# 127 - Columbia House Rules

Columbia House Rules

2/13/09 (#127)

If you’re as old as I am, you can probably wax nostalgic about Columbia House Records. If not, you will probably raise an eyebrow in disbelief to hear about it: “Let me get this straight, you had to tape a penny to a thin-cardboard postcard you found in the Sunday newspaper, transcribe into the card’s dozen little white boxes various six-digit numbers that corresponded to tiny images of the album art, and in return you’d get a dozen vinyl albums in the mail?” It’s true. Though sometimes, the Sunday paper insert included a sheet of little stamps, one for each record, so you’d lick and affix rather than writing in the numbers.

I loved Columbia House. Their newspaper inserts featured an improbably diverse list of albums, from Kris Kristofferson to Quiet Riot to The Captain and Tennille to The Fiddler on the Roof. I remember sitting with the multi-fold flyer at the kitchen table, circling the sure-things and putting little questions marks next to others, fifteen choices pared down to eleven, or ten, because Kiss Alive II was a double album choice and used up two of my picks. I loved it so much that I often went through the selection process even if I had no intention of placing the order. It was window shopping, but instead of staring at clothes through a storefront and imagining how I’d look if I could wear them, I imagined my burgeoning vinyl collection would allow me to segue from Billy Squire to the Talking Heads.

Of course, you didn’t really get a dozen albums for a penny. That was step one; steps two through seven involved buying six more club selections at regular price. The danger was the regular club updates that arrived every four weeks, each including a selection-of-the-month album that you would receive automatically if you didn’t return the enclosed postcard and check the box, “No, I do not wish to receive Donna Summer’s Bad Girls.” My negligence in returning these cards had me carting many an unopened album to my local used record store during my membership periods, but because Columbia House sent cheaply-made knock offs of the albums purchased in stores---thinner vinyl, plain-paper inner sleeves instead of glossy sleeves with lyrics and photos, double albums without the deliciously large fold-open centerfold---I was often rebuffed, ruefully carrying home my duplicate Cars album.

When my meager finances allowed, the card went off in the mail. The requisite “allow four to six weeks for delivery” was always brutal at that age, when a week was a significant portion of time (these days, they go so fast that my wall calendar is perpetually a month or more behind.) Eventually, the glorious day would come: I’d get home from school to find an oversize cardboard box leaning against the front door; heavy in the hands, I’d double-step the stairs up to my bedroom where I’d tear up the glued flaps and fill the room with the scent of cellophane.

I’d spread the albums across the bed, sifting through the titles, intoxicated with anticipation of sounds that would soon emanate from the turntable with the cracked plastic dust cover. No albums open yet, just laying the LPs side by side, admiring the artwork: Jimi Hendrix Smash Hits (the most ubiquitous album among my circle of friends---thanks Columbia House!); Led Zeppelin IV (or man carrying sticks, or Zoso, or whatever you wanted to call it), Some Girls by the Stones, the Pretenders, Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers and on and on. A thumbnail splitting the plastic protection of the first selection, the arm settling onto the album, and the comforting sound of the needle tracking nothing for a few moments before the music began.

I love that vinyl has become such a boutique medium these days, an indie badge of honor, at once modern and retro. I no longer own a record player (when it comes to new music, I rely on the kindness of friends, who dupe to disc) but along with the sonic warmth and particular audio characteristics of this analog medium, I appreciate the resurgence of cover art, where the operative word is art---I grew up seeing album cover thumb-tacked to bedroom walls; no one hangs puny little CD covers on their wall.

I miss that tactile interaction with my music, those extra sensual dimensions---the expanse of the 12” x 12” cover art, the whiff of the newly opened record, the physical ritual that preceded and accompanied the sonic experience. These days, we can consume massive amounts of music without ever holding the product in our hands ---along with radio, we have Pandora streaming from the PC, iTunes loading up the portable player, music delivered straight to the ears without your hands and eyes being involved at all.

There's no explaining it to young people who only know music as piped in on the Internet. Immediate gratification. Any title available in an instant. But to steal a line from AA Milne’s Winnie the Pooh, “Although Eating Honey is a very good thing to do, there is a moment before you begin to eat it which is better than when you are.” The LP is an interactive experience, more than a mere soundtrack to our day.

I doubt I’ll ever dive back into the vinyl realm (I confess, I have succumbed to the advantages of digital efficiency) but I like to imagine my daughter coming home one day with an record tucked under her arm, slicing the cellophane with her thumb nail and gingerly laying the album on the turntable, laying back on her bed, losing herself in the lyric sheet and liner notes as the music fills the room. Even if she doesn’t have the pleasure of opening a cardboard box packed tight with new records from The Shins, Rapids, Pure Country Gold and nine other artists, I hope she understands that things haven’t always been the way they are today. Once upon a time, “convenient” meant taping a penny to a little card and patiently waiting for the prize.

