Life

Those Moments

Quintessential Guggenheim

The NYC public schools were closed this past week for the February break. I’m cursing this break when school is still in session at the end of June, but in the moment? Yeeees, so necessary. For the most part, the girl and I spent the week resting and ate half-priced-post-Valentine’s Day chocolate. But yesterday morning Husband needed to get new glasses, so Art Child and I went with him to help pick frames. Since we were going to be on the east side anyway, I figured it was a good day to hit a museum.

The Upper East side has been (marginally) more resistant to change than most other residential neighborhoods in Manhattan, so there are still a few old gems left to wrap me in the nostalgia of remember when. Like this one.

Almost makes me wish I liked egg creams.

Art Child and I said goodbye to Husband, I grabbed my camera, she grabbed her sketchbook, and off we went. The Guggenheim isn’t one of the museums we visit regularly, it is not one of the suggested donation institutions. Those types of museums can quickly blow a week’s budget. Eat before we go. No, we aren’t buying anything in the gift shop! No, we can’t go again before the installation leaves. The saving grace is that flat admission price doesn’t exclude any of the temporary exhibitions. If you’ve never been, the building itself is well worth a visit. All curves, you spiral your way up a continuing ramp to see what’s on display. Certain floors branch off to more permanent exhibits and/or smaller installments.

Every time I go I think of being there with Man Child when he was a little guy, an installation of motorcycles. Very cool, even if I still don’t understand why they were there. Mostly I think of it because Nerd Child was an infant. They didn’t allow strollers/carriages along the ramps, and Nerd Child was a champion puker–one of those babies where every spit up looked like an audition for The Exorcist– so Husband and I took turns carrying him while zig-zagging around the bikes.

The current primary exhibition is a retrospective, a collaborative effort from Swiss artists Peter Fischli and David Weiss that spans over thirty years, “How to Work Better.” Huge, the sheer number of sculptures, photographs, videos, and instillations left me overwhelmed at times. Art Child tells me I’m supposed to be. Some of it I really liked, some not so much. The first thing you see is the costumes the artists wore while making their films THE POINT OF LEAST RESISTANCE and THE RIGHT WAY. umm, ok. I didn’t take a ton of photos, I was busy trying to understand what I was seeing, but I’m glad we went.

Here’s where I love the tourists, they remember the views over the park are part of the intended experience.

In the Thannhauser Gallery there are an assortment of paintings by Picasso, Van Gogh, Manet, Monet, Renoir, Cèzanne, Toulouse-Lautrec, and others. Regardless of what else is on exhibit, whether it’s something I enjoy, understand or not, I’m moved and satisfied sitting in that gallery. I love Picasso, his paintings, his etchings, his sculptures. Not all of his work, he starts to lose me with swaths of his Cubist period. Does that mean I’m déclassé? Maybe just a peasant. That’s ok, I don’t mind.

One of my favorite paintings is there now. Sorry, I must have knocked the dial on the camera right before I took this photo, it’s way too yellow.

Woman Ironing, by Pablo Picasso. Can I say it again? I love this painting. From his Blue Period, there’s something about it that has always drawn me in. I don’t remember the where (pretty sure it wasn’t the Guggenheim) or when (I was a child, for certain) I first saw it, but I will never be tired of this woman. When I hear people refer to a work of art speaking to them, this is one of the paintings that comes to the forefront of my mind. Maybe I always knew I was destined for drudgery. And scoliosis. And shadows. Take a closer look with me, the shadow along her neck is delicious, makes me shiver.

Everything you can’t see in her eyes, but see in her curves and angles.

This was the first piece of the day that Art Child chose to sit and sketch. I can’t say what I enjoyed most, being able to sit down and enjoy the Ironing Woman, the girl sitting at the end of the bench and sketching her, or the museum visitors stopping to watch her sketch for longer than they looked at the painting in question. Perfect moment.

After we had moved on, and were back to Fischli and Weiss, I felt my phone buzz. A text from Nerd Child, frustrated and disappointed about a lost opportunity. No fault of his own, one of those life-happens things. Still, I’m a mom, which means through the life experience that enables me to understand the whys, hows, and frequencies of disappointments, my heart aches for each of my kiddos, every time they’re faced with one. In the middle of the gazillion clay sculptures I happened to be standing in front of a representation of Dostoyevsky’s The Idiot. I walked past the donkey to the inner wall of the museum and looked down.

Something had clicked for me, and the artists’ spent Rat and Bear costumes lying on the lobby platform made sense. Trying to make sense of a world that doesn’t, philosophical questions that don’t have a right answer–or any answer at all, dreaming about success. Yeah, these are the things we need to do, to experience, the questions we need to ask. These are the moments we need, perfect or otherwise.

