Salvation Army Shelter
Caters to: Single Women, Families
Number of Stars: 1
Dining Facility: Yes
Amenities: Laundry on Premises; Free Parking; No Swimming Pool; No Wi-Fi
The Salvation Army isn’t quite what I expected. It starts with the other residents, who in many cases don’t match my idea of folks you’d expect to meet in a shelter. It’s a bit like the experience I had last spring when I jumped through the social services hoops to get a Medicaid card: many of the people in the agency office looked like they’d been sent over from central casting. I’m serious. I’m not making fun of the plight of homeless people in any way when I say this but am merely observing that doing double-takes is a nearly daily occurrence for me. There could be several reasons for this, but I’ll allow you to make what you will of it. After all, if I’m in a homeless shelter, nearly anybody could be, and it seems likely that they are, based on what I’ve seen.
The SA differs from your typical lodging experience in the number of rules and regulations imposed on residents. It has almost a quasi-military flavor, as if you were lodging in a barracks rather than a shelter. I won’t say there aren’t reasons for some of these rules, but they seem to be applied somewhat haphazardly, so that you might get dinged for something someone else does on a regular basis. The main complaint I hear from other residents regards this inconsistency.
My main complaint in the first few days was about how seriously people seemed to sweat what I considered to be small stuff, and how disrespectfully some of the staff and other residents acted toward me regarding things that didn’t really seem to matter. I have one roommate who was apparently unnerved by the presence of an opened (dry) umbrella I had placed on my bunk to keep it out of the way, an episode that escalated into a threat of expulsion for yours truly. I don’t know if my experience is typical, but I can imagine someone coming in here with fewer inner resources than I have ending up bullied and depressed very quickly. This seems like the opposite of what a social services agency ought to be doing, because don’t you want to build people up rather than tear them down? Again, I’m not sure how typical my experience is, but I have been leery of getting too involved with the culture or resources on offer here.
Some people say they don’t like the food, but although it’s a bit too heavy on the starch, there are days when it’s rather tasty. I haven’t been poisoned yet, though I do avoid the Kool-Aid flavored drinks. We’re not talking about Dinner at Antoine’s, after all. It’s communal dining typical of a school cafeteria. I eat a fair amount of doughnuts for dessert and must assume the SA has a generous donor from that industry. I don’t make a big deal out of what’s on the menu, I just eat it; from past experience, I know food service isn’t the easiest job in the world.
The lack of privacy is one of the worst aspects of being there. There just isn’t any place to go to be really alone, but as I told someone, in some ways it’s not much worse than my last apartment. I never really felt I was alone there, either, with the intrusiveness of my neighbors breaking in on me even when I had closed my own door behind me. There is something in the SA experience that reminds me of the almost cult-like place my apartment building had become in the last few years I was there (due in part, I felt, to the presence of several members of a Christian youth organization who lived and/or worked on the property). I seem to get a whiff of the same quasi-religious, quasi-military atmosphere at SA, and if I were an investigative reporter, I would probably dig into it a little further. Could be a story there.
The worst aspect for me has undoubtedly been the people I have in my room. It’s as if someone took all the worst neighbors I had on Nicholasville Road and handed them to me for roommates. Now, you know Wordplay doesn’t like to exaggerate, and furthermore I am not a mental health expert, but it doesn’t take one to know when someone has boundary issues that are serious enough to indicate possible psychosis. I’m not saying, though, that I would necessarily do better by trading some of them out. I’ve encountered other guests who seem to be a couple of pencils short of a pack as well. I’m not talking about the type of personality clashes you always see when people live together but something more troubling, something that goes beyond the simplistic notion of just getting along with others. Do you, after all, really want to get along well with someone with criminal tendencies? Well, do you?
