Ikea! You’ve heard about it, maybe even gone there. But do you really know the true full-fledged experience of Ikea? In France, Ikea is the place to buy furniture and even more. France does not have myriad shops with myriad price ranges like the US. No, you either buy the sleek Italian shelves for €3000 or the €200 unit from Ikea. Why isn’t there a store like Pottery Barn or even something like a JC Penny or Sears maybe even a Pier 1 Imports? I don’t know.
Ikea is its own little world here. My husband’s eye twitches merely from the word “Ikea.” People line up to go in all week long. They have a children play area where you can leave your kids for a maximum of one hour. (No one has ever done Ikea in one hour! Please!) They have their own restaurant. It is a half-day experience. You don’t just pop into Ikea like you would Target. It is a dizzying experience.
Well, one morning we went to find a desk or something. After passing every elaborate floor display with every concoction possible of a kitchen or a bathroom or a study, we decided to have lunch. It was perfect lunch time for the children, 11:30am. By noon, the restaurant would be packed to the gills. One thing I noticed right away is the cafeteria furniture is not child friendly. All the chairs have these huge holes in the back, just perfect for a child to fall out of if he or she should choose to lean back.
There are some tables with chairs that have real backs and that day while my children played at the cafeteria playground and my husband went to the self-serve food line, I chose our table. It’s true, I could’ve chosen any table that had chairs with backs, but, I needed a good view of my children as well and thus, I chose a long table that could seat up to 8 people near the window. There was a bag on the chair nearest the window so I figured someone was going to sit there. I know people like to have their space, so I chose the four chairs at the other end of the table thinking this was respectful. I guess I could’ve chosen a table that had no seats already “reserved” but I didn’t. Soon enough, an older man arrived with his trays (yes, he had more than one). He looked at me and then said, “Didn’t you see my things here?”
“Yes, yes,” I replied waiting to see what the anxiety was about.
“You have the whole restaurant to choose from. Why are you sitting here? I chose this table.” He made a grand sweeping gesture to emphasize the vast emptiness surrounding us, all the choices I could have made and failed at making.
The restaurant at this point was already filling up as I glanced around nervously wondering whether I should give in and find another table or not.
He sat right in front of me and said, “Are you going to be comfortable eating with me sitting in front of you like this?” He smiled but it was a sarcastic one.
“I’m fine here,” I said realizing he was prompting me to tell him he was right, it was not comfortable and I would find another table. “This is fine,” I repeated, “You don’t think it’s okay?”
“You think this is okay? You think this is okay?” he said in a scary Robert DeNiro way, nodding his head with a creepy grin that promised more trouble. “I chose this table. Why did you choose it when you have the whole restaurant?” he asked again.
“Look,” I said trying to stay calm and collected. “The other chairs have holes in the back. I needed to find these chairs for my children.”
He looked around the room and then said, “Well, other children seem to be sitting in those chairs. But, I guess your children are handicapped or something. Your children can’t sit in those chairs. But other people’s children can.”
“Listen to me again,” I said getting bitchy. I leaned over the table, “Are you listening?”
He nodded his head.
“I want my children to sit in these chairs. They will fall out of the other ones,” I said.
He ranted again about how my children were special since the other ones seemed to be doing fine in the other chairs. Just then his wife arrived, between the two of them; they had four trays and took up a lot of space. I guess they planned on eating there the whole day. Maybe it was some special afternoon treat…take the old wife to Ikea Cafeteria.
By then the cafeteria was completely full and noisy. Should I have gotten up and left? If I found another table as he had wanted, some other family would have come to his table at some point. It was just a matter of time.
My husband arrived and I said to him, “That man is upset we’re sitting here. He won’t leave me alone. It’s becoming harassment!”
“Excuse me,” said my husband smiling and leaning over to talk to the man. “Is there a problem with my wife?”
The man explained how I chose his table when I could have chosen another one. My husband turned to me, “Why did you choose this table? Why didn’t you choose another one?”
Feeling upset my husband wasn’t taking my side, I explained for the umpteenth time my chair complex which began to sound silly. The man defended his side once again noting all the children sitting in chairs with big holes in the back. Then he added that I had called him deaf! Obviously, when I had asked him, “Are you listening?” he had somehow thought I was alleging he was hard of hearing.
My husband said to me, “Why didn’t you choose another table? Why are you even trying to deal with this man? Can’t you see he’s upset?”
Clearly, my husband was right. Why hadn’t I left and found another table? I can’t tell you that reason. It was like this inner struggle. Do I leave because this man wants me to leave? Or do I stay because I have the right to sit here too? I wasn’t thinking, “It’s not worth dealing with this asshole, I’ll find another table.” I felt glued to my seat by principle alone. Plus, it was way too crowded now to find a table for four people. So we stayed. And, as I’m sure you can guess, the bastard was right. Eating our lunch was very uncomfortable indeed.
As we left, my husband said, “I don’t understand how I always get involved in your situations. How do you get yourself in those situations? You should’ve said something sarcastic and gone somewhere else! I don’t understand you sometimes,” he shook his head in annoyance.
I had no response and on the drive home, my husband was annoyed because Ikea in itself is annoying. You pick up your stuff, load your car, tie your trunk down, etc. So, he went on a mini-rampage, a pee-in-your-pantsingly funny stitch. (I saw this term on a London billboard about a show, "pee-in-your-pantsingly funny”) Back to my husband, he began ranting in a loud voice, “Ikea! Ikea! We all love Ikea!,” he bellowed out the window to no one in particular as we went around the huge round-about packed with cars leaving Ikea. “Let’s all go to Ikea!”, he continued.
I watched him, knowing it would be a couple minutes of hilarious improv for me to enjoy. “Everyone thinks Ikea is soooo great! But, it’s the day that never ends. First you go to Ikea. You’re there forever to find your thing, pick it up, and take it home. You think it ends when you pick up your furniture? No! It doesn’t end there. No! Cuz then, you have to put all the crap shit together and you know that is going to take all night. And, there’s always a missing piece so you have to come back for that little tiny crap fuck shit shove up your ass piece.”