#126 - The Inequities of Santa

The Inequities of Santa

1/11/09 (#126)

"Dad, do you believe in Santa?"

My daughter asked that question a couple of weeks ago as we watched a Christmas movie, her eyes glued to mine as she looked for parts of the answer that might not be contained in the words. (I have learned not to underestimate the ability of a kindergartener to interpret body language and verbal pauses.) Such inquiries come each Christmas now, last year's couched in logic rather than faith: How Santa could get into our house since we didn't have a fireplace? I dodged that one by explaining that Santa only uses fireplaces when they're available, asking her to consider all of the people who live in apartment buildings. Santa has more magic up his sleeve than just the ability to get down a chimney, I assured.

This year's question was so direct that it caught me off guard. She isn't old enough to understand the improbable physics that would allow a chubby old man and an octet of flying deer to traverse the entire globe in 24 hours, but since most Christmas movies feature a character wrestling with this very question, it was inevitable that she would ask the nearest adult authority. (And since I do pretty well when we play along with Cash Cab at home, she seems to think of me as a good source for knowledge.) I made a face like I was giving it serious thought, and replied, "You know Sage, I do." She nodded her head, looked back at the television, and after a similarly contemplative pause, replied, "I do, too."

Within a week, my effort to maintain the charming myth of the man whose belly jiggles like a bowl full of jelly would come back to bite me.

In every household, Santa plays by a different rule book. In some homes, Santa brings all the gifts; in others, he brings only one toy. (In ours, it's the latter.) In some houses, Santa brings the most expensive gift; elsewhere, the most special gift. (In ours, it's something special.) We are trying to raise our daughter to be reasonable about her materialism, so while Sage scores a respectable booty of books, art supplies, dolls and games from her parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles, we try to keep the focus on the joy of getting gift surprises and enjoying the kindness of family rather than seeing the holiday as a chance for maximum ka-ching. This year, "Santa" brought her a lovely stuffed fairy doll that she had adored for most of the year, and she loved it. It looked like something Santa's elves could have made, which is a bonus for us with regard to keeping the myth intact. (I figure it's only a matter of time before Sage asks what kind of merchandising deal the North Pole has negotiated in order to build and distribute so many branded products. One of these years, the question will be, "Do elves make iPods, or does Santa hire contingent workers from Apple?")

Christmas was a wonderful day. The next day, Sage started seeing her friends again, and my wife heard the following conversation between Sage and one of her friends:

"What did Santa bring you?"
"A fairy doll," Sage replied. "It's so sweet, with beautiful glittery wings."
"No, I mean your BIG gift, what did Santa bring?"

My wife cringed. "Santa", she and Sage learned that day and again on days that followed, had delivered significantly larger and more expensive gifts to Sage's friends. Sage didn't say so, but she's a girl who is acutely aware if two glasses of milk are poured with microscopically different volumes---I'm certain these inequities did not escape her attention. Hadn't she been good all year? (She had, and then some. Her teachers regularly remark on her kindness and empathy, "the first child on the scene to help an injured classmate.") Santa had given her a sweet little doll, but her friends scored DVD players, video game systems, 10,000 piece Lego sets and other monstrosities. I expected her to report, "I do believe in Santa, dad---and I believe he's a bastard."

I don't begrudge anyone for giving gifts to their children, and I'm sure these gifts brought great joy to those kids. But as my wife asked, why does Santa have to bring the high-dollar gift? Santa has a workshop staffed by elves at the North Pole, not a factory in Taiwan that manufacturers Bluetooth-enable devices. It slays me to think of Sage feeling that Santa thinks less of her than other children. My wife felt it even more, coming home the day she heard that conversation and uttering urgently, "Forget this, I'm telling her the truth. I'd rather than be NO Santa than an unfair Santa."

It seems to me there are three options for us:

1. Up the ante on "Santa's" delivery. What the heck, this is America, what are with thinking with this "reasonable materialism" crap? We aren't going to save this economy with "reasonable materialism". When in Rome, consume like the Romans do.
2. Explain that Santa brings one gift to each child, but that some parents also give additional toys as "from Santa" because they want the child to feel like Santa loves them. But that defines Santa so strictly, and I don't want Sage to be explaining these rules to classmates whose families have Santa bring everything.
   
3. Kill the man completely. Yay, won't that be a fun conversation. I know she'll learn the truth someday, but I don't want that to be at age six. Yet is that worse than the smallness she must have felt to learn that Santa was far more generous to some friends than to her?