Excuse Me, Your Fly is Open

Fresh off the dirty laundry pile!

I haven’t wanted to talk much about Trump and the upcoming election here on Mrs Fringe. Why feed the fire and all that. Or not, maybe if I’m honest, it’s because I was hoping to cling to my default defensive position of burying my head in the sand, thereby pretending he’ll go away. Surely Americans will come to their senses long before an election? Surely his blatant lies, manipulations, racism, sexism, xenophobia, and generally abysmal record as a human being will send him straight to the peanut gallery. Apparently not, heh. And let’s face it, you don’t come to Mrs Fringe for political analysis. I’m not that objective. I’m not that good with the straight facts and figures. As I’ve said before, I’m not that smart. If you want a blog with reasoned analysis, I recommend this guy, Benjamin Studebaker. (I know, not completely objective, but smart, backs everything up with facts, and straightforward.)

I’m still not ready to talk big picture, address my fears re who the GOP has put forth as viable candidates overall, but. Today I’ll talk about Donald Trump. First, a bit of background on me. When I was younger, I worked in social services. My very first job in the field was with a camp that served autistic, psychotic, and what was then termed “emotionally disturbed” youth. (I don’t know why kiddos with autism were in that grouping, it was a long time ago, autism was even less understood, and it was considered rare–well before the epidemic it is today.) In retrospect, it was a dumping ground for kids no one knew what to do with. I know of three who were institutionalized not long after, but I’d guess that’s what happened with the majority of them.

One of the campers was a teen I’ll call Joey. I don’t remember exactly how old Joey was–he wasn’t in my group– somewhere in his upper teens, already looked like a grown man, with limited verbal/comprehension skills complicated by English being his second language. Joey had an obsession with his penis. Every time he wasn’t actively engaged in something else (and often when he was), his fly was down, schlong out, and masturbating intensely, while shouting his catchphrase. Between his catchphrase and obsession, I’m guessing there had been a serious injury and/or abuse in his past. Obviously, for all the reasons, we couldn’t allow Joey to walk around masturbating all day (not least of which the injury he was causing himself with such frenzy). So in addition to songs, chants, directions and redirections, hoots and echolalia, the command of “Joey, put that thing away!” was a constant refrain. We shared the campgrounds with other camps, and the other camp directors and counselors were forever threatening to get us kicked out if Joey continued whipping it out. We smiled, nodded, made the right noises and then turned away rolling our eyes.

At the time Joey was considered harmless. The majority of these kids, and the adults I ended up working with, were “harmless.” I was passionate in my defense of these children, wished with all my heart I could protect them all, always. When one of the kiddos broke my nose that summer, I argued on his behalf when the director kicked him out of the camp without a chance for me to meet with him and let him know I was ok. I was so angry, so indignant I wanted to quit. It hadn’t been an appropriate setting for him. I didn’t quit because I also met my first autistic kiddo there. I was idealistic, young enough and brash enough to romanticize what I was doing, but I was good at what I did. The child with autism? I was over the moon excited when I was able to get him to play one round of duck-duck-goose after weeks of trying. I called his mother. When she understood who was calling and why, she called to her husband, “Magic Fringe is on the phone.” That’s what they called me, and thinking about it still warms the cockles of my heart. There’s no magic, though.

Non violent, these children and the adults they become are a million times more likely to be the victims of predators than predatory themselves. I just made up that “statistic,” but the intent behind it was a fact then and a fact now. But the majority doesn’t mean all. I did work with some people who were violent, on occasion a danger to others as well as themselves. And as I grew more experienced, and now as I’ve gotten older, I see the nuances I didn’t see then. It’s still heartbreaking, but not quite harmless to have a young man walking around hooting, yelling, and masturbating in public. The potential for danger; the potential for violence caused to him, by him, or to those just too close to get out of the way was real.

When Donald Trump hoots about immigrants, about building a wall between Mexico and the US, when he calls women “bimbos,” when he trumpets that sexual assault in the military is to be expected, when he calls a woman “disgusting” for needing to take a break to pump breast milk, when he says he would eliminate gun free zones in military bases and schools, when he says the answer to our broken mental health system is to find a way to arm more of the “good guys” to take out the “sickos,” when he calls for banning Muslim immigrants from entering the US, when he brays about plans to bomb the shit out of Isis (does he know Isis isn’t a country?), when he shouts that he will force Nabisco to produce Oreos in the US, Apple to produce their products here–while at the same time his clothing line is manufactured in Mexico and China…I could go on and on. The point is, when he spouts this nonsense, he’s whipping it out.