I folded over in laughter.
“Then,” he continued, “you put together their crap piece of furniture and it’s still not over. No. Because now you have a million boxes that you have to get rid of and dismount and recycle. Ikea is just never-ending…They’re up in your fucking ass!,” he said through clenched teeth and slapping his ass for a dramatic effect. “They must be the worst company out there for the environment.” But he wasn’t finished just yet. “Oh, I have an idea. Let’s put this little tiny fuck shit screw in a little plastic bag. And let’s put this shelf in a box, and this shelf in another box, and this piece in a big mama fuck carton too! Oh, we are Ikea. We looooove the environment. Ikea! Hate Ikea! That's the last time we're going there! We're not going again. Shit fuck!”
Hysterical laughter came out of me. “That was excellent. I wish I had that on video. That is great! The best! I love it!”
“God!”, he said sweeping a mesh of hair out of his eyes and hitting the wheel of his car several times for the grand finale. “Ahhhhhhh!”
And that is Ikea the Experience.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Thursday, March 18, 2010
To Pee or Not to Pee
For all you mothers out there who dream of the day your baby will be potty-trained, I can tell you, it’s not that fantastic. Claire, who is almost three years old, is in her first phase of being potty-trained. “I didn’t know there were phases?” I hear you confused readers saying. Well, there are. Some of you might have children who seamlessly passed from diapers to underwear without any confusion or help necessitated by you, but not Claire.
I’m not sure how often she peed when she wore diapers, but now, she must go every 20 minutes. “Big deal,” you’re saying, “Why all the hysteria? She sits and pees. End of story.”
No. Not exactly. First, she announces it, “Pee pee, Mommy. Pee pee.”
Then I respond, “Okay, Claire. Go sit on the potty.”
Then she says, “Help, Mommy, help.” So, to avoid her going pee in her pants which would mean I have to change and clean her up, as well as the floor, I go with her to the potty.
Sometimes she goes by herself, like when we are at home. But, at the café (she is my café pal) or at the park, it is annoying to get up and go with her. At the café, it’s fairly simple. I just sit her on the big adult toilet and it’s rather quick. Of course it is annoying to constantly get up and pack our things so no one steals everything while we’re gone. The park, however, is agonizing. Why? I’ll tell you. There is no public rest room, which is fine because if there were one, I have no doubt it would be abominable and no one would even go in it.
The park routine is all-around unnerving. First I have to find a little corner which often means my eyes are no longer on big sis, Eva. Then, I have to remove Claire’s shoes, pants and everything and help her squat in a way so she won’t pee on her feet or mine. I kind of hold her mid-air and my arms and legs start to hurt. She just dangles there, poor thing, and wants to pee but for whatever reason, she cannot. She almost never goes at the park but she makes me do the whole pee routine at least three times in one hour.
Considering I can’t see Eva, I feel anxious and say during every pee pee attempt, “Hurry, Claire…Pee pee, psssss,” and I make a pee sound hoping it will illicit some subconscious desire to take a whiz. Why I do this, I don’t know. It hasn’t worked yet. So, that’s the pee pee deal.
Now, we also have the caca deal. At our house, we have a little potty on the floor and also a little seat we put on top of the normal toilet seat. She likes both options and seems to have no problems peeing on her little potty or the big one but when it comes to pooping it’s a different story. And to side track a little, yes, I’m still obsessed with poop considering it is omnipresent in my life. It’s seriously everywhere I turn, in my house, on the street, I can’t escape it. Anyway, moving right along with the caca routine, it’s actually a tad heart-breaking. First, Claire gets this painful look on her face and she starts holding her bottom and walking on her toes, “Poop…poop.”
So, I say, “Go! Go, Claire. Go sit on your potty!”
And of course she says, “Help, Mommy, help.” Then as I attempt to put her on her little potty, she says, “Big potty. Big Potty.” So, I put her on the big potty and she sits for a couple minutes and then says, “Done.” But, she hasn’t done a thing. I help her get her pants back on and try to do whatever I was doing before being interrupted and five minutes later, there’s Claire doing her dance and whining, “Poop, Mommy. Poop.” You get the gist. After many efforts on the big potty and Claire not pooping, it becomes not only aggravating but also a little stressful. For a mother, the only thing as important as keeping your kids fed is making sure they poop everyday, sad but true.
Fortunately, a couple hours later she’ll miraculously go to the little potty by herself and announce, “Pooped. I pooped.” This is great. But, it’s also not so great because she has dropped a big log. I have to empty it into the toilet and it never hits just the water (as French toilets aren’t filled to the rim like the big American crappers) so I’m obligated to scrub the toilet bowl and then take her little potty over to the bath tub and her potty has major poop stuck inside it so I have to clean this out and spray it with disinfectant and then rinse it out. I also have to do the whole clean-up routine when she pees.
So, to summarize all of this up, my days of simply changing her diapers are gone. And, I was able to do that quite speedily. Now, I consecrate unfathomable amounts of time to all her tries at peeing, pooping and my cleaning of the god damn children potty.
I’m not exaggerating; this goes on all day long. I’m considering calling up everyone I know and saying, “Look, cancel this, cancel that, forget dinner, I am on potty duty. I don’t have time to pick-up Eva or buy groceries or do anything.” In fact, sometimes I need to go to the bathroom and while I’m sitting on the big toilet, Claire prances in holding her ass and complaining that she needs to poop…now! And, she wants to sit on the big potty, now!
This morning while trying to get ready, I must have been interrupted five times. I almost forgot to put make-up on one of my eyes. Then, I imagined myself taking Eva to school with one big eye all done up and one little puffy eye explaining, “Oh, Claire had to pee this morning…fifteen times.”
On a daily basis, I find myself aimlessly turning in circles like an old senile dog thinking, “Now, what the hell was I doing before I got interrupted?” I can already see myself at 80 years old with Alzheimer’s mumbling to no one in particular, “Claire? Did you poop? Can someone go wipe her? Hurry!” Or worse yet, I’ll find myself dangling in the arms of my adult children in the corner of a park, hearing them say “Hurry, Mom… pee pee, psssss.”