It amazes me how much baggage Santa left behind at our house. That was his gift to my wife and me. Thanks, Santa. I'd have been fine with a lump of coal.

I once attended a poetry slam where a performer from Washington DC spoke of when he learned that Santa wasn't real: He peeked into the bathroom one day before Christmas and saw his mom scrubbing toys, the Goodwill bag on the floor, steam and the smell of bleach rising from the tub as his mother washed off any evidence that the toy wasn't new. When he saw the toys under the tree on Christmas morning, "from Santa", he understood that Santa was a ruse.

Let me be clear, I feel very blessed: There are families where Santa doesn't visit (literally and figuratively) and I'm grateful for our good fortune. But honestly, it's tempting to toss out Kris Kringle and his ho, ho, hos as the benefactor of Christmas. I prefer the sentiment of Charlie Brown's pathetic Christmas tree thriving under Linus' attentive care; the people of Bedford Falls rallying to the rescue of George Bailey; I want "Santa" to be that mother from Washington DC, scrubbing used toys with hot water and bleach, providing a happy holiday with what money and effort she had available. That's the Christmas spirit that I want Sage to appreciate. That's a Santa I can believe in.

Though I don't know how I'll explain how a middle-aged woman from Anacostia who smells vaguely of Clorox was able to get down our non-existent chimney.

©2009 wpreagan

#125 - Another Father's Day

Another Father's Day

12/26/08 (#125)

I could hear my daughter's hurried footsteps behind the creak of the front door as I came home from work, moments before her urgently blurted, "Dad, I'm learning to play Scrabble!!!" She's six, and has been watching mom and dad play the game for her entire life, and now that she is actively reading and spelling, Sage's mom decided to initiate her into the game. It was obvious that Sage saw the invitation as an acknowledgment of her maturity, a rite of passage into something closer to adulthood. (I was also delighted to hear her first phrase upon returning to the game, a lamentation to her mom: "I wish I had another 'O', I could make 'zoo'." Ahhh, The frustration of not having one crucial letter for a big score---she sounds like a veteran Scrabble player already.)

Before I became a father, no one mentioned to me how thrilling it would be hear that phrase exploding from my daughter's soul. It's one of myriad things that no one ever told me about, because these things are both frequent and fleeting, the day-to-day deliciousness that makes parenting a pleasure. When I was younger and asked people how they liked being parents, their responses rarely indicated that fatherhood was worthy of pursuit. The responses were enthusiastic, but they offered unconvincing moments of evidence because it was the language of their life, not mine. Ever hear someone say, "When you have kids, your whole life changes"? I got that impression, because parents described a life that was unfamiliar to me. No one ever mentioned, and I lacked the foresight to imagine, that my six-year old daughter would one day lay "gland" on the Scrabble board and immediately defend it with, "It's a word. It's in my body book." I've had many great days in my life, but none better than this one.

I've come to realize that parenting is impossible to accurately convey. Non-parents are inundated with too much information, accurate and inaccurate, to have any context for processing it all. It's like flying into Tokyo and 20 minutes before landing, every person on the plane starts simultaneously telling you where to go and what to do and what to beware of, most of the voices in broken English with foreign words. By the time you land, you've learned nothing, you've simply been overwhelmed with mostly irrelevant information. (At least that's how I felt when it was happening to me.) My advice to the curious is not to ask everyone; just look for folks on the plane who dress a bit like you, maybe read the magazines that you like, and quietly ask, "Any favorite places in Tokyo?"

My friend Doug was the first of my close friends to have a child in our adult life, and I recall asking him what it's like to be a father: "You never know how much love you have inside you until you're a dad." Doug seemed to understand that there was no way to put his feelings into a context I would understand: People can love their nieces and nephews, can adore their coworkers babies, can revel in a talkative toddler on the bus, but in the end, the age-old adage "it's different when their yours" is astoundingly profound. (Despite it's common use as explanation for how one could endure the crying of an infant or the tantrums of a toddler.)

To use another travel metaphor, imagine describing a trip along the Columbia Gorge to someone who has never taken the trip. If you're like me, you'll mention the expansive view from Vista House, the awesome magnificence of Multnomah Falls, the delightful collision of quaintness and cool that is Hood River. These are all wonderful stops on that journey, and shouldn't be missed, yet what makes that drive wonderful to me isn't those items: It's the little fruit stand just south of Hood River that offers samples of their ridiculously delicious jams (blueberry amaretto is a favorite) and serves improbably fresh-tasting huckleberry shakes; it's the moss-enveloped stone of the guide rail along the old scenic highway that offers a momentary feeling that I am driving through the past, a lifetime previous, when this two-lane road was enough and the six-lane freeway below would have been a farcical idea; it's the miles of conversation with my wife, who after sixteen years together is still my favorite companion for that (or any) drive. It's these personal things that make that drive a pleasure, just as you have your own secret stops that make that journey special for you.

