8/24/2002

Adventures in a changing neighborhood, part something:

I am Sarah, destroyer of surveys.

My first clue was that she asked for "Sarah Hersild." It was a follow-up on a survey I'd done a year ago (had I?) on attitudes toward the neighborhood, crime and police. Did I think the neighborhood had gotten better or worse? (Better) Am I more or less afraid on the streets? (About the same) Are there there places I won't go day or night (There's no place I won't go during the day, but I'm not likely to wander around the park by myself at night.)

Then: Have you ever been unfairly stopped by the police because of your race? Um, no -- I'm the last person who would get stopped. Huh? Look, I'm a white chick in a Puerto Rican neighborhood -- the police love me. I could probably be schlepping several pieces of electronic equipment down the street and they'd just make sure I got home safely.

"Oh, you're white You're one of the reasons they say the neighborhood is getting better. I don't think so, though."

I don't think so either -- sort of. The mere presence of white people doesn't turn Humboldt Park into Lincoln Park. There are more than enough white criminals and gang-bangers and everything else to go around.

But...when Wendy said she noticed three separate groups of white Hip-Young-Things walking down our street, I saw it as the proverbial Good Sign. The number of your basic tattooed, pierced, grungy 20-something-Artist-types at the local diner is another Good Sign. Would I feel the same way about a group of Hispanic Hip-Young-Things? Probably not. So why are tattooed grungy white people inherently benign or unthreatening when Hispanic people with tattoos are scary?

I guess part of it is the bellwether effect: Hey, there are white folks who think it's ok to live here -- it must be getting better! And to an extent, that's true. There's no way in hell I would have chosen to live here 10 years ago, or even five years ago, when drive-bys and gang shootings were common. And this is becoming a neighborhood that people are choosing to live in. That's great.

So what if it were a bunch of Hispanic yuppie-types who were buying up houses here? Would it have the same "on-the-verge-of-being-hip" neighborhood cachet? If it were black and Hispanic artists and musicians who were hanging out -- would that be a Good Sign also? I don't know.

I want this neighborhood to be safe and friendly for everyone -- and that includes the people who have lived here all their lives. But as the neighborhood gets better -- or at least whiter -- they're more likely to have problems with the police. Yeah, I do think the police stop Hispanics more than white people here. I do think you're much more likely to be harassed if your a young Hispanic male than an adult white female. I don't think it's fair or justified. But... let's face it, there aren't any white gang-bangers here. (They'd never survive.) For the most part, the white folks who live here do so because they could afford to buy a house or because they were making an investment or something. And that makes them less likely to be desperate enough to commit a crime -- right?

But aren't there plenty of Hispanic people here who moved in for the same reason? And they have to deal with suspicion and harassment that I don't, because, on a superficial level, they look like they could be a gang-banger -- i.e., they look like the folks who had little or no choice but to live here even when gang-banging was rife. Therefore, on a really oversimplified level, to be Hispanic is to be suspicious. But that's bullshit. Ridiculous. Insulting to everyone who lives here, white, black or Hispanic. Not something I believe or endorse or would put up with.

But... walking past a group of white guys at night probably wouldn't make me as edgy as walking past a group of black or Hispanic guys at night in this neighborhood.

So what does this mean? Am I as much part of the problem as part of the solution?

Ain't white liberal guilt fun?

8/22/2002

Newton responds (somewhat huffily) again:

Well if you want to take domestic advice from a wine-drinking pet-owner with white wall-to-wall carpeting, I suppose you could listen to Lotti...
Well then. That's us told.

It is within the realm of possibility that this whole "lack of human contact" thing might eventually get to me. I find myself gazing out the window whenever anyone drives by, and perking up when UPS truck stops nearby. Most of the time, it's not for me -- I'm not exactly in catalog-shopping mode at the moment -- but I'll trot downstairs if it's for Wendy or the Mormons. Of course, the UPS guy is pretty fun to look at, so that may have something to do with it.

8/21/2002

Sarah of Jane-and-Sarah tried to tell me that there was a difference between California Dried Plums and prunes. Well let's try this little experiment, shall we? Go to http://www.prunes.org/ -- the very first link that come up when you do a Google search on "prune". See the title of the page? Yeah. They're really different.
Lotti's contribution to the squalor debate:

I agree much more with Elaine than Newton on that issue -- Theresa the crazy Slovakian has improved my quality of life (and sanity) greatly. But given your financial restraints, I have a third option: Make cleaning a hoot by acting out your favorite scenes from Mommy Dearest! "I'm not mad at you, I'm
mad at the dirt." "You call this clean?" "Scrub, Christina, SCRUB!" ...Hours of fun.
Ummmm..... No.

And now, a note to Sunsweet: You're not fooling anyone, you know. I don't care what your PR people told you -- the whole world knows that "dried plums" are, in fact, prunes.

8/20/2002

Newton's suggestion for the squalor: Aerobic housework - treat it as exercise. Prepare to work up a sweat, go on girl - SCRUB THAT FLOOR! Oh yeah, combine two things I hate -- that'll work.