He has no filter. He isn’t honest. There’s a difference. With all the lies he vomits, it’s shocking to me that anyone, anywhere, perceives him as anything other than a dishonest buffoon. I’m also shocked when people talk about him as a businessman, how good that would be for America. Umm, America isn’t a business. It’s a country, made up of individual citizens, with varying needs and vulnerabilities. Trump is indeed a good businessman, if good here is defined by selfishness and the amount of money accrued. He’s so good, he was able to declare bankruptcy multiple times–wipe his debts clean at the expense of thousands of jobs–and still make money. He’s so shrewd, he’s got people supporting him who represent those he screwed with each and every bankruptcy. By the way, that whole idea of businessman as politician? We did that here in New York City, with Bloomberg. He fired those who disagreed with him (oh, those pesky checks and balances) and when his term was up, he changed the term limit laws so he could stay. Get ready to hand Trump a crown and scepter. You may or may not want someone you consider a “bleeding heart” at the helm of this country, but do you want someone who is actually morally bankrupt?

The very same things that make me unqualified to be a political pundit–lack of filter, lack of understanding of the nuances in policies, inability to grasp the ramifications of decisions made today for 30 years from now (it’s true, I’m a lousy chess player), selfishness and general hotheadedness–are what make Trump unqualified to lead this country.

When people cheer him on, use him as validation to let their inner racist come out, their not so underlying faith that women are less-than, their complacence with ignorance of how the world works, when they vote for him–they aren’t just turning away from nuance and rolling their eyes, they’re handing him lube and inciting potentially dangerous situations.

Put that thing away, Mr. Trump.

PTSD of Snow

Everything on mute.

It’s well documented that I hate winter but really, it’s just the cold. I never minded the snow, always figured if we had to have sub freezing temperatures, might as well have the beauty and quiet that comes with snowfall. There’s always something a little magical about snow, not to mention the throwback to being a kid, hoping for a snow day. And let’s be honest, if you live in the city, it’s likely you skip the bad part of snow–shoveling. (Unless you have a car and park on the street, in which case you’re screwed.) Sure if you have a brownstone the steps and path need to be shoveled, but it seems like most hire that work out. It has to be a LOT of snow to interfere with public transportation or cause any real inconvenience. Say, for example, 26.8 inches, like we saw yesterday. Even with that, we were warned well in advance (though we didn’t expect as much as we got, it isn’t like we were expecting a dusting), and it was a Saturday, no school anyway and many people off from work.

Look what we get in exchange, clean and lovely scenery, cool ice patterns, etc.

All good, right? Biggest concern dodging the icicles and avalanches of snow sliding off the rooftops in the days after the storm, as they melt just enough to slide off and hit the ground–or the nearest head. Except not anymore. Every step on the snow, every glimpse of an ice patch…makes me think of the ice patches I won’t see, how hard those snow piles are after sitting on the curb for a couple of days–or weeks–and flash back to my face hitting the ice last spring, when I fractured my everything. Ridiculous. I’m not young, but I should be too young to be literally worried about busting a hip. Should be.

Maybe I should just stay in and write. Winter has traditionally been my most productive time in terms of fiction. I think it’s the excessive heat pumping through the radiators, puts me in just the right stupor to lose myself in my imagination. Except. Recently every time I open the damned file intending to do more than read the few pages I’ve got, I flash on the mountain of rejection letters I’ve accumulated over the years for various projects. Dear Fringie, Intriguing story, great characters, thanks so much but no thanks and good luck.

Maybe I’ll just kick back on the couch and watch Netflix with Art Child. Mmm hmm. Remember the avalanches I mentioned? Sometimes they happen and you hear them during the storms, from winds blowing and drifts settling. They make quite the sound on impact, and mostly it’s just background noise, though sometimes it can be startling, depending on the size of the chunk of snow, and how far it has to fall. A few years back Art Child and I were home during a storm, and there was a particularly loud snow-muffled thud. It wasn’t snow. Someone jumped from the roof. Despite all the years and storms where those thumps were just snow and ice, now I jump.

Nervous staying in, nervous going out. I took the girl and the camera and went to the park this morning. I’m too damned old to be scared of boogeymen, especially when they’re decked out like Frosty.

Click on the photos if you’d like to see them full-size. Happy Blizzard, Fringelings!

: Perspective

: Such a pretty block, in every season

: Trees and shadows, the snow provides an excellent canvas

: The Pool is one of my favorite spots in Central Park, a little (manmade) pond

: The Pool was frozen today, though not enough to step on

: Waterfall feeding from the pool

: At the edge of the pool, where the ice began

: Poor swings, ignored in favor of sledding today

: I swear the mayor said something about keeping the fire hydrants cleared of snow.

: Who needs steps? Guess they’ll sled down to work on Monday.

: Remember when I said you’re screwed if you park on the street?

: Not even a blizzard gets between New Yorkers and their restaurant deliveries.