I’m not sure how often she peed when she wore diapers, but now, she must go every 20 minutes. “Big deal,” you’re saying, “Why all the hysteria? She sits and pees. End of story.”
No. Not exactly. First, she announces it, “Pee pee, Mommy. Pee pee.”
Then I respond, “Okay, Claire. Go sit on the potty.”
Then she says, “Help, Mommy, help.” So, to avoid her going pee in her pants which would mean I have to change and clean her up, as well as the floor, I go with her to the potty.
Sometimes she goes by herself, like when we are at home. But, at the café (she is my café pal) or at the park, it is annoying to get up and go with her. At the café, it’s fairly simple. I just sit her on the big adult toilet and it’s rather quick. Of course it is annoying to constantly get up and pack our things so no one steals everything while we’re gone. The park, however, is agonizing. Why? I’ll tell you. There is no public rest room, which is fine because if there were one, I have no doubt it would be abominable and no one would even go in it.
The park routine is all-around unnerving. First I have to find a little corner which often means my eyes are no longer on big sis, Eva. Then, I have to remove Claire’s shoes, pants and everything and help her squat in a way so she won’t pee on her feet or mine. I kind of hold her mid-air and my arms and legs start to hurt. She just dangles there, poor thing, and wants to pee but for whatever reason, she cannot. She almost never goes at the park but she makes me do the whole pee routine at least three times in one hour.
Considering I can’t see Eva, I feel anxious and say during every pee pee attempt, “Hurry, Claire…Pee pee, psssss,” and I make a pee sound hoping it will illicit some subconscious desire to take a whiz. Why I do this, I don’t know. It hasn’t worked yet. So, that’s the pee pee deal.
Now, we also have the caca deal. At our house, we have a little potty on the floor and also a little seat we put on top of the normal toilet seat. She likes both options and seems to have no problems peeing on her little potty or the big one but when it comes to pooping it’s a different story. And to side track a little, yes, I’m still obsessed with poop considering it is omnipresent in my life. It’s seriously everywhere I turn, in my house, on the street, I can’t escape it. Anyway, moving right along with the caca routine, it’s actually a tad heart-breaking. First, Claire gets this painful look on her face and she starts holding her bottom and walking on her toes, “Poop…poop.”
So, I say, “Go! Go, Claire. Go sit on your potty!”
And of course she says, “Help, Mommy, help.” Then as I attempt to put her on her little potty, she says, “Big potty. Big Potty.” So, I put her on the big potty and she sits for a couple minutes and then says, “Done.” But, she hasn’t done a thing. I help her get her pants back on and try to do whatever I was doing before being interrupted and five minutes later, there’s Claire doing her dance and whining, “Poop, Mommy. Poop.” You get the gist. After many efforts on the big potty and Claire not pooping, it becomes not only aggravating but also a little stressful. For a mother, the only thing as important as keeping your kids fed is making sure they poop everyday, sad but true.
Fortunately, a couple hours later she’ll miraculously go to the little potty by herself and announce, “Pooped. I pooped.” This is great. But, it’s also not so great because she has dropped a big log. I have to empty it into the toilet and it never hits just the water (as French toilets aren’t filled to the rim like the big American crappers) so I’m obligated to scrub the toilet bowl and then take her little potty over to the bath tub and her potty has major poop stuck inside it so I have to clean this out and spray it with disinfectant and then rinse it out. I also have to do the whole clean-up routine when she pees.
So, to summarize all of this up, my days of simply changing her diapers are gone. And, I was able to do that quite speedily. Now, I consecrate unfathomable amounts of time to all her tries at peeing, pooping and my cleaning of the god damn children potty.
I’m not exaggerating; this goes on all day long. I’m considering calling up everyone I know and saying, “Look, cancel this, cancel that, forget dinner, I am on potty duty. I don’t have time to pick-up Eva or buy groceries or do anything.” In fact, sometimes I need to go to the bathroom and while I’m sitting on the big toilet, Claire prances in holding her ass and complaining that she needs to poop…now! And, she wants to sit on the big potty, now!
This morning while trying to get ready, I must have been interrupted five times. I almost forgot to put make-up on one of my eyes. Then, I imagined myself taking Eva to school with one big eye all done up and one little puffy eye explaining, “Oh, Claire had to pee this morning…fifteen times.”
On a daily basis, I find myself aimlessly turning in circles like an old senile dog thinking, “Now, what the hell was I doing before I got interrupted?” I can already see myself at 80 years old with Alzheimer’s mumbling to no one in particular, “Claire? Did you poop? Can someone go wipe her? Hurry!” Or worse yet, I’ll find myself dangling in the arms of my adult children in the corner of a park, hearing them say “Hurry, Mom… pee pee, psssss.”
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
The Heat Is On
Everyone has moments when they are forced to improvise in a trying situation. My sister, Diane, is one of those people who can rely on her wits but she is also irreverent and uncensored. When we're together, this personality combination often gets us into trouble.
During my years at ASU in Arizona, Diane and I would do a yearly road trip from Arizona to Colorado where our folks lived. It was roughly a 13 hour drive and we’d usually stop half-way in New Mexico for the night. For our trip, we’d stock the car with a jug of water, hardy pretzels and our favorite processed squeeze cheese. We’d top the pretzels high with the smooth orange spread and take turns passing this sophisticated snack back and forth.
Diane would always start out the road trip by saying, “If one of us gets a ticket, we’ll split it, okay?”
And I’d agree. So, as we came to our fifth hour of driving in an endless flat and unchanging scenery in New Mexico, Diane behind the wheel, the speed began to slowly rise. Soon enough, we heard sirens and a big Ford police car was tailing us.
“Oh, shit!” Diane said glancing anxiously in the rear view mirror. She pulled over. I pulled my sun visor down to peak at the police man. We both saw a strong Mexican cop, young and good looking, approaching our vehicle. New Mexico is highly populated with a Latino community. Diane had an idea. “Quick! Quick! Put the Gypsy Kings on!”