The same is true for parenting: It's a road traveled by many, but there are uncountable numbers of rest areas and detours and travel rituals that make the journey yours alone.

I'm reminded of the art of Jan Vermeer, the Dutch artist whose paintings transcend mere realism and achieve an accuracy that so-called reality doesn't offer: The bricks of his buildings look more realistic than actual bricks; the light through the window is so true that if you look long enough, you expect it to change as the sun in the painting slowly sets. To describe the subject matter of a Vermeer work is meaningless: The joy is in the details, tiny brush strokes that reveal a secret that seems to have been spoken directly to you.

What's it like to be a father? For me, it has revealed that the world is made up of an infinite number of tiny brush strokes; has reminded me that the milestones are nice but happiness lays between them; that Doug was right about the capacity of love; and last but not least, life is sweet, with or without that second letter "O".

©2008 wpreagan

#124 - All in Stride

All in Stride

9/27/08 (#123)

I take the same bus to work every day, at the same time, so despite my journey including splendid architecture, views of several bridges, even passing under the odd and intriguing Portland Tram, my reality is like that of everyone else who does the same commute each day: scenic redundancy is a fact of life. Sure, the National College of Natural Medicine is a great building, but except for variations in which windows are illuminated, it looks the same on Friday as it did on Tuesday. Since the physical landscape rarely changes, my eyes gravitate to more transient visual stimuli---namely, people. But not just people. Particularly, stride.

I read a factoid long ago that in all most cultures, all other things being equal, women are attracted to men who walk quickly. (A bit of information that briefly inspired me to adjust my gait to something closely resembling speed-walking.) The theory is based on primal survival instincts: Men who walk quickly have more energy, will get more done, and are more likely to be good providers.

This science came into my mind as I stared out the bus window one morning and watched a woman with a strong, confident stride navigating the morning crowds on Third Avenue. She easily outpaced everyone with whom she shared the sidewalk, yet she looked completely unhurried, as if her speed resulted not from effort but from efficiency, the sum of mechanical precision and natural grace. Our paths were parallel for a couple of blocks (a red light helping to keep the race close), and I was riveted: I could not see her face, her November clothing disguised her figure, yet my eyes followed every step. She turned the corner on Jefferson while my bus continued on Third, the rhythm of her stride resonating in my mind.

While I grant that, as that old factoid implied, I may possess a subconscious attraction for physical proficiency (if it’s true for women, it’s likely true for men), the lingering essence of this woman was her beat. Think of drumming as an art form: A good drummer can play in odd time signatures, cleverly massage the downbeat or perform complex polyrhythmic patterns, yet it’s usually a strong, simple beat that convinces people to tap their feet and wiggle their hips. Our bodies respond to certain rhythms, which goes a long way toward explaining why James Brown sold a lot more records than Frank Zappa. I think that’s why the graceful woman was so compelling to me: She demonstrated a simple, solid beat that perfectly accompanied the rhythm of the morning.

Such rhythms are uncommon in the people I see walking downtown. While the average American worker on the average workday walks with an obligatory sense of meter---without it, we would lurch and stumble like drunkards responding to the opening strains of Sly and the Family Stone’s “Thank You (Falettinme Be Mice Elf Agin)”---our walking, to continue the drum metaphor, tends to be full of flams and slippery downbeats, adhering to strict-time with the same accuracy that an all-audience clap-along follows the beat at a music concert. Our thoughts are diverted elsewhere, our eyes are diverted elsewhere, and our stride reverts to a one-foot-in-front-of-the-other autopilot, completely functional but with the time-keeping skill of the drummer in your junior high school orchestra.

In these pre-coffee hours, the downtown sidewalks feature a variety of walking styles: Shufflers, who seem as if they are not walking toward their destination so much as simply walking to the next spot on the sidewalk; Plodders, whose feet seem to be unfairly affected by gravity, their steps landing like magnets upon metal; Sherpas, whose gait is sullied by the collective weight of an inexplicably large load of shoulder bags and briefcases; and Tumbleweeds, whose inconsistent pacing results from being unwitting pawns to random neon signs and window displays, recognizable because the person walking behind them wears a fierce grimace as they try to find a comfortable pace of their own. At different times, I am each of these types (sometimes simultaneously) but I searched my muscle memory and could not recall the last time I had strode as fluently, as easily as that one woman did.