Daily Assault: Booby Prize Edition

A surprise double yolk for this morning’s pancakes. Because I’m immature, this made me think of cleavage. *insert snicker here* Because I’m an adult, what it did not do was make me want to reach out and grab the yolks with my bare hands to give a little squish.

I remember being little and admiring my grandmother’s cleavage. It seemed so powerfully adult, that hint of simultaneous swell and wrinkles. Of course, I also admired the way she could take her teeth out and clean them in a separate glass, her lifetime bus pass, and the way she could cup her hand and use her palm as an ashtray. She had her own ideas about men and women, which she shared through lectures equally generous and cryptic. As far as I could tell they boiled down to men were not to be trusted (outside of progeny–in which case, they should be lionized), marriage was a necessary evil–so be sure to marry rich, and fergawdssake don’t have too many babies. She was what used to be called a tough cookie, and I wanted nothing more than to grow up to be her.

I’m a blabber-fingers left-leaning blogger, which means I indulge in the not so occasional political rant. I don’t address every injustice I see or read about (impossible), or even every big story, because I’m exhausted and frequently too damned disheartened. Is there such a thing as blogging battle fatigue? Do I have the right to feel it when I don’t address all? Yesterday I came across this story. A few days late, because I’ve been busy rattling my pots and pans, sticking to the kitchen–barefoot, naturally. I considered blogging when I first saw it, but what could I possibly say? So I posted the link on my personal Facebook page, thinking I would just spread a bit of awareness amongst my three friends and that would be that. One friend replied with a statement about Republican men, and another friend replied to the first about the unfairness of the blanket statement. Fair enough, and it made me think. Not only because it is unfair to categorize ALL Republican men, but because it implies male Democrats are ALL more enlightened. Would that it were so. I woke up still thinking, and decided I couldn’t let this incident pass without comment here on Mrs Fringe. Because I’m a woman. And as a woman, I say without hesitation that this is bullshit.

The gist of the story: State Rep (NH) Amanda Bouldin (woman) wrote a statement opposing a proposal made by State Rep Josh Moore (man). The proposal is for it to be a misdemeanor for women to expose their nipples in public. Bouldin disagreed in a statement on her Facebook page, saying the bill should *at least* exempt breastfeeding mothers. The proposed bill actually does exempt breastfeeding mothers, but that isn’t the problem. The issue is Moore’s response (written on Facebook, later deleted–when will people learn there are no take-backs on the internet? Your Words ❤ The Internetz R 4eVER), where he wrote that Bouldin (and women in general, I guess) should have no problem with a man’s natural response to stare and grab when a woman exposes her nipples in public while breastfeeding. This all devolved in true internet fashion into comments from other men as to whose nipples they would/would not want to see.

I’m sure Moore thought he was being clever, perhaps even funny, a play on the “argument” that breastfeeding is natural. Cause, yanno, women’s breasts are really for and about men. Not babies, and certainly not women. This shouldn’t be an argument, a debate, or even an issue. What he described is assault. This isn’t a breastfeeding debate. This is about women; our rights to control and make decisions over our own bodies, our right to be safe. If his natural inclination is to assault every woman he sees, or at least every woman where he spies a bit of pink or brown skin, I am afraid for every woman he has ever or will ever come into contact with. I feel sorry for him, and every man like him, who believes they not only have no control over themselves, but it’s the fault of evil-original-sin WIMMINZ, for having breasts. And wombs. And vaginas. And calves, thighs, hair, lips, and ankles. No wonder we need men to tell us how to care for and hide our bodies. *sarcasm* More than fear and pity, I’m fed up. This man was elected. He represents far too many: right, left, or libertarian.

That he would even say this is an assault, a not-so-clever play at intimidation. When someone wonders what is meant by the phrase “rape culture,” this is it. This statement tells women we not only aren’t safe from unwanted stares, pinches, and grabs, we have no right to expect safety. Regardless of age, race, religion, or socioeconomic class, I’m guessing at least 98% of women have experienced multiple moments of feeling unsafe, feeling and/or being assaulted by unwanted remarks, leers, hands, or full body grinds on a not-so-crowded bus or subway car.

As time goes on, I believe there are fewer men who think along these lines. More men understand human rights, the need for equality in the social contract, fewer believe entitlement is a natural extension of dangly bits. Not enough, though.

Women have fought for and won many advances. In many countries we can vote, work outside the home (though not necessarily for equal pay), own property, hold political office, expose our ankles. But we still can’t do any of these things with a reasonable expectation that we won’t be groped along the way.

I didn’t grow up to be my grandma, but I am a tough cookie.

