, “C’est la vie.” It’s not as if we started a war or anything. And in case I run across any French-speaking people at this establishment, I know just the phrase to smooth over any occasion: “Mon français est pauvre.” At least, I think that’ll do it.
That sounds like a modest hope, and I believe it is, but the first thing I noticed was that I felt shy about trying to speak Spanish once I was actually in So Cal. I guess I knew how shaky my skills were and didn’t want to embarrass myself by acting too gung-ho. At first, the only native speaker of Spanish I came in contact with was the housekeeper at my hotel, and she spoke English, so we conducted our conversations in that language. I didn’t come across anyone in my admittedly limited social sphere who didn’t speak English until I was downtown one day. On Olvera Street, I tried to talk to a shopkeeper, and it took me a minute to realize that she only knew a few words of English. I had gone from assuming I’d have lots of chances to practice my Spanish to making the opposite error of assuming a knowledge of English where none existed.
I summoned up enough Spanish to go back and apologize to her once I realized what had happened. “Mi español es pobre” was a helpful phrase I pulled out more than once, so while I was disappointed that my Spanish skills didn’t advance much all summer, I was kind of proud of being able to make myself understood in that one instance. I only wanted to be respectful of the culture I was in and was very aware that textbook Spanish is a good start but that immersion in the language is the only way to become really fluent.
Somehow, once I came back to Kentucky and realized that a lot of the staff where I’m staying are native Spanish speakers, my shyness about speaking the language went away. I guess I just felt less pressure here to make a good showing, as Lexington isn’t quite the multicultural melting pot that Los Angeles is. I started making lists of phrases and discovered that it’s quite possible to conduct an entire conversation as long as you have recourse to Google. I told someone today that I speak “Google Spanish.” I’m never certain whether I’m pronouncing the words correctly and whether some of the phrases are idiomatically correct, but I seem to get my meaning across most of the time. I don’t feel comfortable not speaking to someone who’s doing something for me, and it’s good practice. Occasionally, someone will even tell me I’m saying something the wrong way, which is actually more of a compliment than anything. It makes me feel that my efforts are being respected and that I’m not just being humored.
Of course, you know the Wordplay mantra of “Do No Harm”: the last thing I want to do is to create any cross-cultural misunderstandings. I vividly remember the time I was in Germany and tried to ask for a carton of milk to go. I was certain I was pronouncing the phrase just the way I was supposed to according to the phonetic German phrase book only to see the server double over in an apparently difficult attempt to hold back laughter. OK, so I don’t know any German, and it was a brave attempt to break new ground. But there was also the time, on the same trip, that I asked for hot tea with milk in a Paris restaurant (a phrase I was certain I knew from my French course) only to have a very confused looking waitress produce a glass of lukewarm milk with the air that she was certain this wasn’t what I had asked for but she was darned if she knew what to do about it. And I had been brushing up on the language for weeks just prior to the trip, so I still haven’t figured out how that happened.
With Written Spanish for my undergraduate language and Written French in graduate school, I probably know just enough to confuse the heck out of people in two or three different languages. Sometimes I’ll think of a phrase and know what it means but am not sure whether it’s Spanish or French. Just yesterday, I had a simple, impromptu, “Good Day, How Are You?” conversation with someone, and was feeling kind of proud of myself until I thought about it afterwards and realized that while the other person was speaking entirely in Spanish, I had replied to her inquiry of how I was doing with a confident “Très bien!”—which isn’t even Google Spanish but undeniably nothing other than Pure French.
Oh, well, as the French would say, “C’est la vie.” It’s not as if we started a war or anything. And in case I run across any French-speaking people at this establishment, I know just the phrase to smooth over any occasion: “Mon français est pauvre.” At least, I think that’ll do it.
Monday, January 8, 2018
Wordplay’s Shopping Extravaganza
I went shopping the other day, something I hadn’t done in quite a while—shopping for clothes, I mean. It’s like this: I hadn’t planned to be back in Kentucky, but here I am, and hardly any of my winter things with me. Since my job search over the summer was so unsuccessful, and my recent trip so fruitless, I don’t know when I’ll get back to California. I was unwilling to admit it, but I’m stuck here for now, and that meant I had to get some outerwear. No more running outside sans hat and gloves for me. Once I knew I was going to have to do it, even though I couldn’t afford it, I got myself in gear and headed over to the mall.