I actually like some of the people, although I have a suspicion that many of them are other than what they appear to be, and I tend to think this is not a good thing when I myself am exactly what I appear to be. It gives me the feeling that I’m a part of something that I never signed up for, and that is disheartening. I wish you could see some of these folks; they run the gamut from a girl who looks like a sorority sister fresh out of the Chi Omega house to a woman who resembles just the sort of person you’d meet at a Pacifica cocktail party or soirée at the Getty Villa to someone reminiscent of your grandmother or great-aunt. There are also a number of mothers with young children, people with tattoos, and some who really do resemble what you probably think a homeless person looks like, though some of them are surprisingly sharp dressers.
Customer service runs the gamut from harsh to indifferent to friendly, but again, things are not always what they appear to be, so take it as you will. Obviously, it’s not a five-star experience, and it’s surprisingly difficult to get paper towels in the bathroom, something that is of more import to me than, say, free tickets to the Met, but I try to make the best of it. Based on my experience so far, I am likely to leave the place with fewer items than I went in with (who steals underwear, for God’s sake?), but it is what it is (whatever that is), and perhaps my next hotel experience will be more to my liking.
Tuesday, February 20, 2018
Tuesday, February 13, 2018
Is He or Isn’t He?
It’s funny, I remember when I first started going to Los Angeles, I felt I was somewhat deficient in the celebrity-spotting game. I mean, I never recognized anyone. I wasn’t sure whether I just wasn’t going to the right places (which seemed probable), whether celebrities out and about had ways of disguising themselves, or whether I just really didn’t have an eye for it. I finally had a little success in that area when I thought I spotted Martin Short at LAX after one of the flight attendants said he was on our plane. Another time, I thought I saw Justin Timberlake in the first-class cabin of the flight I was on (if it was Mr. Timberlake, I actually spoke to him in the boarding line without knowing who he was). Then, at last, a positive ID on Steve Martin, who was having dinner in a Montecito restaurant one evening when I was there with some classmates (though I’m not sure how long it would have taken me to spot him if someone else hadn’t pointed him out first).
Since then, there have been a number of instances when I thought I saw someone famous, but in almost every case there was something a little odd about it. You no doubt remember Inception, the film about labyrinths within labyrinths inside the multiple layers of reality of a consciousness experiment. This was a little bit like that, only more amusing. For example: there is a coffeehouse I sometimes went to in Santa Monica, a funky place with very little (let’s say no) gloss to it. I was in there one day some years ago and saw someone who looked so much like Frances McDormand that I was almost positive it was she, the only problem being, she was dressed like a bag lady. I looked on in wonder, a bit bemused by what I was seeing, not sure what to make of it. Was she in character for a role? Was that what’s considered “method acting”? Did she ever make that picture?
I didn’t know, but that’s not the only time something like that has happened. On that same trip, in the spring of 2011, I thought I saw Viggo Mortensen (you know, “Strider”) one night while I was waiting to cross a street near downtown Santa Monica. I was minding my own business when a large group of cyclists came cruising down the street, and in the middle of them, with blond hair shining like a beacon and eyes bright as stars, was a fellow who looked remarkably like Mr. Mortensen—not that I have ever met him—if he had bleached his hair blond and cut it short. The strange thing in that instance was that he did look at me as if he knew me, and as I remember even called out a greeting. Maybe he’s just a friendly person, if he was the genuine article, but the point is, there was something cinematic and a little bizarre about the whole experience.
Finding yourself on a sidewalk late on a balmy spring evening in L.A. and seeing an entire peloton suddenly appear, bearing along a smiling, fair-haired, mischievous-looking elven king in their midst, is the type of thing that you can almost count on happening in L.A., and that was one of the things I once enjoyed about it, in small doses. Life at home seemed to lack this cinematic quality. It was like a little movie playing out before your eyes, so quickly that if you blinked you’d definitely miss it, and even if you didn’t blink, you still wouldn’t be quite sure of what you had seen. It was magical realism at its best.