In high school, my friend Bernie confided his methodology for walking across a gymnasium or cafeteria floor when eyes are upon him: Recall the opening strains of U2’s “Sunday Bloody Sunday” and walk to that imaginary beat. Good advice---the song’s anthemic muscle and militaristic snare beat offers a perfect soundtrack to a strong, steady gate, and by keeping that song in one’s head, it naturally trickled down to the feet. As the years passed, the duties of that song as an imaginary metronome have been transferred to Young MC’s “Bust a Move”, which has a similar insistent rhythm but adds an element of shoulder-swaying strut. (Plus, you get to smile over lines like “every dark tunnel has a light of hope, so don’t hang yourself with a celibate rope.”)

I wonder if the woman I witnessed on Third Avenue has a song that she conjures to provide a soundtrack to her stride---perhaps silently singing Gwen Stefani’s “Hollaback Girl” or The Roots’ “I Don’t Care”. Or maybe she is like any good drummer, so thoroughly practiced that she creates the illusion that it’s easy. I’ll likely never know, and that’s fine: I’m not interested in mimicking her method; I’m interested in achieving her results, in adding a little more funk and a little less function to the beat of my feet. I want to feel in my own stride the feeling I had when I watched her walk: That her gait was not in rhythm with the world, but that the world adjusted itself to follow her rhythm. From the confines of the bus, it looked like a wonderful way of walking.

#123 - Badminton Fever

Badminton Fever

9/27/08 (#123)

Last month during the Olympics, I watched a ridiculously broad array of sporting events, including one particular day that featured water polo, soccer, badminton, basketball and diving, a mix so diverse that it felt like a marathon episode of ESPN's Sportscenter. The game that hooked me most? Badminton.

In the past decade, my only badminton experience involved an impromptu game at our neighborhood block party, an event that featured a level of play that looked less like Olympic sport and more like a YouTube video of a Blind Flyswatters convention: Birdies lost to house gutters and splashed into courtside beverages, racquets colliding with a disconcertingly brittle tone, and a tremendous amount of hilarity that fell short of "sport", or even "pastime", and landed squarely on "screwball comedy".

Frankly, it did nothing to prepare me for the spectacle of Xie Xingfang vs Zhang Ning, the glorious and fierce women who battled in the gold medal singles match. The back-story played like a scene lifted from a Sylvester Stallone script: Zhang, the aging defending gold medalist (an archaic 33 years old) who barely secured the last available spot on this year's Chinese team, versus Xie, the 27 year old Chinese phenom who entered the Olympics as a heavy favorite for the gold. The action was intense, the crowd roaring with delight on every volley, the two competitors leaving everything on the court as Zhang came for behind for a stunning 21-18 victory in a thrilling third set. (The only disappointment of the match was that it didn't conclude with the heroic "Gonna Fly Now" soundtrack that it so richly deserved.)

These women played with a strength and grace that enthralled me. Performing with improbably precision, the shuttlecock traveled upwards of 200 miles per hour yet rarely crossed the back line, the player's reaction time boggling my mind. It was like watching a game of tennis that had been spliced into alternating portions of double-speed and slo-motion action.

Of course, I wanted to drive to Target immediately and invest in my own badminton set. Neighbors would suspect I was training Sage to be a future champion, but the truth would be darker: I'd be training her to play so that I would have someone to play with, as my wife would be as unlikely to revel in the sport as she would if I asked her to---well, actually, there is no reasonable analogy; suffice to say badminton would be my hobby, not hers. Before rushing out to make the purchase, I decided to do a little research online, where I discovered a secret world of badminton thriving beneath the traditional sports radar.

First, I went to BadmintonInformation.com (of course!) who assure on their home page, "Looking for a Badminton Website that has everything? Then look no further!" It's hard to argue with that claim, especially if you've never seen another badminton site: news, tutorials, videos, glossaries, player interviews, even a badminton blog. (Posts are not dated, so I am unable to gauge frequency of posts.) One of the pages even introduced me to three badminton magazines.

I shouldn't be surprised that such magazines exist, since there are ample glossy mags devoted to cats, model airplanes, camping, space travel, and a thousand other topics with dubious need for a monthly chronicle. The site kindly gave a summary of the three magazines, ensuring that a novice like me didn't foolishly subscribe to the wrong badminton publication. My favorite quotation came in the description of Badminton Asia:

"...a relatively new badminton sports and lifestyle magazine"

A badminton lifestyle magazine? My head began to fill with images: Luxurious homes with posh foyers featuring marble inlays in the shape of a shuttlecock; badminton champions lounging by lagoon-esque pools flanked by a perfectly manicured grass playing court; champagne parties at trendy restaurants where elite players laughed and celebrated their fabulousness. In short, MTV's Cribs, but with Xie Xingfang replacing Beyonce in each photo. (Sadly, investigation of the magazine led me to their website, which currently offers a preview of their Jan-Feb 2007 issue; more sadly, the preview had no pictures of Zhang Ning leaning casually on a Rolls Royce.)

