"Deep Thoughts": November 2008 Archives

This poor man walked into the bike shop this evening to ask about the "bike theft situation" in NYC, since he was recently arrived from London and was concerned about it. And I'm afraid I laughed.

But not so much at his question as at his accent. And not the way that sounds - all cruel and middle-schoolish. I laughed because the last time I'd heard those vowels and inflections and that particular lilt, it had been coming out of the mouth of the man I was sleeping with at the time, and it was saying very specific, very sexual things to me.

And I'd had trouble keeping a straight face then. I mean, it was sexy, too. It was just weird, the way he sounded as if he were asking me if I'd like more sugar in my tea, when what he was actually asking me was, shall we say, rather different.

I couldn't decide whether to be turned on or fall off the bed laughing. In the end, I think I held my breath to keep a straight face, and said something clever like, "Yes, 'more sugar' would be lovely."

Tonight, though, the whole scene came flooding back to me and I burst out laughing.

The Brit in the shop tonight (who looked nothing like the other Brit) must have thought I was ridiculing him, or perhaps that all NYC girls are insane, or something equally unfortunate.

It didn't even occur to me to try to explain - all I could do was remove myself from the situation. So I stumbled out of the shop, calling goodbye over my shoulder. And proceeded to laugh hysterically for about the next seven miles.

Later, watching a science show (geek!) on TV, I learned that Russian space missions used to be (or still are) equipped with a sawed-off shotgun. Just in case. I had this image of a Russian mission control director deciding what type of firearm to put aboard, and thinking, "Hmmn. We can just use this." It seemed so typically Russian, and hilarious.

It wasn't just the fact that they'd equip people going to live in cramped quarters in space for months or years at a time (some of these missions were for space stations) with firearms, but also the choice of firearm that struck me as funny.

Sawed-off shotgun, in my mind, is the weapon of choice for women with abusive husbands, farmers defending their land, characters in blues songs, and her.

I don't know if such cultural differences make any real difference, if you follow my meaning. I sometimes feel that I have more in common with or understand better people whose lives have gone extremely differently than mine. I wonder if there are deeper ingredients that are similar - not just in who we are as people, but in the experiences themselves. There's something, for example, in my own experience that I think translates into being at war in someone else's experience. I'm not sure of the exact ingredient, but I can feel it.

Watching Band of Brothers, for example, makes me feel weirdly at home in some way.

And there's also the fact that humans are human everywhere, but we find different ways of dealing with the basic realities of life: food, shelter, interaction, conflict, love.
I treasure the parallels, but the differences are icing on the cake, somehow. Piquant.

"I don't speak Fahrenheit," he said to me the other day. Yeah, and even though I agree that the metric system is a far superior method, I look at those Celsius temps and can't make them make sense to myself. On the other hand, I swear I am learning Spanish by osmosis.

The funny thing is, when I was unscrewing a lightbulb to change it, and the whole wall-mounted unit thing shorted out with that curious small explosion noise, taking the wall outlets out with it, I didn't think I'd find myself enjoying having to shower by candlelight.

You just never know, I guess.

I'll call the super tomorrow, I suppose - particularly since I'll have company staying with me later in this week (who may or may not appreciate that "living in the dark ages" look), but for now it's kind of preindustrial in the bathroom at night - apart from those most marvelous inventions: hot and cold running water and a flush toilet (and I pray those keep working) - and there's something romantic about it.

I have to light the candles every evening, and I get to see myself lit from below, in that soft, warm, almost rosy light. Makes me feel quieter, somehow.

And then it all went to hell. Just about literally.

A very dear friend of mine spent 20 minutes this afternoon face down on the pavement in handcuffs, being harassed by two police officers.

He hadn't done anything; simply walked out of an office building after delivering a package, went over to unlock his bicycle, and was accosted by them. They said there'd been a burglary nearby. They said he looked "suspicious."

I saw him a few hours later - he looked neat and tidy, clear-eyed and sober, dressed for his messenger work - not at all scruffy, not smelling of any illegal substances, carrying a messenger bag and an iPhone - the tools of his trade. The man has a master's degree, by the way. Not that that should make a difference, either, but I am just trying to give you the complete picture.

They threatened to give him a ticket for bicycling on the sidewalk (he hadn't even unlocked his bike yet), and he said Yes, do that. That way I'll have your badge numbers.

They let him go after that. Twenty minutes in handcuffs, face to the pavement, for walking while brown.

I don't have a picture for you - I'm sorry. But I do have a vision.

First, you need to know something about me that I haven't ever discussed here. I stay out of politics. I don't read newspapers and I don't watch TV news. That CNN theme that's playing on my television right now has never before been played here.

I don't normally think of myself as being a cynic, or even much of a skeptic, but in this one area of life, there's no denying it. I'm very, very distrustful of politicians, and I don't put much stock in that whole area of life. I feel that my energies are better devoted to other pursuits - to creating art, to living my life close to the center of where I feel that truth, the big truth, the grand capital-T truth might dwell.

But.

Tonight I ran into a neighbor while I was bringing my bike inside, and he invited me to join them in a small election party across the way. And I said yes.

And I watched, heart in my hands, for two hours, while the numbers rolled in.

I'd watched exactly ten minutes of a single speech Obama had made, months ago, during one of the debates, and that only because a friend had urged me to see it, just to see how the man speaks - to see his capacity to be believable, to be earnest, and articulate, and to dream big dreams aloud and dare to try and bring his listeners with him.

My friend was right, and I was startled by it, but still I turned off the television after a few minutes, because I don't follow politics.

But.

Tonight when the Rev. Jesse Jackson burst into tears, I did too.

And when our new president-elect spoke, I listened to everything he said, carefully, and I watched his face as he said it, his intelligent, earnest expression, his brave hopefulness, his belief.

I was impressed by his humanness. By his grasp of the need to be straight with us, and with himself, about the magnitude of what he's taking on. About the mess we're in, the whole damned planet of us, in some ways. And by his seeming understanding of how badly we all need to believe that we can do better. And by his excitement about trying to make it all happen, as best he can - one man and a team of workers.

And I felt something weird, something unexpected. I trusted him. I believed him. I don't know if he can do it, but I believe he will really try. And I trust his intelligence, and his understanding of his humanity, the limitations of that and the possibilities of that. For the first time in a long time - maybe ever, I feel like we're in good hands.

Not because he's perfect, but precisely because he isn't. He's highly intelligent; he will be able to figure things out. He has depth. He understands. And he will learn.

And watching, I felt the cynicism I didn't know I had draining out of me like venom leaving a wound. Hope, indeed.