Now, last summer, the very first thing that happened when I got off the final freeway on my trip to L.A. was that I saw a crowd of people waiting to cross a street. I believe I was officially in Atwater Village when this happened, not Hollywood, but I heard a voice I thought I recognized. Looking over, I thought I saw John Cusack in the midst of a group of young people. I’ll admit I was sort of staring because it just seemed like peculiar timing to exit the freeway after driving cross-country and immediately fetch up against a celebrity. They’re not that thick on the ground. Mr. Cusack didn’t look in my direction, but one of the young people with him did turn his head and smile at me with what I would almost have described as a complicit smile. It gave me the feeling that my summer was going to be cinematic in that wonderful way I remember experiencing occasionally on past trips. Wrong. This past summer was anything but that. I felt I was lucky to get back to Kentucky in one piece, which only happened because I sized up the situation and faced the facts: I didn’t want to be broke in L.A. (By the way, the film I most associate with Mr. Cusack is The Grifters, if that means anything to you.)
But that was not to be the only cinematic experience I had. There was the day I was riding the Metro Red Line and sat down across from a fellow that I could have sworn was Robin Williams. Yes, I know he died. But here’s my dilemma: I am forced to make a choice between believing in two different versions of reality, both of which cannot be true at the same time. Either Mr. Williams is really dead and has an Asian doppelgänger who rides the L.A. Metro smiling mysteriously at nothing, or Mr. Williams is not dead and rides the L.A. Metro disguised as a highly amused Asian commuter. You’ll have to decide for yourself which is more likely, but since I was there, I have to tell you honestly that at that moment I was sure I was looking at Robin Williams.
But to what end, you may ask? That’s a good question. I will say, apropos of this experience, that I remarked to someone a couple of years ago that there seemed to be an awful lot of major celebrities dying right and left. There were so many of these deaths that I almost wondered if some of these folks might be working for the government. Both the FBI and the CIA have a presence in Hollywood, which would naturally include undercover agents. A few years ago, I was disturbed by a presentation at a professional conference that detailed the ways in which Hollywood partners with the CIA to market the agency’s work. Now, I’m not saying the CIA doesn’t do some good things, but what bothers me is not only the propaganda angle but the fact of secrecy and disguises. It’s the whole Inception phenomenon: what’s real here, and what isn’t? For that matter, spies could be working for another government, which would make it even worse. Just because someone looks and sounds like an American doesn’t mean he or she is one. It’s a picture show, right?
What if you were married to an undercover agent? Would you even know it? Could you go your entire life being married to someone who wasn’t really who they said they were at all? Is that right? Is it ethical? I’m sure the government could present a list of reasons for having to work this way that would sound reasonable. I’m also aware that the majority of their employees do not work undercover but live rather ordinary existences and have desk jobs. I personally couldn’t stand to work undercover, not that I have much talent for it. Honesty in relationships is too important to me for anything like that to have the remotest possible appeal, and if you think about it, I think you’ll see what I mean. How would you feel if you’d been married to a spy (and possibly not even an American spy), duped so that everything you thought was solid in your life was nothing but an illusion? How disorienting and confusing would that be? How cheated would you feel? Would you ever be able to trust anyone again?
I gather I am not the only one who looks askance at the CIA and foreign intelligence agencies over this type of thing, because not long ago I saw a list of Federal intelligence and law enforcement agencies ranked according to the level of trust the American public had in them, and the CIA was at or near the bottom. Espionage is just too spooky for most people, and I include myself among them. I associate espionage with getting thrown off the back of a train or having to escape hotel rooms through a back window just in time to avoid an explosion—the kind of stuff you see in movies, but not the kind of movies that generally appeal to me.
I can’t imagine giving up my identity to take on an entirely new life. Whether that is the explanation for the dead celebrity phenomenon or not, I have no idea. I do know that the magical moments I’m speaking of no longer seem restricted to L.A.: the separation between life in California and life in Kentucky no longer seems to hold, as I’ve found myself doing double-takes here more than once. Was that Benedict Cumberbatch I saw? Was it Rosie O’Donnell? Was it Prince? Here in Lexington? As actors, they would certainly be naturals for taking on undercover assignments, or perhaps it would be the other way around—they are undercover agents first, so that’s why they’ve become entertainers. I am only using these instances as examples; I don’t know why the celebrity phenomenon seems to have descended on Lexington, only that I have had some strange encounters.