8/19/2002

My aunt Elaine's suggestion for dealing with the squalor:

The answer to the housekeeping tragedy is to hire someone to do it.The hard part is finding someone who will come as arranged and not rip you off in the process. Best investment I ever made. Housekeeping drains my soul. Some people have mothers (like yours and mine) who actually enjoy cleaning. It trained me to hate it as a totally repetitious and unrewarding activity. There was a quote in MS magazine years ago by a woman rancher who said, "when you clean house it has to be done all over again the next day, but when you build a fence, you can look at it for 20 years".
Yeah. In theory, I approve of this plan. As a marginally employed freelancer, it's just not going to happen anytime soon. All money that comes in goes to the mortgage account.

I am, however, finally tackling all the filing and such. It's much more fun to go through paperwork when you have a shredder.

I met Rob for breakfast this morning -- tried Wishbone, but it was regrettably closed. That turned out to be a good thing, because we wandered down into Lotti's neighborhood just in time for her to wake up. So twice in a span of three days I was able to say "Hey, we're right downstairs and coming up, please don't be naked." It's kind of cool. (Lotti may disagree.)

I had also done that with Jeremy, Becky and Alex on Saturday -- I needed an expert's assessment of Showgirls before unleashing the sock puppet version on them. We borrowed the DVD from Lotti, as she was preparing for her show. (Sorry, Lotti). I ended up bailing on Sock Puppet Showgirls, but they went. Jeremy's take: [it] permanently cured any desire I ever had to see the movie. I thought the puppet show was pretty funny, but don't think I could handle a live action version. It's a pretty hideous movie and I wouldn't really wish it on you.

At least, I wouldn't until I found out the prank you tried to pull, Jeremy -- Rob told me that you tried to bribe him for the access to this site. It's all being changed right now, so don't even try it. Harumph.

What Rob wouldn't reveal was who asked for the mock-me post. Yeah, Zeke, you asked, but you weren't the first or, apparently, most persistent. So who was it? Newton? Tripp? Come on, spill.

8/18/2002

Thailand is a great country. Thai script is absolutely beautiful. Thai food is scrumptious.

Thai banking policy? Boring as hell.
It was Very Special Guest weekend in Chicago. I knew Jeremy and Becky were coming into town, which was very cool. I hung out with them and Alex on Saturday, and went out to dinner. I was traumatized to realize that Jeremy and I have known each other for 20 year. Twenty years! I'm too damn young to have known anyone for 20 years! Except, evidently not.

I've talked about Jeremy's penchant for odd travel before. He visits places like Mali and has a Uzbek visa just waiting to happen. So we were talking about his next trip, and I mentioned Scotland. He can't go there, he says, because of the language problem.

Huh? They speak English there.

He's not convinced. Apparently he was traumatized by someone in a French youth hostel. The conversation went like this:

Jeremy [in English]: Hello, I'm Jeremy.
Other guy: Yoiu alkjer aldkjfgoin lkdfoiwldkg (or something similarly unintelligible).
Jeremy [in French]: Do you speak French?
Other guy: [also in French] A little.
Jeremy: Let's speak French, then, because I speak English and didn't understand your language. I'm Jeremy, and I'm from America. Where are you from?
Other guy [Looking at Jeremy as if he were insane]: Edinburgh. And that was English.

Doh.

The next Very Special Guest was a surprise. On Saturday morning, as I was working on this whole "get out of bed thing," the phone rings. It's Rob Palmer, he of M. Diable fame who subbed for me in this space while I was in France. "So, can I come visit this weekend?" Huh? As in, this weekend? Like, now? Yeah, he was in town for the hell of it, and wanted to crash at my place on Sunday night. Sure. No problem.

Well, no problem except for the squalor. I don't clean on a regular basis. I clean when I'm having a party or a houseguest. Usually, I have warning before there's a houseguest. Gah. So I spent much of Saturday and Sunday reducing the squalor in my apartment -- mostly pitching things and shoving bits of paper in boxes to be sorted through later. That practice was the main reason for my current squalor -- I'd just dumped out all my boxes of stuff that I'd shoved together before my last party, as I had to find a vital piece of paper. I knew I had it -- I just don't throw things away -- I just didn't know which box of squalor it was in. So everything came out, all over the coffee table and living room floor. Because dammit, I was going to organize things this time. Really!

Then Rob called, and everything went back into the boxes. Sigh.

Then the bastard decided to stay with his brother. His brother. Like some actual blood relative who was in his wedding (sorry, "wedding" -- I'm still not convinced Tami exists) (hi possibly mythical Tami!) with a fabulous place in the West Loop is more important that Sarah's House of Squalor. I cleaned for you, man! Well, I at least vigorously reduced the squalor. And what do you do? You throw it back in my face. Fine.

Still, nice to know your brother is at least partially as insane as you are. Scott -- you do realize you're doomed now, right? We know where you live (sort of), and we know you're at least partially an exhibitionist. Be afraid.

As for you, Rob -- and possibly mythical Tami -- you really need to move out here. We miss you.
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