Ten Things You Don’t Know About Me
Hi there. I was tagged by Karen Kilbane in her fabulous “Ten Things You Don’t Know About Me” post, and so here I am, with, perhaps, ten things you don’t know about me.
- I am inundated with things I don’t want, but the mere idea of letting them go shortens my breath. These are the things I inherited. The broken dining room table, the chafed and worn buffets, both of them, the horizontal one against the wall in my small dining room, the tall cabinet-style one in my living room where my “office” should be. A broken printer is perched precariously on top, alongside a trailing plant that’s seen better days and a stack of cookbooks. When I do let things go, like the broken, Victorian, wicker, octagon table I let bulky waste pick up a few years ago, I am seized intermittently, relentlessly, and apparently interminably with doubt and regret. I see it in my mind’s eye being held aloft by a burly, gloved sanitation worker and tossed effortlessly into the maw of the truck. I hear the wood splintering as the steel press compacts it. I am beset with grief and regret.
- I have a difficult relationship with money. I both desire and eschew it. I disdain those who have heaps of it, but know I’d delight in spending it. I’d remodel my kitchen and bathroom, for example, and do it right. I’d buy marble countertops, pretty new windows, and the best, all-wood cabinets money can buy. I swing between ascetic saving and profligate spending. I’m penny-wise and pound-foolish. I’m ashamed of the time I fought with my ex over buying a dollhouse for my daughter. He said we couldn’t afford it, and he was right. We could not afford a new dollhouse. Instead of being humble and smart and finding a precious, used dollhouse that would be even better than the new, as I now know, I made the conflict be about his inability to support us. Thanks to savvy savers who have made it hip to be frugal (think Mr. Money Mustache), I now link frugality with responsible stewardship of the planet as it becomes increasingly clear that the cycle of production, consumption, and waste is decimating us and our life source. Viewing it as a moral imperative helps. Frugality has even become something of a game. I’m lit with adrenalin at finding a $30 bottle of Semillon for $4 at Grocery Outlet. I still wonder if I have too much money (of course I do) or not enough (of course I don’t). It’s of course a matter of perspective. I’d like to worry less about money. I’d like to be able to pay for my kids’ college education. I’d like to take them to see the world, to not be panicked at Christmas, to avoid being flat-broke in January. I’d like to hire a talented gardener and a tree pruner. And yet, not being able to do these things is — I’m pretty sure — good for me. It’s good for me to take baby steps (as much as I struggle and resist) toward self-reliance. I’m learning. It’s a long road.
- I roast and or boil a chicken every week. I also make chicken soup from the bones every week, and have for years. I eat the liver from inside the chicken, sauteeing it in foaming, salted butter in a little cast-iron pan just its size. Or, I used to. I resent, very much, the fact that the gizzards, neck, heart, and liver can no longer be found in my grocery store-chickens. I feel cheated. I miss my ritual. Listening to KCSM’s Jeff Bridges announce the Jazz Oasis songs in a sonorous croon. Pouring a 1/3 glass of cold white wine to enjoy with my secret, pre-dinner, sauteed liver. Calling up the stairs to my two teens, “Guys, do you want some chicken liver?” Hearing their predictable shrieks of disgust in reply. Feeling the smile on my face.
- My mom used to buy my school clothes. All of them. Occasionally she asked me what I thought about something she’d picked out, but I don’t recall ever speaking up for myself, or if I did, her listening. I learned early to accept the process as we weaved through racks of back-to-school clothes at JC Penny or Macy’s. I was afraid of her anger. Of her criticism. Of her opinion of me. It was easier to say, “Okay.” This is why, in fifth grade when all of the girls in my class got to wear jeans, I wore “darling” skirts with giraffes printed on them, yellow turtlenecks, knee highs, and patent leather Mary Janes or Oxfords. I’m sure I looked great. My mom had great taste. But these clothes were too young for me. I was a pariah in school. I hid in the library, a hopeless goon. Most people simply ignored me. I wasn’t bullied, except once when Cecileigh Coors (yes, that Coors) confronted me on the cement playground near the tetherball court. “What’s that around your neck?” “A necklace,” I answered. “Right. What does it say?” “It says ‘Christy’ in Arabic,” I answered. “That’s so stupid!” she proclaimed. I was stunned, confused, and ashamed. I hadn’t realized the gold necklace my father had brought me from Saudi Arabia was stupid.