See how confusing it is? By the way, I make no claim to knowing whether any of these people are living or dead, employed by the government or not. If someone is reported as dead, I assume that they are. Otherwise, life just becomes too confusing. My recommendation to you is that if you think you see someone who really shouldn’t be there, be careful. Makeup, plastic surgery, disguises, and imagination can create some powerful illusions. Maybe Robin Williams really is working undercover, but you know what? If he is, I don’t want to know about it. Save that kind of thing for the big screen . . . Ordinary life, I have always found, is challenging enough, the caveat being, if I turn out to have some kind of history unknown to me (if it turns out that I really am related to British royalty, not a development that I would welcome, but if it happened)—you would not see me moving to Britain and assuming the throne. I’m an American, after all, a Democrat, a Southerner, and a writer, and I have my own life. I probably shouldn’t tell you in advance what I would do, but since we’re speaking of play-acting and all that goes with it, it would not involve listening to other people whispering in my ear all day long and taking their suggestions. It would more likely run to selling off a few castles to pay for my retirement, sending people to gaol, that type of thing. It would, in fact, probably make pretty good cinema.
Isn’t play-acting wonderful?
Since then, there have been a number of instances when I thought I saw someone famous, but in almost every case there was something a little odd about it. You no doubt remember Inception, the film about labyrinths within labyrinths inside the multiple layers of reality of a consciousness experiment. This was a little bit like that, only more amusing. For example: there is a coffeehouse I sometimes went to in Santa Monica, a funky place with very little (let’s say no) gloss to it. I was in there one day some years ago and saw someone who looked so much like Frances McDormand that I was almost positive it was she, the only problem being, she was dressed like a bag lady. I looked on in wonder, a bit bemused by what I was seeing, not sure what to make of it. Was she in character for a role? Was that what’s considered “method acting”? Did she ever make that picture?
I didn’t know, but that’s not the only time something like that has happened. On that same trip, in the spring of 2011, I thought I saw Viggo Mortensen (you know, “Strider”) one night while I was waiting to cross a street near downtown Santa Monica. I was minding my own business when a large group of cyclists came cruising down the street, and in the middle of them, with blond hair shining like a beacon and eyes bright as stars, was a fellow who looked remarkably like Mr. Mortensen—not that I have ever met him—if he had bleached his hair blond and cut it short. The strange thing in that instance was that he did look at me as if he knew me, and as I remember even called out a greeting. Maybe he’s just a friendly person, if he was the genuine article, but the point is, there was something cinematic and a little bizarre about the whole experience.
Finding yourself on a sidewalk late on a balmy spring evening in L.A. and seeing an entire peloton suddenly appear, bearing along a smiling, fair-haired, mischievous-looking elven king in their midst, is the type of thing that you can almost count on happening in L.A., and that was one of the things I once enjoyed about it, in small doses. Life at home seemed to lack this cinematic quality. It was like a little movie playing out before your eyes, so quickly that if you blinked you’d definitely miss it, and even if you didn’t blink, you still wouldn’t be quite sure of what you had seen. It was magical realism at its best.
Now, last summer, the very first thing that happened when I got off the final freeway on my trip to L.A. was that I saw a crowd of people waiting to cross a street. I believe I was officially in Atwater Village when this happened, not Hollywood, but I heard a voice I thought I recognized. Looking over, I thought I saw John Cusack in the midst of a group of young people. I’ll admit I was sort of staring because it just seemed like peculiar timing to exit the freeway after driving cross-country and immediately fetch up against a celebrity. They’re not that thick on the ground. Mr. Cusack didn’t look in my direction, but one of the young people with him did turn his head and smile at me with what I would almost have described as a complicit smile. It gave me the feeling that my summer was going to be cinematic in that wonderful way I remember experiencing occasionally on past trips. Wrong. This past summer was anything but that. I felt I was lucky to get back to Kentucky in one piece, which only happened because I sized up the situation and faced the facts: I didn’t want to be broke in L.A. (By the way, the film I most associate with Mr. Cusack is The Grifters, if that means anything to you.)
