Looking for Home

Growing up I lived in at least 15 houses. I was born in Philly, then my family, which was very small at the time: my Dad, my stepmother, Marilyn, who we called Mommy, me and and my two younger brothers Dedgie and Danny, moved to the West Coast, and along the way lived in Albany, NY, Albion, NY, in a tent on Fancher Campus in Brockport, NY, a brick house on Oneida St. in Denver, Colorado,and in an Airstream trailer in the Rocky Mountains. We eventually ended up living in Bellingham Washington. I still remember the names of my first grade teacher, Mrs. Cronkhite, who was young and pretty, wore mini dresses, and had a blonde bouffant, and my second grade teacher, Mrs. Mellon, who was also young and equally pretty and had a brunette bob. Both were teachers at Columbia Elementary School. My parents were an interracial couple, and I was in an all white school, but my teachers doted on me, and didn't make me feel that looking different meant I wasn't as good as everyone else. I remember the route I walked to school, and that is how I finally found the house I lived in when I was 5 on Google maps. I confirmed that it was the correct address with a librarian at the Bellingham Public Library, who found my Dad's name in the phone directory for that year.

It was 1970. I still believed in the Tooth Fairy and Santa Claus. I knew all of the neighbors on my street.

Next door to us was a newlywed couple with rhyming names: Sandy and Randy, they had an artificial gold fish pond in their back yard, the "mean man"was across the street, the "fat lady" Margaret two houses down, she always let us run in her house and play in her backyard, and at the end of street in the biggest house on the block: the Thompson family. They had 8 kids. I thought it would be really neat if we had big family too. I longed to have a sister, and more playmates. They seemed to have a lot of fun at their house, and my parents were good friends with them. I remember some of their children's names: Heidi, Valerie, Laura, Jeff, and their son, Bobby, who was my age. The teenage daughters in the family danced to Roy Orbison's "Sweet Dreams My Baby" on 45" one day. We had dinner together sometimes, but their family was very strict, and ours was more happy and carefree.

We were only allowed to watch a handful of tv shows: Batman, The Wonderful World of Disney, Wild Kingdom, Kaptain Kangaroo, Sesame St., and one in the morning: Romper Room, where the host would look into her magic mirror and say, "I see Tommy, and Bobby, and Tammy..." I waited in vain for her to see "Desiree"! We had to be in bed by 8. Dad would give us 10 minutes to brush our teeth and run upstairs to our beds before the monster came. Then he would come roaring up the stairs, punctuating the roar with the sound of his metal crutches hitting the stairs, then his foot thumping as he ascended. Dad was an amputee with one leg. We would be giggling under the covers. Then he would tell us bedtime stories like the "Three Little Piggies." He would tell us two or three stories before going back downstairs to his room.

Looking back to those times I can recall some very minor encounters with racism, but Dad shielded us from it. When we first moved in someone wrote the word "nigger" on the sidewalk in front of our house. I asked Dad what that meant. He just said "it's a bad word" and wouldn't explain it to us. He washed it away. I think he had an idea of who did it and took care of it himself. Another time a girl from school invited me to her house to play. When her mother saw what I looked like, she sent me directly home over her daughter's crying pleas. I was able to brush it off because most people there were very nice and I had a lot of friends. In that house I discovered my passion for art. Mommy took me to the YMCA to take ballet classes. I threw a tantrum and absolutely refused when I saw all of the little girls in frilly tutus pouting at me. She then enrolled me in art class, which I loved. I learned tie dye, and candle making, among other things.

The house was painted white when we lived in it, and now it is blue, but other than that it looks just like I remember it. We had prickly holly bushes in the front yard, and plum trees in the back yard. Dad used to take us on crabbing trips to Gooseberry Point. You had to catch a ferry to Lummi Island. Researching Gooseberry Point, I remember the ferry trips, and Dad driving his car onto the ferry. He would sit on the dock and drop his crab trap, while us kids played on the beach and collected shells and sand dollars. Dad had a pink 57' Plymouth with fins on the back. One day when I was playing in the yard, I put dirt, rocks and grass in his gas tank, and ruined his car forever. I did it very innocently. I didn't know it would ruin his car. I'm surprised he didn't put me up for adoption! My Dad passed away last year. I guess that makes me long to reach back to the days when I felt safest and happiest as a small child. I still have yet to find two other houses we lived in after that, but when I do, I will be sure to write about them!