- When I was little, I was terrified of the stick monster. Every night, as I lay in bed, I could hear him plodding ominously down the sidewalk outside our house, striking the ground heavily with his stick as he approached. Sometimes the hollow, rhythmic sound seemed to come from the corner, sometimes right in front of the house. Blue light from the moon and the street lamps filtered through sheer white curtains embroidered with daisies in green and orange yarn. I called to my father. He sat on the edge of my bed and listened, but could not hear the monster. I imagined the Stick Monster sidling along the tall hedge on the opposite side of the street, obscured by a shawl and the cover of night. My father offered suggestions for what it might be. He was never able to assuage my fears, but he took them seriously.
- When I was a child, my mother read to us once or twice a year. These momentous occasions occurred at Halloween and/or Christmas. I remember books for both holidays. She’d disappear into her dressing room, open her closet door, and reach up to a shelf for two or three holiday-themed books. The books seemed magical. They were imbued with a special quality. They smelled good. The pages crackled when she turned them. The pictures were bright and mesmerizing. She’d sit up in her bed, lean against the pillow, cross her pretty legs at the ankles. We’d gather around her, slightly embarrassed, not sure how to behave. We didn’t want to rock the boat, set her off, make her “chastise” us. We lapped up this time with our mother, but we didn’t dare lean against her, snuggle, or any such thing. We were careful not to annoy her. We knew we were on thin ice.
- I once hitched a ride on a freight train just like hobo. I was gaga over a new guy named David. He had dark hair and freckles and the lanky frame of a stoner or musician. He was in fact a guitarist and songwriter. He lived in a warehouse with a pool table in West Oakland before West Oakland was hip, and I liked him more than he liked me. He told me so, and I slinked off to lick my wounds. But before that, he invited me to hop a train with him. We clambered up a little ladder attached to the side of a coal car at Jack London Square. It was late afternoon. I cleared the edge and dropped to the bottom of the car amid a cloud of black dust. We sat shoulder to shoulder. When we’d cleared the city, I found a foothold and popped my head over the edge of the car. Beside the track, I glimpsed a hut about as big as a doghouse. A man ducked out, buttoning his pants as he straightened up. The sky was dazzled with pink-streaked clouds. The wheels clacked and squealed, the wind assailed my face. Long shadows lit golden fields and purpled Fremont Peak. It was exhilarating. We went to San Jose and back. It was incredibly dangerous. It was cold on the way back, and dark. I was exhausted. When we got back to Jack London Square, we were ravenous. We dipped in to the first diner we saw. It was only after we’d scooted into a narrow, vinyl-clad booth that I realized we were covered in coal dust, including our faces and arms, just like Mary Poppins’ chimney sweep pals.