Falling Flat Like my Popovers: New Year’s Resolve

Guayaba-Manchego popover muffin things

In my defense, they still taste delicious. I’ve been working on this recipe, trying to figure out how to get them to hold their shape and not collapse. They’re like a Caribbean flavored popover. Honestly, I’ve never been able to get a regular popover to hold its dome either. I’ve tried preheating the pans, pre-cooling the pans, increasing/decreasing salt, warming the milk–but not totally hot, I don’t understand how people do that without immediately cooking the eggs before the batter is mixed. Nothing has made a difference. One day I’ll find actual popover pans in one of the discount places and see if the shape make a difference. I suspect it won’t.

Here we are, a new year. Once again I considered making resolutions, but didn’t. Funny, I don’t think I ever really considered making New Year’s resolutions until I began blogging. Something about it makes me feel like I should be making grand-yet-attainable declarations of intent. Hmmm. I’m still doing my yoga, albeit less frequently, with shortened sessions. I could make a resolution to blog more regularly, but that would suck the joy out of blogging for me. I’m perfectly content with my sporadic blogging non-schedule. I could resolve to get back to fiction, open that file I started and work on it, but I’m still not sure I want to. I’m a regular cranky old gal living a regular cranky old life. I could resolve to be less cranky, but less cranky = less snarky, where’s the fun in that?

I know! I resolve to figure out how to access and re-import the thousands of photographs that were on my laptop until three days ago, but are now trapped in this little silver rectangular thing that I’m told is an external hard drive. For some bizarre reason, I’m supposed to be happy about this–my laptop is now faster than a speeding bullet! more powerful than a locomotive! able to leap tall buildings in a single bound! well, maybe not that last one. Very nice and all, but I want my pictures back.

For now I offer this Gary Clark Jr video, because we all need great blues to ring in the new year.

Wheezin’ With the Season

Smudge Moon

It’s that time where I post about how crazy busy everything is, and how behind I am on getting ready for the holidays.

This year I’ve done absolutely nothing to get ready so far, but oddly enough I don’t feel stressed about it. Each year we pare down a bit more in terms of the number of gifts purchased, amount of money spent, types and amount of cookies baked, amount of decorating done in the apartment and size of the tree. Because I’m not a shopper, I miss the biggest sales more years than not, and by the time my youngest was ten, I didn’t even pretend I would go anywhere on Black Friday, enough was available online. And let’s be honest, hitting those big sales often means you end up buying more than intended, so financially it’s a wash, with more crap to figure out where to store on December 26th.

I am never spending three days making rolled gingerbread cookies again, whee!

Art Child is disappointed because I told her I won’t be making any rolled (i.e.: fun holiday shapes) cookies this year. I’m sorry she’s disappointed, but I’m glorying in my lack of guilt. I’ll make some drop cookies, much less time and prep required, and they’ll be absolutely fine. Instead of gingerbread cookies, I made a gingerbread bundt cake (used an oatmeal stout in it, freaking delicious!) so the apartment could at least smell like we’re getting in the spirit. Because she’s sick (always at this time of year, it’s the one tradition that will apparently never be omitted) that little missing slice is all she’s eaten of the cake. We won’t discuss how much I’ve eaten.

I probably should be feeling stressed about shopping by now, but I don’t. The wish lists are small and mostly practical. Nerd Child actually made a request (he’s the one who never asks for anything) so that completely removes the anxiety of trying to guess–knowing as I hand over my cash that I’m guessing wrong and spending too much–and we have to have him with us to make this purchase. He won’t be back home until later this week, therefore there’s 0 reason to go fight the hordes on music row, 48th Street. Not that there is a music row in New York anymore, most of the stores have folded or moved elsewhere, adding an element of maudlin “remember when” to the crowding.

If it weren’t for the fact that I once again forgot to factor in medical copays, I’d say we are going to be completely within budget.

If I can see this guy's rooftop decorations from my terrace, does that count as us being decorated?

Thank you, guy on the next street, for putting your decorations on your roof where we can see them even if you can’t.

Honey, I’ve Got Underwear Older than You

And I’m wearing them.

Maybe the bones aren’t as strong as they once were, but it’s still standing.

Over the summer I posted about an idea I had for a novel. Not exactly a new idea, it would involve a complete revamp/rewrite of a manuscript I wrote a few years ago. I lamented in advance about all the work that would entail, the time, the energy, the damned hope. I didn’t know if I wanted to. I decided to put the idea to the side and see if both the idea and the urge faded away or took root. It’s taken root, but I still haven’t decided if I’m going to do the work. A couple of weeks ago I wrote an opening, a few hundred words. Not enough for me to call it a WIP (work in progress). The night before Thanksgiving, I decided I absolutely needed to go right then to the neighborhood where it’s set to take some photos, so I can decide exactly where my imaginary house will be in my imaginary manuscript. Just in case, you understand.