“Good plan, sis!” I thought. It would be an attempt to show our cop we loved Spanish music. Maybe he’d empathize with us if he knew just how much we had in common with him. As he walked up to our car, “Bombalero” was blaring from the stereo, Gitano clapping sounds ringing out.
“Hello, ladies,” he smiled at us with bright white teeth.
“Sorry,” Diane mumbled. “How fast was I going?”
“You were going about 85.”
“Oh,” she paused, “sorry.”
“Yep. That’s a little too fast for a warning. I’m going to have to give you a ticket. Please keep your speed down,” he said.
“Okay,” she replied, “How fast can I go?” she asked.
“Keep it around 75 and you’ll be fine,” he handed her the ticket.
“Okay. Thanks a lot,” she said.
“Take care,” he started walking away.
“I can’t believe you asked him how fast you could go!” I exclaimed.
“Why? He was nice. You see, we can go 75.”
The rest of our road trip we stayed within a reasonable speed. At one point, we needed gas and a small break. The only place to stop was this mega gas and convenient store complex complete with a free movie theatre. It looked like a mall.
Inside, they sold Kachina dolls, Indian beaded jewelry and dream catchers. It was packed with Indians (or if you prefer “Native Americans” though I’ve never heard a Native American refer to himself as anything other than an Indian) Anyway, back to my sister Diane. We were strolling through the complex with cherry Slurpees when out of nowhere, Diane started singing rather loudly, “Cherokee People…Cherokee Tribe…”
We both looked at each other shocked at her outburst and laughed uncontrollably. I finally caught my breath, “What the fuck, Diane?”
“Oh, my God,” she said still laughing, “I swear that song just popped into my head!”
“You’re going to get our asses kicked!”
She bent over and started laughing again. “I didn’t mean to do that. It just came out!”
“Time to get you out of here,” I grabbed her hand and we headed for the parking lot. Diane, my un-politically correct sis. But wait, it gets better…
During my junior year abroad, I lived in Nice. Diane decided to visit me over Christmas vacation. I happened to be staying in a very strict dorm where the cleaning staff was especially mean. The rooms were tiny and had one small single bed barely big enough for one person. My friend who left for the vacation had given me the keys to her room for Diane.
Unfortunately, this convenient living arrangement quickly came to an end. One day, Diane was about to go into her room when she heard a man cry out behind her, “Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle!”
Gripped with fear and also unable to communicate in French, my sister pretended not to hear him. He approached her and tapped her shoulder, “Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle!” He showed her a photo of my friend, “Où est la mademoiselle?” he asked her. (Where is this young woman?) Diane, not wanting to be in trouble decided to play deaf and began signing the few words she knew in sign language hoping the man would feel overcome with pity. But, he grabbed the keys from her and said something mean. Diane fled to my room knocking frantically. “I got caught! I got caught! Hurry! Let me in!”
I let her in and she came into my room breathless and scared. “That fag dude took my keys!”
“Huh?” That “fag dude” was François, the meanest of the cleaning staff.
“I pretended to be deaf so we have to pretend I’m deaf, okay?”
“What? Why?” I was dumbfounded.
“I don’t know. I thought it would help.”
“Oh, great!” I said. We left my room in search of François. He was in the office sitting smugly behind a desk.
“What’s going on?” I asked him, Diane stood innocently beside me. “My sister said you took her keys? She’s deaf, you know.”
He didn’t seem to care. “You need to pay to use that room,” he said.
“Why? It’s my friend’s room and she is away for Christmas.”
He turned and looked out the window. He ignored us.
“My sister’s things are in that room. At least let us get her bags,” I pleaded.
He shook his head enjoying his omnipotent position in the situation.
Frustrated, I began crying and left the room. Diane followed me and began doing a stupid deaf routine in case François was listening. We couldn’t blow our cover, not that it had helped a smidgen. Several minutes later, François walked over to us.
“Look, we need the keys, just let us get our stuff,” I asked again.
After several minutes of contemplation, François looked at my sister and said, “I’ll go with you and let you get your stuff. But, you cannot have the keys!”
Then he turned to me and announced, “Your friend is in trouble!”
Relieved he was willing to budge enough for my sister to get her things, I looked at her and pretended to translate everything he had just said. After a couple farcical gestures, I topped it off by mouthing “Let’s go,” and I did the fist-on-top-of-fist, thumb over one shoulder, thumb over the other shoulder, essentially the “hand jive” straight from Grease.
After we got my sister’s bags, we were back in my tiny room, sitting on my bed quietly.
“Nice,” Diane raised her eyebrows at me. “Let’s…go” she said and she mimicked my ridiculous hand jive number.
“I didn’t do that!” I stammered.
She shook her head, “Yes, you did! You did that!”
“I did? Oh, god!”
Now, whenever we want to leave a place, Diane will say, “Hey, sis…let’s…go” and she’ll do the duke upon duke, over the shoulder routine.
I can't always keep up with her, but damn, it's a fun ride.
During my years at ASU in Arizona, Diane and I would do a yearly road trip from Arizona to Colorado where our folks lived. It was roughly a 13 hour drive and we’d usually stop half-way in New Mexico for the night. For our trip, we’d stock the car with a jug of water, hardy pretzels and our favorite processed squeeze cheese. We’d top the pretzels high with the smooth orange spread and take turns passing this sophisticated snack back and forth.
Diane would always start out the road trip by saying, “If one of us gets a ticket, we’ll split it, okay?”
And I’d agree. So, as we came to our fifth hour of driving in an endless flat and unchanging scenery in New Mexico, Diane behind the wheel, the speed began to slowly rise. Soon enough, we heard sirens and a big Ford police car was tailing us.
“Oh, shit!” Diane said glancing anxiously in the rear view mirror. She pulled over. I pulled my sun visor down to peak at the police man. We both saw a strong Mexican cop, young and good looking, approaching our vehicle. New Mexico is highly populated with a Latino community. Diane had an idea. “Quick! Quick! Put the Gypsy Kings on!”