Next I visited BadmintonWarehouse.com, which doesn't claim to be the only badminton retailer you'll need, but should, since they offer more gear than I ever would have imagined: Over 80 rackets ranging in price from $9.95 for the Qiangli 5328 ("ideal for backyard play and beginners ") to an astounding $239.95 for the Yonex NanoSpeed 9000 ("realizes a player's dream--high elasticity and high strength in the same frame"), as well as birdies made with actual goose feathers and cork---for those who find the nylon-and-rubber versions too synthetic. (Though the folks at WhatsAllTheRaquet.com warn that goose feathers are brittle and often need to be replaced several times per game.) While I love the look of the real thing, the thought of fishing goose feathers out of the Bloody Mary that I left too close to the playing field is a bit unsettling---with the plastics, a quick shake and you're good to go, with no worry of contracting some bizarre strain of avian flu. (It would be just my luck to be the first-ever badminton-related fatality.)

As I continued to search, I became overwhelmed by the topic, imagining soccer-mom-style scenarios in which my selfish desire to teach Sage to play awakened in her an unknown passion that had to be fulfilled: Waking up at 5:00am to take her to doubles practice; driving her around the Pacific Northwest to compete in badminton tourneys; investing in a collection of $200 rackets because c'mon dad, you can't use a Yonex on an outdoor court if there's a breeze, you obviously need a Joobong for that circumstance, or a Winex if there breeze is coming cross-court (duh); PETA marching outside my house because she's sponsored by Golden Vulture real-feather birdies.

But then I imagined the pride I would feel to have her featured in a badminton lifestyle magazine, her growling face on the cover with the headline "Badassminton", and inside a smiling photo of her standing in her expansive living room beneath an enormous chandelier, each bulb ensconced in its own hand-blown glass shuttlecock.

Enough. I'm off to Target.

©2008 wpreagan

#122 - Hair Today

Hair Today

9/13/08 (#122)

In North Portland, the paths of the various public buses overlap, including the #4 and the #44. They eventually service different sections of the fifth quadrant* but travel through similar neighborhoods for the early parts of their journey, allowing some residents to take either bus. I was riding the #44 last week when we pulled into the Rose Quarter Transit Center, a hub for bus and train transfers, and as we pulled up alongside a large group of African-American high school boys, one of them looked in the window and remarked, "Damn, it's all white people. Let's wait for the next one." And wait they did---our bus pulled away without picking up a single rider. (It's worth noting that I do see a broader racial mix on the #4, as I often take that one too---unlike that young man, I take whatever bus will get me home soonest.)

The decision of those boys stuck with me. It didn't feel like a "racial incident" (as the news would call it), as we all tend to gravitate to people who look like us: I'm a blue-collar man at heart, and if I had to choose to eat lunch with a table full of folks in three piece suits and a table full of folks in work shirts with embroidered names, I'd opt for the latter---I have nothing against suits (heck, I ear a tie to work every day), but my experience has been that the salt of the earth tend to be more welcoming and open. Is that any less (or more) of a judgment than what that rider said that day? I don't know, and frankly, I don't care. What stuck with me was the frankness of his statement: There was no lie told to disguise the truth, just a blunt exclamation of why he wanted to wait for the next bus.

Courtesy of the 2008 political race, America has supposedly been talking about race this year, still wrestling with an uncomfortable history and the enduring impact of that history. Yet most discussions offer theoreticals and hypotheticals in a language that seeks not to offend.

The blame for this non-discussion could be blamed on the censorship known as political correctness, which allows a racist to adjust his vocabulary to mask his motivations, but political correctness has done nothing to tighten our tongues on many matters: Most people have no compunction with mercilessly lambasting those who espouse a different political vision, making grand statements of damnation with no regard to sensitivity. (Just listen to a conservative talk about Liberals---if you substitutes "white" for conservative and "black" for liberal (or vice versa), and it would qualify as hate speech.) Race remains the proverbial elephant in the room, the topic most of us identify as a significant issue in America yet few of us (including me) will discuss with the passion we display for politics. Is it because ideologies tend to have unifying characteristics while people of a particular skin color can collectively possess a diverse array of opinions, and thus a blanket statement about liberals is simply more accurate than a blanket statement about Latinos? Is it that subscription to an ideology is a decision while our skin color is involuntary, and it's impolite to talk about something over which we have no control?