But that was not to be the only cinematic experience I had. There was the day I was riding the Metro Red Line and sat down across from a fellow that I could have sworn was Robin Williams. Yes, I know he died. But here’s my dilemma: I am forced to make a choice between believing in two different versions of reality, both of which cannot be true at the same time. Either Mr. Williams is really dead and has an Asian doppelgänger who rides the L.A. Metro smiling mysteriously at nothing, or Mr. Williams is not dead and rides the L.A. Metro disguised as a highly amused Asian commuter. You’ll have to decide for yourself which is more likely, but since I was there, I have to tell you honestly that at that moment I was sure I was looking at Robin Williams.
But to what end, you may ask? That’s a good question. I will say, apropos of this experience, that I remarked to someone a couple of years ago that there seemed to be an awful lot of major celebrities dying right and left. There were so many of these deaths that I almost wondered if some of these folks might be working for the government. Both the FBI and the CIA have a presence in Hollywood, which would naturally include undercover agents. A few years ago, I was disturbed by a presentation at a professional conference that detailed the ways in which Hollywood partners with the CIA to market the agency’s work. Now, I’m not saying the CIA doesn’t do some good things, but what bothers me is not only the propaganda angle but the fact of secrecy and disguises. It’s the whole Inception phenomenon: what’s real here, and what isn’t? For that matter, spies could be working for another government, which would make it even worse. Just because someone looks and sounds like an American doesn’t mean he or she is one. It’s a picture show, right?
What if you were married to an undercover agent? Would you even know it? Could you go your entire life being married to someone who wasn’t really who they said they were at all? Is that right? Is it ethical? I’m sure the government could present a list of reasons for having to work this way that would sound reasonable. I’m also aware that the majority of their employees do not work undercover but live rather ordinary existences and have desk jobs. I personally couldn’t stand to work undercover, not that I have much talent for it. Honesty in relationships is too important to me for anything like that to have the remotest possible appeal, and if you think about it, I think you’ll see what I mean. How would you feel if you’d been married to a spy (and possibly not even an American spy), duped so that everything you thought was solid in your life was nothing but an illusion? How disorienting and confusing would that be? How cheated would you feel? Would you ever be able to trust anyone again?
I gather I am not the only one who looks askance at the CIA and foreign intelligence agencies over this type of thing, because not long ago I saw a list of Federal intelligence and law enforcement agencies ranked according to the level of trust the American public had in them, and the CIA was at or near the bottom. Espionage is just too spooky for most people, and I include myself among them. I associate espionage with getting thrown off the back of a train or having to escape hotel rooms through a back window just in time to avoid an explosion—the kind of stuff you see in movies, but not the kind of movies that generally appeal to me.
I can’t imagine giving up my identity to take on an entirely new life. Whether that is the explanation for the dead celebrity phenomenon or not, I have no idea. I do know that the magical moments I’m speaking of no longer seem restricted to L.A.: the separation between life in California and life in Kentucky no longer seems to hold, as I’ve found myself doing double-takes here more than once. Was that Benedict Cumberbatch I saw? Was it Rosie O’Donnell? Was it Prince? Here in Lexington? As actors, they would certainly be naturals for taking on undercover assignments, or perhaps it would be the other way around—they are undercover agents first, so that’s why they’ve become entertainers. I am only using these instances as examples; I don’t know why the celebrity phenomenon seems to have descended on Lexington, only that I have had some strange encounters.