“Good plan, sis!” I thought. It would be an attempt to show our cop we loved Spanish music. Maybe he’d empathize with us if he knew just how much we had in common with him. As he walked up to our car, “Bombalero” was blaring from the stereo, Gitano clapping sounds ringing out.
“Hello, ladies,” he smiled at us with bright white teeth.
“Sorry,” Diane mumbled. “How fast was I going?”
“You were going about 85.”
“Oh,” she paused, “sorry.”
“Yep. That’s a little too fast for a warning. I’m going to have to give you a ticket. Please keep your speed down,” he said.
“Okay,” she replied, “How fast can I go?” she asked.
“Keep it around 75 and you’ll be fine,” he handed her the ticket.
“Okay. Thanks a lot,” she said.
“Take care,” he started walking away.
“I can’t believe you asked him how fast you could go!” I exclaimed.
“Why? He was nice. You see, we can go 75.”
The rest of our road trip we stayed within a reasonable speed. At one point, we needed gas and a small break. The only place to stop was this mega gas and convenient store complex complete with a free movie theatre. It looked like a mall.
Inside, they sold Kachina dolls, Indian beaded jewelry and dream catchers. It was packed with Indians (or if you prefer “Native Americans” though I’ve never heard a Native American refer to himself as anything other than an Indian) Anyway, back to my sister Diane. We were strolling through the complex with cherry Slurpees when out of nowhere, Diane started singing rather loudly, “Cherokee People…Cherokee Tribe…”
We both looked at each other shocked at her outburst and laughed uncontrollably. I finally caught my breath, “What the fuck, Diane?”
“Oh, my God,” she said still laughing, “I swear that song just popped into my head!”
“You’re going to get our asses kicked!”
She bent over and started laughing again. “I didn’t mean to do that. It just came out!”
“Time to get you out of here,” I grabbed her hand and we headed for the parking lot. Diane, my un-politically correct sis. But wait, it gets better…
During my junior year abroad, I lived in Nice. Diane decided to visit me over Christmas vacation. I happened to be staying in a very strict dorm where the cleaning staff was especially mean. The rooms were tiny and had one small single bed barely big enough for one person. My friend who left for the vacation had given me the keys to her room for Diane.
Unfortunately, this convenient living arrangement quickly came to an end. One day, Diane was about to go into her room when she heard a man cry out behind her, “Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle!”
Gripped with fear and also unable to communicate in French, my sister pretended not to hear him. He approached her and tapped her shoulder, “Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle!” He showed her a photo of my friend, “Où est la mademoiselle?” he asked her. (Where is this young woman?) Diane, not wanting to be in trouble decided to play deaf and began signing the few words she knew in sign language hoping the man would feel overcome with pity. But, he grabbed the keys from her and said something mean. Diane fled to my room knocking frantically. “I got caught! I got caught! Hurry! Let me in!”
I let her in and she came into my room breathless and scared. “That fag dude took my keys!”
“Huh?” That “fag dude” was François, the meanest of the cleaning staff.
“I pretended to be deaf so we have to pretend I’m deaf, okay?”
“What? Why?” I was dumbfounded.
“I don’t know. I thought it would help.”
“Oh, great!” I said. We left my room in search of François. He was in the office sitting smugly behind a desk.
“What’s going on?” I asked him, Diane stood innocently beside me. “My sister said you took her keys? She’s deaf, you know.”
He didn’t seem to care. “You need to pay to use that room,” he said.
“Why? It’s my friend’s room and she is away for Christmas.”
He turned and looked out the window. He ignored us.
“My sister’s things are in that room. At least let us get her bags,” I pleaded.
He shook his head enjoying his omnipotent position in the situation.
Frustrated, I began crying and left the room. Diane followed me and began doing a stupid deaf routine in case François was listening. We couldn’t blow our cover, not that it had helped a smidgen. Several minutes later, François walked over to us.
“Look, we need the keys, just let us get our stuff,” I asked again.
After several minutes of contemplation, François looked at my sister and said, “I’ll go with you and let you get your stuff. But, you cannot have the keys!”
Then he turned to me and announced, “Your friend is in trouble!”
Relieved he was willing to budge enough for my sister to get her things, I looked at her and pretended to translate everything he had just said. After a couple farcical gestures, I topped it off by mouthing “Let’s go,” and I did the fist-on-top-of-fist, thumb over one shoulder, thumb over the other shoulder, essentially the “hand jive” straight from Grease.
After we got my sister’s bags, we were back in my tiny room, sitting on my bed quietly.
“Nice,” Diane raised her eyebrows at me. “Let’s…go” she said and she mimicked my ridiculous hand jive number.
“I didn’t do that!” I stammered.
She shook her head, “Yes, you did! You did that!”
“I did? Oh, god!”
Now, whenever we want to leave a place, Diane will say, “Hey, sis…let’s…go” and she’ll do the duke upon duke, over the shoulder routine.
I can't always keep up with her, but damn, it's a fun ride.
Monday, March 8, 2010
Pantyhose Man
When we lived in Toulouse, I had my own yoga studio. I had never had any strange encounters with my students. They seemed to understand the protocol of a yoga class. They would arrive on time and in appropriate clothing. I never had to tell anyone to stop coming or to change their ways, until Pantyhose Man arrived.
He called one evening to ask about my classes. I explained a little to him. He had an effeminate voice and asked if he could come to class in stockings. He said he wore them in dance class and preferred to wear them. It seemed like a strange thing to where to yoga, but I couldn’t see the harm so I answered, “Sure.”
By coincidence, I had lots of new students trying my class the next evening. The room was packed to the gills. I even had to turn one student down as we had no more room. All of this just to give you an idea of how closely we were doing yoga to each other this evening.
Everyone arrived and was ready. The man who called me previously arrived looking normal. He wore jeans and a jacket and went into the changing room. Several minutes later, he came out wearing a dark brown sweater and brown opaque tights without pants or shorts on top, just tights. He wore glasses and was tall, pale, bald and muscular.
All of my students, new and old, tried to digest this exotic character. No one said anything but everyone noticed, as you will soon find out. Didier Sage (sage which means “well-behaved” in French) slightly grunted as his feet, trapped in stockings, slipped in most of the positions we did.