Cyrus or Syria, Seriously?

I see a lot of people posting on social media complaining that we are criticizing Miley Cyrus's VMA performance when there are international crises happening. Well, entertainment is entertainment, and really bad entertainment, like watching Miley Cyrus hump a giant finger puppet, does make you want to avert your gaze and focus it instead on terrorist attacks, world hunger, and incurable disease. I'm well aware that there are international crises, and terrible things happening in our own country every day, but I don't focus my attention on them 100% percent of the time. There are people far more qualified to do that than me.

At the same time, I reserve the right to express an opinion about pop culture. I was not even inclined to watch the VMAs in the first place, except that I felt a little old fashioned and out of place for preferring classic rock, blues, and soul music, waxing nostalgic about the 60s and 70s, and still swooning over The Beatles and Paul McCartney. I have been criticized by my peers for that, so I tuned into the show to see what I was missing, what the young people of today, and the hip older people are rocking to.

I was really underwhelmed by what I saw in terms of musical originality or emotional passion. The music was droning and monotonous, but the visuals ranged from freak show to vulgar. The performances I saw, of Miley Cyrus, Lada Gaga, and Katy Perry lacked the vulnerability, tenderness, and authenticity or rawness of a Carly Simon, Janis Joplin, or Aretha Franklin performance. I miss the cool guitar riffs of "Smoke on The Water," "The Sunshine of Your Love," or "After Midnight." Will there ever again be a great masterpiece like "Bohemian Rhapsody?" The new tunes are catchy, but they don't really touch my soul the way the songs of the great artists of the past did.

Hippie Chic: The Lecture

The Hippie Chic lecture at the MFA was one of the most memorable indoor events of the summer. The curator of the exhibit, Lauren

Whitley, analyzed the variety of trends, styles in 60s fashion and put them in context. In the 60’s the Baby Boomers swelled the teenage population to 11 million. This youth culture rejected the materialism of the establishment, along with the fashion mandates of the Paris houses of couture in favor of wearing vintage clothing, making their own clothes, and expressing their individuality culturally and artistically. The mod and futuristic fashions of the early 60s represented by Pierre Cardin and Chanel gave way to a grass roots fashion movement created by the youth.

The curator named these style trends: “Trippy Hippy” represented by psychedelic colors, organic prints, and textures; vintage inspired: maxi dresses for women, and ruffled collars for men; Arthurian fantasy: with flowing sleeves, indigenous and gypsy styles, which became very popular after the Beatles visited the Maharishi in India, and crafts styles: tie dyed t-shirts, macrame, and patchwork. Before ripped and faded jeans became a fashion statement, they were a symbol of rebellion. London became the fashion center of the world, and the houses of couture began to copy the street style of the hippies and sell more expensively made versions of these styles in upscale boutiques. The legacy of the 60s to us is that now we have license to wear a variety of styles and express our individuality, rather than adhering to a rigid set of fashion rules in most contexts. The curator will give another talk on this exhibit in September: http://www.mfa.org/programs/special-event/hippie-chic-talk-and-tour-curator. Don’t miss it!

The Japanese Lantern Festival, Forest Hills Cemetery, Jamaica Plain

My father passed away last July, and it forever changed my perception of my

place in the universe. I suddenly felt very small and vulnerable. One evening a few weeks ago, almost a year from the date of his passing, a friend of mine invited me to go to the Japanese Lantern Festival in the Forest Hills Cemetery in Jamaica Plain. I had never heard of this event before, but the idea intrigued me, since I still felt the pain of my father's passing profoundly. I loved the idea of an Asian cultural tradition to honor loved ones who have passed away performed in a beautifully landscaped European style garden cemetery. I ended up going alone that evening, but I felt that I was participating in something very special.

It was a warm, balmy summer evening as volunteers guided young people, elders, and children of every race and nationality along the winding, hilly, beautifully maintained paths. The festive atmosphere made the cemetery seem more like a place of joyous communion than of solemn contemplation. There were dancers performing along the path among the tombstones, and at the shores of the beautiful lake the crowd settled on blankets and watched performances by Japanese lion dancers, taiko drummers, and a country music band.