See how confusing it is? By the way, I make no claim to knowing whether any of these people are living or dead, employed by the government or not. If someone is reported as dead, I assume that they are. Otherwise, life just becomes too confusing. My recommendation to you is that if you think you see someone who really shouldn’t be there, be careful. Makeup, plastic surgery, disguises, and imagination can create some powerful illusions. Maybe Robin Williams really is working undercover, but you know what? If he is, I don’t want to know about it. Save that kind of thing for the big screen . . . Ordinary life, I have always found, is challenging enough, the caveat being, if I turn out to have some kind of history unknown to me (if it turns out that I really am related to British royalty, not a development that I would welcome, but if it happened)—you would not see me moving to Britain and assuming the throne. I’m an American, after all, a Democrat, a Southerner, and a writer, and I have my own life. I probably shouldn’t tell you in advance what I would do, but since we’re speaking of play-acting and all that goes with it, it would not involve listening to other people whispering in my ear all day long and taking their suggestions. It would more likely run to selling off a few castles to pay for my retirement, sending people to gaol, that type of thing. It would, in fact, probably make pretty good cinema.
Isn’t play-acting wonderful?
Tuesday, February 6, 2018
See You In Court
You know us here at Wordplay—we try to take things in stride. Sometimes, though, it becomes difficult to say, “Oh, well” in the face of yet another run of inconceivable bad luck. I am now at the point of inflicting myself on the charitable organizations of Lexington. You may find it hard to believe that anyone with Wordplay’s credentials could be unemployed for so long—I find it difficult to believe myself. If I post one more update to Facebook about my job search, I run the risk of boring myself to distraction, but I continue to do it because I’m still looking.
I have had a number of bizarre things happen to me in my job search, including being told by more than one public library system that I didn’t score high enough on their tests to be a viable candidate (essentially an impossibility for someone with over twelve years of professional experience) and having someone hang up on me during a telephone interview with a university in Montana (true story). I have seen jobs I applied for and didn’t get either go unfilled or get re-posted several months later. I have been turned down by fast food restaurants. I had a temp agency all but refuse to take my resume (that was here in Lexington). I had another temp agency in one of the largest cities in the world tell me that they just couldn’t help me because they didn’t have enough job orders (during the summer, no less).
I was telling someone the other day not only how strange it is that I’ve been unemployed so long but how incurious most people are when I tell them—no one will admit to it being strange, or very few of them, anyway. I occasionally run across a clear-thinking person who shakes his head or looks incredulous, though I’ve also had people act as if I’m asking for something unreasonable in wanting a normal working life. When someone at my hotel said something to me recently about being a “special guest,” I had to go back and ask what that was about because it puzzled me. Why did they think I was “special”? I know nothing about it. I’m not royalty (any more than you are, I suppose), I’m not in the witness protection program, I’m not working undercover, and I don’t have anyone else paying for my expenses. If I did, I wouldn’t be in debt as far as I am (a situation I’m unused to).
It’s possible that something could still open up, possibly by the time I’ve lost all my belongings because I can’t pay the storage fees or have ruined my health by catching the flu or something worse in a homeless shelter. I remain positive because that’s the way I prefer to be, despite being giving absolutely no reason to stay positive by external events. I am occasionally startled to get a notice about the status of a job I applied for months ago, so who know, maybe I’ll be surprised one of these days by a positive response. It’s ironic that I’m right back where I was a year ago after all the effort it took to move myself and my belongings to Los Angeles (no job for the faint of heart, let me tell you). I’m not opposed to going back; I’m not opposed to staying here. I would like to know, though, why so many otherwise sane-seeming people persist in thinking Limbo is a good place for me to be.
I suspect this will all end up in court one of these days, so I’m prepared for that. I will tell you one thing. I applied again and again for positions here at the Lexington Public Library over the years and didn’t get a peep of interest from them, even when I was willing to take things below my pay grade. While I need a job (and have been reasonable in my expectations), I’m kind of glad that one didn’t work out. As a patron, I’ve seen so many examples of unprofessionalism here that I don’t know if I could bring myself to work with these people. As a librarian myself, I’m a good judge of that, but a blind person could see that there’s something wrong with a place where librarians think they can abuse patrons with impunity. I sometimes wonder if some of these people even are librarians; I kind of doubt it. If they are, it must be the case that they’ll let anybody into library school these days.