As we moved onto the floor and onto our backs, one of my student’s faces was dangerously close to his bulging crotch area. I saw her turn her head and try to act composed. That evening, the only new student who signed up for more classes was Didier Sage. All the other newbie’s had an excuse. One girl said, “Oh, my allergies acted up in your studio tonight.” An English couple shyly said, “We’ll come back soon,” and months later, after never having come again, the woman confessed via email, “We enjoyed your class but my husband was freaked out by the man in tights.”
The next class, one of my students, Bridgette, arrived early. She was a clever English girl with a wonderful sense of humor. She said to me, “Oooh! I can’t wait to see what Pantyhose Man will wear tonight!” Bridgette began to look forward to Didier’s appearances. That evening, he entered the studio in his usual jeans just a tad late. He went into the dressing room while everyone else patiently waited on their mats.
He exited in a rather graceful manner adorning a sheer black negligee that fell around mid-knee. Tiny spaghetti straps exposed his pale muscular shoulders and shaved body. Tonight, he did not wear brown opaque tights, he wore sheer black pantyhose. He took his place rather confidently on his mat.
When we began our sun salutations, I caught a glimpse of Bridgette biting her lip and furtively staring at the ceiling as if praying to keep her composure. I felt my lips quiver and almost burst into laughter but managed to quickly reorient my gaze. Even my voice shook a little as I spoke to the class. I had to shut that smile off fast and act normal. The vision of myself completely losing control right there was enough to regain my senses.
As we moved smoothly in and out of different positions, I realized Didier was clearly not wearing any underwear. His genitals were as bald as his head. When I first saw his naked bits, I thought I hadn’t seen properly, but he was exposing everything. I hoped more than anything everyone was concentrating on their own moves and didn’t see what I saw. Did he think no one saw it? Would he have been embarrassed had he known? I figured he hadn’t thought it through, maybe he had forgotten we’d be lifting our legs high in the air.
After class, Bridgette ran up to me cackling, “Oh, my God! That was a killer. I almost lost it in class!”
I wondered if I should say something to Didier Sage who wasn’t acting so sage, definitely not living up to his name! Was his dress inappropriate? Yes, but he seemed so innocent and no one had mustered a word yet about his bald genitals smiling at the world. Wasn’t yoga about being open-minded?
The next class, Bridgette rubbed her hands together and said, “Ooooh! I can’t wait to see what Hoseman has in-store for us tonight!”
Didier arrived and did his perfunctory scene opener while everyone sat quietly waiting on their mats. The door opened and he strode across the floor wearing a yellow sleeveless turtleneck and black pantyhose, this time nothing was covering his thighs.
As we sat on the floor that evening doing lotus, no one missed the sight of Didier’s shaven parts. I shortened the exercise and quickly moved to something more prudent and discreet, like a nice seated forward bend.
After he left that evening, two students approached me. One was a very serious and disciplined woman who said, “I will not come to class next time if Didier is there. He either covers himself and respects the other students or he stops coming!”
Another woman added, “I agree. He is an exhibitionist. He gets a high out of this! You have to say something to him.”
“I agree,” I said. “I’ll talk to him. Don’t worry.”
“We all know how to dress properly. You don’t see any of us coming without underwear. He has a total lack of respect!” my serious student continued. A flash of my student wearing no underwear and lifting her leg up high entered my head and I momentarily felt a wave of nausea.
“I’ll talk to him,” I repeated, “Don’t worry.”
That evening, I asked my husband what to do.
“Tell him he needs to dress correctly or he can’t come back.”
“But can I dictate what people wear? Should I tell him instead that people are complaining?”
“No, no,” answered my husband. “Your other students know what dress-appropriate clothing for yoga is. He knows! He knows what he’s doing! He’s trying to see how far he can go.”
So, I called Didier. He didn’t answer so I left him a voice mail that we needed to talk in person before his next class. First he sent an email asking, “What do you need to talk to me about?” I told him again we needed to talk in person. He avoided me for almost a month sending me various excuses and then one night he finally showed up before class.
“You wanted to talk to me?” he asked shyly with an almost sly grin.
“Do you want to continue doing yoga with me?” I asked.
He paused, “Well, actually I’ve been having back problems so I think I’m going to stop.”
“Okay, then,” I said. There was nothing further to say considering he wouldn’t be coming anymore.
He stared at me anticipating something more.
“Well, good evening and good luck,” I said (In French it doesn’t come out like the movie line.)
He hesitated and then said, “Bye,” he left the studio. That evening, he sent an email: “I’m disappointed you didn’t tell me the reason why you wanted to talk to me.” I didn’t respond, but that was enough to tell me he had wanted some kind of reaction or reprimand for his behavior. Maybe that’s how he got his high, people’s shock and reaction and he hadn’t elicited any from us, at least not in front of him. What a downer that must have been for him.
His outfits did progressively get skimpier each class. If he had continued yoga, would his outfits eventually have dwindled down to nothing? I still don’t get why he did this. Was he a sexual pervert? Was he an exhibitionist?
“Don’t look for reasons,” said my husband. “No one knows. We’ll never know. It’s better he doesn’t go to your studio. He’s bad for your business.”
After that, we never saw Didier Sage, AKA Pantyhose Man, ever again. Whether he knew it or not, it’s fair to say he didn’t leave unnoticed.
He called one evening to ask about my classes. I explained a little to him. He had an effeminate voice and asked if he could come to class in stockings. He said he wore them in dance class and preferred to wear them. It seemed like a strange thing to where to yoga, but I couldn’t see the harm so I answered, “Sure.”
By coincidence, I had lots of new students trying my class the next evening. The room was packed to the gills. I even had to turn one student down as we had no more room. All of this just to give you an idea of how closely we were doing yoga to each other this evening.
Everyone arrived and was ready. The man who called me previously arrived looking normal. He wore jeans and a jacket and went into the changing room. Several minutes later, he came out wearing a dark brown sweater and brown opaque tights without pants or shorts on top, just tights. He wore glasses and was tall, pale, bald and muscular.