While I haven’t been working on anything, I still go on the writer’s forum. I’ve got several friends on there, I’ve been a member for a long time, and there’s a healthy amount of silliness that takes place in the off topic sections. I still read all the threads directly related to writing, though I rarely post on them. So the other morning I was having my second cup of pre-dawn espresso and surfing the writing threads in an attempt to take a break from political overload, and I saw a doozy of a post. Actually, it was a few posts, and I don’t even remember what the thread was supposed to be about in the first place. Someone referenced a sad blog post they had read, about a woman who had been trying to get published for twenty years and was giving up. No other details given, I have no idea who the blogger referenced is, or any of the details of her story.

Imagine my surprise to see a response that said something to the effect of, perhaps readers are lucky she’s giving up, if she couldn’t get anywhere with all that time. Hmmm. Someone else wanting to know what she was doing for all that time. Someone else assuming her work must be poor. And someone else referencing that she’d been failing longer than they’d been alive, and she should try something else. Well, let me just say Mrs Fringe had quite a difficult time restraining herself from sending them to their rooms. (no, I’m not a mod there and have 0 authority) Maybe the time out corner, for 7 or 12 or 17 years. Or as I like to call the time-out corner, life. Again, I have no idea what else was going on in that woman’s life over the course of those twenty years, how much time was spent actually writing, or submitting. It doesn’t matter, because one thing I’m sure of is that writing wasn’t the only thing she was doing. Because life does happen, to all of us, whether we’re creative geniuses, no talent hacks, prim and proper accountants or women of a certain age.

Even though I wasn’t actually a part of the conversation, and no one was actually speaking to me, I was annoyed. Feeling sensitive, because they’re asking the same questions and making the same deprecating comments I’ve been making about myself. Some of it has to do with the writing, yes, questioning the value of my words and stories. How do you measure the value of these things, anyway? Because that, I think, is the crux of it for me. What is the value? If there is no measurable value without success, what is my value? Being a woman of a certain age without clear markers of success, feeling the negative pressure, maybe I’m supposed to just fade out quietly; stop making a fuss, stop dreaming, move out of the way of the younger generations, and for God’s sake stop cursing so much. Well, that last part is never going to fucking happen.

I don’t know if I’m going to write that manuscript. But if I don’t, it won’t be because of how many years have or have not passed since I first said hey, I’d like to see my words in a book, on a shelf, and be paid a dollar for them. I’ve been busy.

Living in the Real World?

City Streets

The internet is aflame with gun arguments right now, impassioned and extreme on both sides. On one site I’m a member of, I read a comment in defense of private citizens keeping themselves armed (without stricter regulations) to the effect of for those of us who don’t live in ivory towers…live in the real world…danger…needing a weapon…and a few cities were named, to make the point that (s)he was not referencing bucolic pastures or suburban houses made of ticky-tacky. That specific comment really struck me, because as a city dweller I’ve always thought of this as an issue for those who don’t live in cities. People living in wide open spaces who don’t have police and police stations within spitting distance, and of course, visions (fed by the media, no personal experience) of compounds populated by paranoid folks who don’t trust the commie gubmint. Obviously there are criminals with guns here in the city, law enforcement officers, and those who work in the Diamond District, but nope, I don’t know of any neighbors who are campaigning to keep legal arsenals.

Several of my online friends who aren’t American have been asking me questions, all pretty much boiling down to a blend of what-the-fuck? why? guns? and America?

I touched on this in my last post, but I want to talk about this a bit more, and hope readers will join the conversation. You’re welcome to agree or disagree with me, but no personal attacks or blanket slurs. While Americans have a common bond by definition, our experiences of life in America–what constitutes the “real world,” varies greatly, and that plays a huge part in individual stances.

Maybe you grew up with inappropriate jokes about those who lived in the Bronx. Or Detroit, or Chicago. I grew up with inappropriate jokes about places in big sky country (is that a nickname for an actual place or an idea?), where the men were men and the sheep were nervous. Shouldn’t we be past all that now?

You all know Mrs Fringe is a New Yawkah; born here, raised here, guessing I’ll collect social security here too. I ride the subways every day. I’m not wealthy, never have been. When I was younger, I worked in downtown Brooklyn, when it was very, very different from the artsy, hipster paradise it is today. Our office was next to the Brooklyn Arms Hotel, and every day on my way from the subway station, I’d feel the crack vials crunch under my feet while I rushed past the Brooklyn Arms Hotel (a particularly notorious welfare hotel) and hoped I didn’t get clipped in the head by something flying out a window–’cause that happened regularly. Of course, I wasn’t first starting my day when I went into the office, that was after three hours of “field work,” which involved walking through neighborhoods that weren’t part of any tourist attractions, and visiting clients who weren’t particularly happy to see my smiling face at 7am. Sometimes I was walking those streets at 1am, because of a late shift or an emergency–and trust me, this was long before New York was spit shined and spiffed up. I’m not trying to glorify life in the city or America, there’s crime, there are problems, and yes, I’ve had a moment or ten where I’ve been frightened.