I think the discussion of skin color in America could learn a lot from the the discussion of hair color in America.

The discussion of hair color, you ask? Unsure where to find the forum that is hosting such a conversation? I'll end the suspense---there is no discussion of hair color in America. As a rule, nobody cares what color your hair is.

This puzzles me---have you noticed the incredible follicular diversity that exists in our country, with every camp daily flaunting their differences with casual nonchalance? Blond, black, brunette red---and those are just the catch-all adjectives. Within the category of blonde, there are strawberry blonds, golden blonds, platinum blonds, dirty blonds, honey blonds and more, and every other color has similar subcategories to further define the nest of threads on our respective heads.

Yet somehow, we all manage to live in peace. No one complains about certain jobs being primarily filled by redheads; there are no events downtown that attract disproportionate and disconcerting numbers of blonds; when you're looking for an apartment, no one points at a map and says confidentially, "Just so you know, there's a large brunette population in that neighborhood"; no brunettes accuse other brunettes of "acting redhead"; I've never heard a teenager assess the riders of a bus and say, "Yikes, look at all the black hair---let's wait for the next bus."

Yet hair color is just another genetically predetermined pigmentation, a chromosomal coincidence that has no impact on our intellectual and emotional abilities. Hair color is an irrelevance because we have, collectively, made it an irrelevance.
With the exception of blond jokes (which are usually inaccurate---and blond self-esteem gets balanced out with the perception that blonds have more fun), we don't pass judgment on hair color. Sure, we all have our preferences, but no one at the office goes to their boss and says, "It's just really hard working with people with chestnut brown hair. I mean, I'm not saying their any different than we are---some of my friends are chestnut browns---but when you get a bunch of them together, it's like they're talking a different language." No brown-haired man wonders if their wife was having an affair just because their baby has born blond.

I was blond as a child, and my hair gradually grew darker, and I'm convinced it has grown darker with each passing decade, a crayoned self-portrait once requiring tan, then raw umber, then brown, until now, burnt umber peppered with flecks of silver and white. No one has ever called attention to this fact, never accused me of "acting brunette". My hair color is a non-issue.

Perhaps we don't judge hair color be because we do not have to accept out hair's birth color. Hair dyes allow us to slip incognito into another sect, so brunettes can become black-haired and blonds can become redheads and the casual observer is generally unaware. Imagine if we had that much flexibility with our skin tones, greeting a long-lost friend on the street and saying, "Wow, you've gotten so much more caucasion---last time I saw you, you were more like a mocha, now you're a vanilla latte. It looks good with that outfit."

I don't have answers, just questions: Why do we make assumptions about people based on one inherited trait yet disregard the impact of another? Why is skin-color something we are uncomfortable discussing, yet hair-color is something that doesn't warrant discussion?

I can't figure it out. Maybe because I was born blond?

* The Fifth Quadrant is an increasingly common sobriquet for North that amuses me for its embrace of the annoying disregard our section receives in the city---for instance, the Willamette Week continues to categorize its eating sections as NW, SW, SE, and N/NE, despite N/NE comprising nearly 40% of the city real estate.

©2008 wpreagan

#121 - The Template

With my daughter's impending ascent into kindergarten, my mother sent out a small spiral bound book called School Days, a chronicle of my academic years from Pre-School to graduation. It's a scrap book of sorts, featuring pocket pages stuffed with report cards and class pictures, each page printed with spaces to document the particular information that made that school grade the blockbuster year of life that it was---favorite subjects, lists of friends, and spaces for various other information that will surely prove embarrassing if I ever ran for public office. ("Mr. Reagan, I refer to the Additional Information section for 1974, fourth grade: Do you have any evidence or corroboration of your claim, ‘I am the Fonz’?”)

Perusing the material, I was fascinated to find that I was not at all the bright student I remember myself to be. In fact, the boy chronicled in those pages wasn't me at all---I never recalled myself as a stellar student, but as it turns out, my high school grades were awful: I would have had to put in slightly more effort to have achieved mediocrity. I have regularly asserted that Mrs. Murphy's senior year English class is what directed me to my later BA in English, but the report card indicates Cs and Ds with a note, "Bill is bright and very capable to do his work. However, Bill is lazy." I flipped to junior year, another English class that I remember distinctly (perhaps because Ms. Campbell could have stood in for Jaclyn Smith on Charlie's Angels), but more Cs and Ds. I was genuinely shocked to realize that reality and memory could be so divergent. (Perhaps I wasn't the Fonz after all?)