All of my students, new and old, tried to digest this exotic character. No one said anything but everyone noticed, as you will soon find out. Didier Sage (sage which means “well-behaved” in French) slightly grunted as his feet, trapped in stockings, slipped in most of the positions we did.
As we moved onto the floor and onto our backs, one of my student’s faces was dangerously close to his bulging crotch area. I saw her turn her head and try to act composed. That evening, the only new student who signed up for more classes was Didier Sage. All the other newbie’s had an excuse. One girl said, “Oh, my allergies acted up in your studio tonight.” An English couple shyly said, “We’ll come back soon,” and months later, after never having come again, the woman confessed via email, “We enjoyed your class but my husband was freaked out by the man in tights.”
The next class, one of my students, Bridgette, arrived early. She was a clever English girl with a wonderful sense of humor. She said to me, “Oooh! I can’t wait to see what Pantyhose Man will wear tonight!” Bridgette began to look forward to Didier’s appearances. That evening, he entered the studio in his usual jeans just a tad late. He went into the dressing room while everyone else patiently waited on their mats.
He exited in a rather graceful manner adorning a sheer black negligee that fell around mid-knee. Tiny spaghetti straps exposed his pale muscular shoulders and shaved body. Tonight, he did not wear brown opaque tights, he wore sheer black pantyhose. He took his place rather confidently on his mat.
When we began our sun salutations, I caught a glimpse of Bridgette biting her lip and furtively staring at the ceiling as if praying to keep her composure. I felt my lips quiver and almost burst into laughter but managed to quickly reorient my gaze. Even my voice shook a little as I spoke to the class. I had to shut that smile off fast and act normal. The vision of myself completely losing control right there was enough to regain my senses.
As we moved smoothly in and out of different positions, I realized Didier was clearly not wearing any underwear. His genitals were as bald as his head. When I first saw his naked bits, I thought I hadn’t seen properly, but he was exposing everything. I hoped more than anything everyone was concentrating on their own moves and didn’t see what I saw. Did he think no one saw it? Would he have been embarrassed had he known? I figured he hadn’t thought it through, maybe he had forgotten we’d be lifting our legs high in the air.
After class, Bridgette ran up to me cackling, “Oh, my God! That was a killer. I almost lost it in class!”
I wondered if I should say something to Didier Sage who wasn’t acting so sage, definitely not living up to his name! Was his dress inappropriate? Yes, but he seemed so innocent and no one had mustered a word yet about his bald genitals smiling at the world. Wasn’t yoga about being open-minded?
The next class, Bridgette rubbed her hands together and said, “Ooooh! I can’t wait to see what Hoseman has in-store for us tonight!”
Didier arrived and did his perfunctory scene opener while everyone sat quietly waiting on their mats. The door opened and he strode across the floor wearing a yellow sleeveless turtleneck and black pantyhose, this time nothing was covering his thighs.
As we sat on the floor that evening doing lotus, no one missed the sight of Didier’s shaven parts. I shortened the exercise and quickly moved to something more prudent and discreet, like a nice seated forward bend.
After he left that evening, two students approached me. One was a very serious and disciplined woman who said, “I will not come to class next time if Didier is there. He either covers himself and respects the other students or he stops coming!”
Another woman added, “I agree. He is an exhibitionist. He gets a high out of this! You have to say something to him.”
“I agree,” I said. “I’ll talk to him. Don’t worry.”
“We all know how to dress properly. You don’t see any of us coming without underwear. He has a total lack of respect!” my serious student continued. A flash of my student wearing no underwear and lifting her leg up high entered my head and I momentarily felt a wave of nausea.
“I’ll talk to him,” I repeated, “Don’t worry.”
That evening, I asked my husband what to do.
“Tell him he needs to dress correctly or he can’t come back.”
“But can I dictate what people wear? Should I tell him instead that people are complaining?”
“No, no,” answered my husband. “Your other students know what dress-appropriate clothing for yoga is. He knows! He knows what he’s doing! He’s trying to see how far he can go.”
So, I called Didier. He didn’t answer so I left him a voice mail that we needed to talk in person before his next class. First he sent an email asking, “What do you need to talk to me about?” I told him again we needed to talk in person. He avoided me for almost a month sending me various excuses and then one night he finally showed up before class.
“You wanted to talk to me?” he asked shyly with an almost sly grin.
“Do you want to continue doing yoga with me?” I asked.
He paused, “Well, actually I’ve been having back problems so I think I’m going to stop.”
“Okay, then,” I said. There was nothing further to say considering he wouldn’t be coming anymore.
He stared at me anticipating something more.
“Well, good evening and good luck,” I said (In French it doesn’t come out like the movie line.)
He hesitated and then said, “Bye,” he left the studio. That evening, he sent an email: “I’m disappointed you didn’t tell me the reason why you wanted to talk to me.” I didn’t respond, but that was enough to tell me he had wanted some kind of reaction or reprimand for his behavior. Maybe that’s how he got his high, people’s shock and reaction and he hadn’t elicited any from us, at least not in front of him. What a downer that must have been for him.
His outfits did progressively get skimpier each class. If he had continued yoga, would his outfits eventually have dwindled down to nothing? I still don’t get why he did this. Was he a sexual pervert? Was he an exhibitionist?
“Don’t look for reasons,” said my husband. “No one knows. We’ll never know. It’s better he doesn’t go to your studio. He’s bad for your business.”
After that, we never saw Didier Sage, AKA Pantyhose Man, ever again. Whether he knew it or not, it’s fair to say he didn’t leave unnoticed.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Desert Storm Operation
During my year teaching English in Israel, I had the opportunity to travel during vacation times. I had made good friends through our volunteer program. Among my friends was Ellen, the stoic and practical one, hard to frazzle and usually someone who made sound decisions, and Lizzy who was my soul sister and had the tendency to worry about others, including herself and just about everything else. That spring, we decided to go to Dahab in Egypt.