I don’t live in the roughest neighborhood, it’s one that’s been “gentrified.” I’m not young, I remember when it wasn’t. Gentrified in (most of) NY means there’s still a good mix of everyone–race, culture, and economics–sharing the same block and the same public schools. Three kids, three elementary schools, and two of those elementary schools were classified as Title I schools. Title I means there’s a high percentage of children who come from low-income families who qualify for free/reduced lunch. If you’re unfamiliar, trust me, your income has to be pretty damned low for your kids to qualify for free lunch, and yes, here in Fringeland, we’ve had many years where our kiddos qualified because life.

On my block there are a mix of residences. Google tells me one brownstone is on the market for $6 million dollars, average for the block and neighborhood. Next to it is a housing project (yanno, the projects), there’s a small building that I think is a co-op (a very NY thing, you buy your apartment, but technically you own shares in the building, not your apartment, so everything you want or do–including the purchase of the place–has to be approved by the co-op board, generally a bunch of residents who take pleasure in agonizing over awning colors and making residents jump through as many hoops as possible), and there’s my building, which is part of a program from the 60’s/70’s designed to keep working class people in the city. One block over starts the SROs and a couple of shelters. Wikipedia says SROs are for one or two people, but I know plenty of families that live in those one room dwellings. Regardless of which address they live in, I recognize most of the long term faces on the block and immediate neighborhood, and they recognize me, too. We smile, nod, maybe say Happy Holidays. My family’s experience of America is quite different than that of the family in a brownstone up the street, and different again than that of a family in the projects.

Even if I only look within my building, there’s a mix of skin colors, ethnicities and cultural backgrounds; I know of at least ten different languages spoken within these bricks, twelve different religions, atheists–likely more, this is NY, we don’t talk personal religion all that much. Multicultural is a fact of life here, not a talking point, and definitely not something that strikes fear in my heart. So what’s my point?

We’ve got a lot of questions that need to be discussed and examined, but more guns can’t possibly be the answer. If your experience of America is different than mine, that’s part of what makes America what it is. It doesn’t invalidate my experience any more than mine invalidates yours. Let’s talk about what’s real, what it is to live in x city, x suburb, x town; talk about it based on real life experiences, not phantoms of what could happen based on shadows and misdirection. Maybe you’d be afraid if you found yourself on a subway platform at 1am and saw a few of my neighbors waiting for the 2 train. I’m pretty sure I’d piss my pants if I found myself faced with a bear in the woods. Hell, I run into the house when I’m visiting friends in New Jersey and a deer steps into their backyard. But my world is still real, thankyouverymuch. Real city, real New Yawk, real America. There have been quite a few times where I wished I had cab fare, but I never wished for a gun.

Table of Enough

Butternut Squash Risotto

Today is Thanksgiving here in the US. I was going to muse on why we still celebrate this holiday–a holiday that continues to glamorize Native American genocide, food waste, shopping for shit we don’t need, and canned cream of mushroom soup. I’ve posted about being tired of the tremendous amount of work to prepare and cook for this holiday for the past few years. I’ve said how much I used to love this day, but haven’t in a while. Yes, every year I swear never again, and yet here I am, one eye on the clock because the shelves in my fridge are warping under the weight of foods waiting to be cooked.

I was going to muse about what America means. President Obama tells us these hideous pronouncements of wall building and turning our backs on refugees aren’t what we stand for. I like Obama, I like what he stands for, and I agree that it shouldn’t be. But let’s be honest, America has a long history of fighting to reject immigrants and refugees, an even longer history of racism.

If you are someone who believes “freedom of religion” includes all religions, if you believe “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses…” is still valid today, this is an exhausting and often disheartening time. I still hear people moaning that only English should be spoken in America. Sigh. English is the language of the US, and it doesn’t take a damned thing away from anyone when other languages are also spoken. Not only doesn’t it take anything away, it’s a bonus. “Global community” isn’t just a phrase for Facebook and college admissions essays.