I was heartened by my strong junior high scores, but I attended three different junior highs and thus had no social activities to distract me from school work. Elementary school guidance reports were riddled with surprising comments: in fourth grade, a check mark under needs improvement for "practicing self control, open to criticism, gets along well with others, respects authority, accepts responsibility, ability to share with others, concentrates on work, works well with others, takes pride in work." Second grade, "a sunny disposition, but needs to improve work habits greatly," then three months later, "Has not shown any improvement in work habits---does not seem too concerned with school." (But I take solace in this comment on my language Arts performance for both second and third grades, I was praised for my ability to write an imaginative story. I'm just hoping that's not a scholastic euphemism for lying.

What must have been frustrating for my parents is the national testing scores. On every standardized test, from grade 4 to grade 11, I consistently scored over the 90^th percentile, often in the 98^th percentile. Apparently Mrs. Murphy was right: When it came to school, I was lazy.

I had begun the School Days book at my senior year and worked backward chronologically, savoring the trip down memory lane and boring my wife with my reminisces until I finally reached the first grade. I pulled the class photo from the pocket, and my laughter stopped mid-exhale. Had I been a cartoon character, I would have had to pick up my jaw with my hands and hold it to the bottom of my face.

The cause was the amazingly beautiful Amazon woman who stood in the picture. She wasn't an actual Amazon---in fact, she was probably 5'9"---but when you are the only adult in a photo of 5 year olds, the camera adds 30 inches. A moment before I'm not sure I could not have named my first grade teacher, but I found myself involuntarily saying her name aloud: "Ms. Ryan". In my mind, it sounded like "Rosebud".

What came rushing through me was a sense of puzzle pieces being rapidly assembled, bits of history linked where no logical connection was previously found. At that moment, I realized that despite having slipped from my radar for a few decades, Mrs. Ryan was the template, the model I had unknowingly used throughout my life to define what made a woman beautiful. I'm sure I had no idea at the time, but staring back my life, I knew this to be irrefutable truth.

Fissures immediately began to form in the foundation of my psyche. I have long insisted that my first definition of "sexy" was provided by the same woman who had informed many of my peer's fantasy world: Batgirl. Skin-tight leather, flowing red hair, a no-nonsense attitude----let's face it, Batgirl could have worked days fighting crime and nights as a dominatrix without having to change her clothes between shifts. (Lest Batgirl be offended that she could be ousted from the seat of sexual power by a mere first grade teacher, I feel confident that she still deserves credit for my affinity for knee-high leather boots on a woman--frankly, any woman.) Mrs. Ryan versus Batgirl---now that is a comic book I would like to see. (In the version I see in my mind, Mrs. Ryan would surely kick her ass. Her catch phrase? "Time for your lessons, Batgirl!") While DC Comics dreamed up a smart, provocative woman worthy of stirring strange prepubescent longings, at her best, she amused in two dimensions, a mere cartoon. Mrs. Ryan existed in---and thoroughly occupied---three dimensions. I once asked a woman who she thought was more beautiful, Lauren Bacall or Marilyn Monroe: "Lauren Bacall, of course. Marilyn Monroe is a kitten; Lauren Bacall is a thoroughbred." Insert Batgirl and Mrs. Ryan into that analogy.

Considering that I was five when I knew her, I'm aware that I might be revising history. But seeing her picture, it immediately felt like an ingrained truth, knowledge I had always had but simply hadn't accessed. Beautiful, yes, but what she defined is laughter and intelligence, two things far more attractive than skin tight leather clothes. The first-grade photo seemed to catch Mrs. Ryan mid-chuckle, probably responding to the corny humor of a flirtatious photographer who surely wanted to snap any old shot of the brats and say, "Okay, get lost kids, just a couple of the teacher now." I have always been partial to genuineness over affectation, kindness infused with honesty and directness, beauty as a state of mind rather than the state of one's face, and she embodies all of those things. (Of course, my mother is all of these things as well, so credit given where credit is certainly due, but I never pursued woman who looked like my mother; I can attest from that picture that the same cannot be said about Mrs. Ryan.)

It's funny to think back and imagine her having an adult life, with dates and rent payments and eagerly anticipated summer excursions to distant ports. For a first grader, the teacher has no life outside of the classroom---she is there as the children rush out to catch the bus at the final bell, she is there the next morning when they return to class. She is "the teacher", not "a person who teaches for a living." So maybe she was two dimensional to me then, too. But it’s clear to me today that the elements of the essential third dimension were under construction even at that early age, to be assembled years later from a forgotten blueprint long filed away in the pocket of a School Days album.