- When I was ten years old, I moved with my family to Jeddah, and then Yanbu, Saudi Arabia. It was March of 1979. I had to leave my cat Frosty locked in the bathroom. We left our Dalmatian, Dandy, with our maid Dorothy Goodjoint, who was supposed to manage the movers and the storage unit but robbed us instead with the help of her boyfriend Jerome. The flight was interminable. We had 36 pieces of luggage. The song “Sailing” by Christopher Cross had just been released and played incessantly on the headphones on the PanAm flight. We arrived at night. It was dark, and when the doors of the plane opened, the cabin was filled with hot, wet air that smelled sweet. I gulped this air, I was charmed by this air, amazed by this air, by the velvet feeling of it and the heady aroma. The desert. We made our way through the airport which was for some reason covered in sleeping men in white and brown robes with red and white-checked keffiyehs. We stepped gingerly to avoid harming or stumbling over them. We caught a “taxi,” a white pickup truck decorated with brightly painted iron which wound round the truck bed where us kids and the luggage were placed. We sped through the streets of Jeddah, silky air caressing my face and blowing back my hair as dissonant Arabic pop music blared from the radio in front. We lived in an “American compound,” where an 18-year-old boy named Brian Boyd also lived. He had a harmonica and constantly played Supertramp songs by the pool, and they were beautiful, and they endeared me to Supertramp forever. He also had a flat, tan belly, dark tousled hair, chiseled features, and a warm, infectious laugh. I fell madly in love with him, my first crush on a real person. My previous, very painful crush was on Christopher Reeve, aka, Superman. Sometimes Brian caught and threw me in the pool. I could have died with joy. The Ayatollah was returned to Iran in November of that year, and 63 Americans were taken hostage in the American Embassy in Tehran. My father listened to BBC loud in the living room at all hours, and we had an escape route mapped out in case we needed it, involving a boat in a harbor on the Red Sea. On the weekends, we snorkeled in the sharm (the bay), where the stark monotony of massive gold sand dunes gave way to an explosion of life and color. My father speared red and blue polka-dotted groupers for dinner. My mother bought bread hot from the oven, the best bread to this day I’ve ever had. We went out for “broasted chicken” and to the souk, where tables were laden with mountains of gold.
- When I was sixteen, I had a boyfriend who was in a fraternity. He was from my home town. I met him at a New Year’s Eve party when I was dancing and got my arm caught in my necklace which broke, releasing a torrent of pearls to the floor. He picked them up one by one and returned them to me the next day, accompanied by a note on which he’d spelled out his entire given name and a phone number. I called. I was in tenth grade. He was a sophomore at UC Berkeley, living in the Sigma Chi fraternity. One night, as I waited for him, his “brothers” offered me beer. I drank a lot of it. When it became clear my boyfriend wasn’t returning, I got unsteadily to my feet to go. A “brother” kindly offered to walk me to the bus stop. I accepted. Instead, he walked me to the football field, which was dark and empty. There, he positioned me against a cement wall. I protested feebly. Before I knew it, I was on my back. I gave him the benefit of the doubt and tried to explain. I thought I must have sent the wrong signal. I didn’t flirt with him, but maybe he thought I had. When he persisted, I did the calculus. I could fight and possibly get hurt or worse, or submit and get it over with as quickly as possible. I opted for the latter and blamed myself for years. I didn’t realize how truly compromised I had been until I ran into him four years later and was overwhelmed by an onslaught of fear, shame, rage, and horror.
- I was born in San Francisco and raised in a tony community called Piedmont across the bay. I have lived in Oakland, a storied city which encircles Piedmont, since I was 17. That makes me a local in a place where there aren’t many of those. I witnessed several failed attempts by Oakland to refurbish its downtown and its image. When the current renaissance began, we were happy for Oakland. Now, “gentrification” is transforming the city at high velocity, mowing down history, opposition, and those who can’t keep up. Those not fortunate enough to own their properties are being pushed out to the Sacramento River delta, and homes in “the ‘hood” are now commonly listed upwards of $600,000 and after bidding wars sell for a lot more. Oakland is one of the most ethnically diverse places in the country to live. A couple of years ago, I happened upon a Hmong family roasting a sheep’s head on a grill in one of our beautiful redwood groves. A bag of goat shins with hoofs and hair still attached sat at the base of the grill awaiting their turn. When I walk around Lake Merritt, a heart-shaped tidal lagoon in the center of the city, I commonly hear a wide array of languages spoken. As a person who loves to travel but lacks budget for it, I feel I can set out and “travel” right here, poking into Chinese medicine stores with fabulous, maze-like Ginseng roots hanging from the ceiling and cafes with dim sum steaming from rolling carts. I can get authentic Jamaican jerk chicken and cassava cakes or Korean bar-be-que and spicy kimchi any time. Lao, Burmese, Afghan, or Nigerian dinners are a stone’s throw away. I’m just hoping we can keep it this way as waves of wealthy tech workers roll in.