Another thing I’m unwilling to do is work for another law firm. Although I liked many aspects of my job and most of the people there, it did not turn out to be a safe place to be, and I’ve had my fill of that. (I do have some standards, a concern for personal safety being chief among them.)
I read a good book this week and was considering doing a review of it, so I may do that next week, if I haven’t caught some dread disease at the homeless shelter . . . or I may regale you with tales of life at the bottom of the barrel. It’s hard to say at this point. But whatever happens, you can be sure I’ll tell you what I think.
I have had a number of bizarre things happen to me in my job search, including being told by more than one public library system that I didn’t score high enough on their tests to be a viable candidate (essentially an impossibility for someone with over twelve years of professional experience) and having someone hang up on me during a telephone interview with a university in Montana (true story). I have seen jobs I applied for and didn’t get either go unfilled or get re-posted several months later. I have been turned down by fast food restaurants. I had a temp agency all but refuse to take my resume (that was here in Lexington). I had another temp agency in one of the largest cities in the world tell me that they just couldn’t help me because they didn’t have enough job orders (during the summer, no less).
I was telling someone the other day not only how strange it is that I’ve been unemployed so long but how incurious most people are when I tell them—no one will admit to it being strange, or very few of them, anyway. I occasionally run across a clear-thinking person who shakes his head or looks incredulous, though I’ve also had people act as if I’m asking for something unreasonable in wanting a normal working life. When someone at my hotel said something to me recently about being a “special guest,” I had to go back and ask what that was about because it puzzled me. Why did they think I was “special”? I know nothing about it. I’m not royalty (any more than you are, I suppose), I’m not in the witness protection program, I’m not working undercover, and I don’t have anyone else paying for my expenses. If I did, I wouldn’t be in debt as far as I am (a situation I’m unused to).
It’s possible that something could still open up, possibly by the time I’ve lost all my belongings because I can’t pay the storage fees or have ruined my health by catching the flu or something worse in a homeless shelter. I remain positive because that’s the way I prefer to be, despite being giving absolutely no reason to stay positive by external events. I am occasionally startled to get a notice about the status of a job I applied for months ago, so who know, maybe I’ll be surprised one of these days by a positive response. It’s ironic that I’m right back where I was a year ago after all the effort it took to move myself and my belongings to Los Angeles (no job for the faint of heart, let me tell you). I’m not opposed to going back; I’m not opposed to staying here. I would like to know, though, why so many otherwise sane-seeming people persist in thinking Limbo is a good place for me to be.
I suspect this will all end up in court one of these days, so I’m prepared for that. I will tell you one thing. I applied again and again for positions here at the Lexington Public Library over the years and didn’t get a peep of interest from them, even when I was willing to take things below my pay grade. While I need a job (and have been reasonable in my expectations), I’m kind of glad that one didn’t work out. As a patron, I’ve seen so many examples of unprofessionalism here that I don’t know if I could bring myself to work with these people. As a librarian myself, I’m a good judge of that, but a blind person could see that there’s something wrong with a place where librarians think they can abuse patrons with impunity. I sometimes wonder if some of these people even are librarians; I kind of doubt it. If they are, it must be the case that they’ll let anybody into library school these days.
Another thing I’m unwilling to do is work for another law firm. Although I liked many aspects of my job and most of the people there, it did not turn out to be a safe place to be, and I’ve had my fill of that. (I do have some standards, a concern for personal safety being chief among them.)
I read a good book this week and was considering doing a review of it, so I may do that next week, if I haven’t caught some dread disease at the homeless shelter . . . or I may regale you with tales of life at the bottom of the barrel. It’s hard to say at this point. But whatever happens, you can be sure I’ll tell you what I think.
Wednesday, January 31, 2018
Well, That Was a Mistake
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”)
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”)
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