This was one of those experiences with an unexpected upside. Retail therapy can actually work sometimes, especially when you really haven’t bought any clothes in years. I was trying to be practical and not spend more than I had to, so I looked around until I found a vest I could layer over my fleece. Hats, gloves, and scarves were all marked down, so even though I have several of each (in storage) I bit the bullet and accessorized at bargain prices. I was so exhausted by looking by that time that instead of buying pajamas, which I also needed, I grabbed a pair of leggings off a sale rack. Instead of buying the boots I first had in mind, I got a pair of water-resistant ankle boots. That was good because it turned out there were other things I had to spend money on that weren’t cheap but in my mind necessary. I didn’t ask to be put in the circumstances I’m in and can only do the best I can.
Spending beyond my means isn’t something I enjoy. I took pride in decades of frugality and was always able to make a dollar stretch pretty far, a skill I learned in my early working life when I lived paycheck to paycheck and sometimes couldn’t afford something as basic as a pair of shoes. But whereas going to the mall usually seemed like a chore when I was younger, it’s different now. Last week’s trip to the mall actually made me feel better: I enjoy looking at things even if I know I can’t buy them. The “commercialization” of the experience doesn’t bother me any more. I’ve come to understand that all those goods and services represent supply, demand, jobs, and fulfillment of people’s needs.
Once I got back to my room, I wondered if I would reconsider anything I had spent that day and decided to sleep on it. In my new leggings, I was quite a bit more comfortable than I had been and relieved to think that with my outerwear I wouldn’t have to risk frostbite when I went out the next day. I could continue walking places instead of going by car to stay warm. And when I woke up the next day, everything I had bought still seemed justified. Now in fact, I’m already concerned about running out of things like soap that I won’t have any way to get later. It’s a sad day when you’re having to plan ahead on things like soap, but that’s the way it is.
Despite the pressing need that sent me to the mall, it was still a little bit of an Aphrodite experience, in a good way, the way looking at and buying nice things for yourself always is. It was also a little bit of a Demeter experience, since it was the internal mothering voice that told me I’d better not go out any more without a hat and gloves. Athena and Apollo may have been along for the ride, too, on the strategizing end of things. And you thought going to the mall was just about frivolity.
This was one of those experiences with an unexpected upside. Retail therapy can actually work sometimes, especially when you really haven’t bought any clothes in years. I was trying to be practical and not spend more than I had to, so I looked around until I found a vest I could layer over my fleece. Hats, gloves, and scarves were all marked down, so even though I have several of each (in storage) I bit the bullet and accessorized at bargain prices. I was so exhausted by looking by that time that instead of buying pajamas, which I also needed, I grabbed a pair of leggings off a sale rack. Instead of buying the boots I first had in mind, I got a pair of water-resistant ankle boots. That was good because it turned out there were other things I had to spend money on that weren’t cheap but in my mind necessary. I didn’t ask to be put in the circumstances I’m in and can only do the best I can.
Spending beyond my means isn’t something I enjoy. I took pride in decades of frugality and was always able to make a dollar stretch pretty far, a skill I learned in my early working life when I lived paycheck to paycheck and sometimes couldn’t afford something as basic as a pair of shoes. But whereas going to the mall usually seemed like a chore when I was younger, it’s different now. Last week’s trip to the mall actually made me feel better: I enjoy looking at things even if I know I can’t buy them. The “commercialization” of the experience doesn’t bother me any more. I’ve come to understand that all those goods and services represent supply, demand, jobs, and fulfillment of people’s needs.
Once I got back to my room, I wondered if I would reconsider anything I had spent that day and decided to sleep on it. In my new leggings, I was quite a bit more comfortable than I had been and relieved to think that with my outerwear I wouldn’t have to risk frostbite when I went out the next day. I could continue walking places instead of going by car to stay warm. And when I woke up the next day, everything I had bought still seemed justified. Now in fact, I’m already concerned about running out of things like soap that I won’t have any way to get later. It’s a sad day when you’re having to plan ahead on things like soap, but that’s the way it is.
Despite the pressing need that sent me to the mall, it was still a little bit of an Aphrodite experience, in a good way, the way looking at and buying nice things for yourself always is. It was also a little bit of a Demeter experience, since it was the internal mothering voice that told me I’d better not go out any more without a hat and gloves. Athena and Apollo may have been along for the ride, too, on the strategizing end of things. And you thought going to the mall was just about frivolity.
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