The thing is, sappy as it might sound, I still love the idea of Thanksgiving. The sentiment of it, anyway. I like the idea of a day to stop and pay attention to the privilege of enough to eat, having people in our lives whom we love and love us. Should having enough to eat be a privilege? I don’t think so, but it is. I know it is when I look at the photos of the Syrian refugee camps. I know it is when I walk down the streets and through the subways, seeing those who are homeless and hungry. My children have attended schools with classmates who live in mansions, brownstones, projects, and shelters. When you know this, when you know the kiddo waiting for their turn with the brown crayon right next to your kiddo, sharing Saltines and apple juice with your kiddo, isn’t going home to a full table, it isn’t theoretical. Yes, yes, we should all give thanks every day for what we have, but really, many of us don’t.

I’m not going to post a million Thanksgiving food pictures. Have faith, Fringelings, my cranberries are glistening in their zinfandel bath and the skin on my pernìl is crisped just so. I will post a few pics from the past weeks that make me smile, and hope they do the same for you.

Love when I luck into a decent shot of the moon.

This guy comes to visit me regularly, but I suspect he’s going to fly south soon.

zoanthid colony in the tank.

Happy Thanksgiving if you celebrate, and if not, happy Thursday.

Testing, Testing, 1,2, Oh, ‘Murica

Surely you’ve read about it, or at least heard about Ahmed Mohamed, the 14 yo boy arrested at school in Texas for bringing in a clock. Just in case being a new high school freshman isn’t terrifying enough. I’m not sure I can come up with any new or brilliant commentary on this, but I couldn’t bring myself to let it pass without mention. The school to prison pipeline grows ever shorter, while the concept of American public schools being about anything other than testing and warehousing grows more fantastical.

When we moved into this apartment, I dumped or donated most of the no longer used toys and build-your-own kits that clogged the shelves. But I looked into the boys’ closet this morning, and found this:

Contraband?

And now you know the truth, Mrs Fringe and Husband are subversive enough to have encouraged our kiddos to use their imaginations, and *gasp* learn outside the classroom. I would say I’m going to send the pinhole camera kit to Ahmed Mohamed, but since he built his clock using his brain, imagination, and spare parts, I’m guessing he’s advanced well beyond this type of thing.

I’ve seen many comments to the effect of “oh, Texas.” But it isn’t “just” Texas, this type of lunacy, this profiling, this purposeful stifling of children’s minds is everywhere. Test scores test scores, who needs learning? Or creativity? Or ingenuity? We do. Who needs to question school rules, what’s being taught and valued in our schools? We do. Who needs to speak up and say racism and fear has overtaken common sense? We do. The teachers in Ahmed Mohamed’s school failed him. The first teacher he showed his clock to who told him to hide it, and the second teacher who reported him to the principal. The principal who called the police. The police officers who arrested him, fingerprinted him, questioned him without his parents or attorney present, stated that he was passive aggressive because all he would say was that it was a clock, they failed him. Not just him, but every kid who attends anything other than the “elite” schools where science and creativity are encouraged. Schools with precious few seats where you either have to test in, win a lottery, live in the right zip code, or pay tens of thousands of dollars per year.

We send our children to school with the assumption and reassurances that the adults in charge will do all they can to keep our children safe. Safe, first and foremost. Before academics, before test scores, before athletics. This boy wasn’t kept safe, he was terrorized. My heart aches for his parents, trying to imagine what his mother must have thought and felt when she first heard. Anyone else remember being taught that old trick about principal/principle? The principal is a pal. Not to a kid who’s brown. Or poor. Or smart. Or questioning.

I’m guessing most of us have been faced with at least one moment in our lives where we made a decision based on fear. Those moments don’t generally result in rational thought and educated decisions. But yesterday’s incident was based on pure, willful ignorance and prejudice. It isn’t an honest debate about the advantages/disadvantages of high stakes testing, if it’s worth having our schools look and act like prisons complete with lockdowns, metal detectors, and bars on all the windows, or even whether or not girls should be allowed to wear belly shirts in school. If you’re thinking Mrs Fringe doesn’t sound impartial and unbiased, you’re absolutely right–because Mrs Fringe is a blog, for my blatherings, not a fact-checked news source. If only we were teaching our kids to tell the difference. But I suppose that would also be suspect; mustn’t question what’s on the screen in front of you–unless of course you disagree, and even then, don’t question, just attack, facts be damned.

I read something yesterday, a comment on a Facebook thread that referred to his arrest and suspension as science-shaming. WTF? This doesn’t need a pretty and politically correct label, it needs to be called what it is. Bullshit.

This morning everyone is gleefully celebrating the support shown through the #IStandWithAhmed hashtag on Twitter. President Obama invited him to the White House, he’s being celebrated and receiving invitations from the techiest of the big tech folks. That is wonderful for him and his family, and honestly, I hope they win a huge judgement in a lawsuit. But I can’t quite celebrate, because this shouldn’t have happened, and no matter what opportunities come his way, I imagine being criminalized for making a clock will shape every decision he makes from now on. Him, and every other young person who saw this news.