Japanese lanterns were available for $10 apiece, and calligraphers costumed in traditional Japanese kimonos to write

messages in kanji on the lantern shades. There were also crayons and markers to write more personal messages. I selected the kanji symbols of love and peace for two sides of my lantern shade, then wrote a dedication to my father, mother, mothers of my siblings, and grandparents on the third side, and a dedication to family members who had tragically passed away at a very young age on the fourth side, and slipped the shade over the wooden candle stand.

As the darkness descended, people gathered around and set their lanterns afloat on the water. I said a prayer to my loved ones, and imagined they were having a party out on the water, unfettered by gravity or worldly cares, with the souls of the others being celebrated by their loved ones, and all of us assembled together were creating art in nature in celebration of eternal life.

Swingin' on the Charles

Last night I went with friends to Swingin' on the Charles, hosted by Boston Swing Central: http://www.bostonswingcentral.org/.  This event happens only once a year at the Charles River Community Boat House, and was priced at a very reasonable $15, which helps compensate for the difficulty parking in the area.

I have to say this was one of the most memorable summer evenings I ever had. The sky looked like a beautiful painting, and the weather was perfect, and the wooden dock was easy on the feet, except for turns. The event was very well attended, and the people there represented all ages, ethnicities, and dance abilities.  There was a very friendly vibe and gender equality.  A woman could ask a man to dance without being shamed into submission and wallflowerdom. People were clearly there to have fun.

The evening started with a basic swing lesson, and the music continued non stop after that from 8 to 11.  I loved the DJ, the music spanned several decades, and varied in tone from sexy, energetic, fun, and bittersweet.  I have a new favorite song, "Midnight in Moscow." This event truly inspired me to get out of my head, and out into the world.  It gave me faith in the dance community again. Too bad it doesn't happen more often.

First Friday Hippie Chic at the MFA

All week I eagerly anticipated going to the First Friday 60s Dance Party that coincided with the MFA exhibit Hippie Chic. The colors, fashions, and music remind me of the happy, carefree days of my early childhood, when everyone had long hair or afros, and instead of seeing harried drivers flipping each other off, you'd see a Volkswagen Beetle zipping around the corner with a smiling bearded hippie flashing the peace sign while calling out "Peace man!" I imagined being immersed in a psychedelic world, full of cool people wearing colorful clothing, fringe, beads, nehru jackets, maxi dresses, mini skirts, and smoking imaginary joints.  I could almost smell the scent of incense and patchouli, but I was in for a big surprise.

I met my friends, and we were all dressed in our 60s finery. We took in the exhibit first, which was an impressively themed display of sartorial artistry, but I was disappointed that the exhibit was so small. I had expected to see psychedelic painted vans, more photography that would put the fashions in context, and 60s paraphernalia.  Then we went to the room where the party was: a big echoing concrete and glass chamber, devoid of any color or decoration. Most of the women present were festively dressed, but hardly any of the men. They stood around awkwardly, their hands in their pockets, wearing their neat buttoned shirts, looking oh so MIT tech geek. It really killed the vibe. I was tempted to say, "Hey guys, I don't know if you got the memo, but the theme of tonight's party isn't 'Revenge of the Yuppies.'"

People crowded around the bar for the theme drink of the evening: Flower Power Punch, which was actually quite good, refreshing, fruity, slightly tart, for an additional $10. Too bad I couldn't say the same about the food, which appeared so dessicated and unappealing, that I was willing to risk a headache to wait to eat elsewhere, rather than pay an additional $7 for it. I was determined to get my money's worth of dancing, however. The DJ played mainly 50s hits, a few good 60s hits, but my opinion of her took a turn for the worse when she cut off Tom Jones' "She's a Lady" when I was in the middle of a really good dance groove.

When I asked a couple of the guys to dance they looked at me as if I asked "May I pick your pocket please?" I tried not to let it kill my spirit. I made sure to ask the next guy if he was groovy first before asking him to dance. There were so many ways this event could have been better at $25 a ticket. They could have had a costume contest, awarding an MFA membership or exhibit hall passes. They could have had a dance contest. They could have had actors passing out flowers, more decorations, psychedelic lights, a smoke machine, mixers, and theme party favors. As far as atmosphere and creating a feeling of authenticity, the party was kind of lame, but the exhibit, as small as it was, was well worth seeing.