All the hip Israelis went there in the spring wearing baggy tie-dyed pants and smoking joints. It was also known for great snorkeling as it is on a little cove on the Red Sea. We had to stop for the night in Sinai and continue our trip the next morning. Our first night we found a tiny bunker-type room that looked like a cement sauna inside with benches and thin mattresses. There was no electricity and it was very hot but we had to keep the door shut as thieves were supposedly rampant. We were tired from all our travels so we went to bed shortly after dinner.
The next morning, we found a taxi fairly easily and started our journey through the desert to Dahab. It felt like hours in that stifling hot car, even with the windows down. When we arrived, we saw beautiful white beaches and clear waters. The beach had little tents everywhere for sleeping and some make-shift restaurants with cushions on the floors and flowing curtains. I hadn’t smoked pot for nearly 4 years, but the whole setting suddenly made me want to get high.
That evening I asked my friends if they wanted to get high. Lizzy said “yes,” and Ellen replied dryly, “Whatever you guys want to do is fine.”
Young boys with dark curly hair would often pass us and say in Hebrew, “grass, grass.”
“Do you think they’re selling pot?” I asked Ellen and Lizzy.
“Why don’t you ask the next one?” said Ellen.
“What happens if we get caught?” I asked.
“Well, you’re the ones who want to get high,” Ellen replied.
“Oh, dear,” Lizzy kept repeating which made me hesitant.
“Do you want to get high?” I asked her.
“Yes, I do but…” she gazed off into a far away land.
“Okay, so, should I ask the next guy who says “grass” to us?”
“Yes. That’s a good idea,” Lizzy said.
“But, what if we get caught? Do you think we’ll get caught?” I asked.
“Will you guys just make a decision?” asked Ellen, the equivalent of a man watching two indecisive women in a clothing store.
A young boy in a taxi slowly drove by and said out his window, “Grass, grass.” I walked up to his car. We spoke in Hebrew. He had pot but we had to get in his taxi to go get it. Of course, this started another dialogue between me and Lizzy with Ellen once again saying, “Will you guys just make a decision.”
The three of us got in the back of his taxi and he sped away, far away from our happy land of tourists and tents on the beach to a place we probably should not have gone. He stopped in the middle of the desert far from the sea. There were some tents and a type of café with men clothed from head to toe in white flowing garments and sitting on pillows in the sand. He led us to the café. We were the only girls there. He had us sit at a table where a teenage boy and an old man were playing backgammon.
“Order a drink while I go inside and get your stuff,” he suggested as he disappeared into the café.
Each of us ordered a Coke and we sat quietly. Lizzy looked paranoid, Ellen looked bored and I sat trying to look like we had come expressly for some cold drinks. The boy and the old man finished their game. Our taxi driver came and sat down with us.
“Do you play?” the teenage boy asked us. He had a gold front tooth and a red and white turban wrapped around his head. The old man smiled and had lots of missing teeth.
Lizzy shook her head shyly.
“I play,” I said.
He set up the board. The boy and the old man probably assumed I had notions of the game. But, I knew backgammon well and had learned it at a very young age. Within the first roll of the die, I was playing better than expected. Five minutes into the game, the boy was smiling nervously, his gold tooth shining and the old man heartily laughing. Our taxi driver sat quietly.
Every time I’d make a move, the boy would shift on his cushion and Lizzy would laugh apprehensively. None of us knew how the boy with the golden tooth would react if he lost. After much concentration from both parties, I won the game. The old man said something in Arabic to the boy, then slapped his thigh and shook with laughter. The boy looked at me with a little resent.
“Okay,” laughed Lizzy trying to break the tension a little.
“Let’s play again,” the boy said hoping to win this time and bring the score to even. He started to set-up the board.
Before I could respond, our taxi driver stood up and said, “Let’s go.” We paid for our Cokes and followed him.
“Let’s smoke a little together,” he said and led us to an empty tent. It was black outside except for the twinkling stars above. The boy left to go find a pipe. I don’t think he was used to smoking pot. He seemed harmless so when he came back, we began to smoke together. The more I smoked, the harder it was for me to understand Hebrew and when I spoke, my ridiculous accent echoed inside my head.
Lizzy and Ellen fell silent. The boy began drumming on his legs and the music vibrated and filled the tent. He was actually a pretty good percussionist (or maybe it was just the pot). We accompanied him with some clapping and swaying, then abruptly he stopped and we all laughed. We lie down staring up into the dark, relaxed. Then, he decided it was time to climb on top of Ellen. She remained calm.
“Hey! What are you doing?” I yelled.
Lizzy quickly left the tent and appeared seconds later holding a huge rock above her head she must have found in the sand. “That’s enough!” she hollered in Hebrew.
The boy got a frightened look on his face.
“Don’t overreact, you guys. I’ll handle this,” Ellen managed to say from her pinned-down position. She talked to him quietly in Hebrew, trying to reason with him. Whatever she said, it worked.
He got off of her and we told him to take us back. At first, we followed him as he wondered aimlessly in the dark desert. He couldn't find his taxi. I began imagining the worst-case scenarios, one being he had planned on someone taking his taxi so we'd be stranded with him and possibly his friends for god-knows-what. But, soon enough, we came upon his taxi. This was a huge relief.
It wasn’t too long into our drive when the boy started his own paranoia attack. “I can’t drive! I can’t drive!” he cried “I’m too stoned. I have to stop. Let’s go to my friends’ house and wait," he said.
Suddenly a vision of going to his friends’ house for a pre-meditated gang rape entered my head. I became fixated on this thought and could barely contain my fear. I had no idea where we were. In fact, no one had any idea where we were. We could be murdered and thrown out into the sand without a trace.
“Take us back now!” I said sternly. “You have to drive. You can do this. Stay calm.”
“Oh, no. Oh, no,” he cried, “I have a headache. I have to stop.”
"This is really bad," moaned Lizzy, "this is really bad."
I stared out the window and deliberated jumping out of the car and rolling as I hit the sand, the car speeding away.
“Keep driving. You’ll be fine,” said Ellen calmly. “Take us back now.”
I promised God I would never smoke pot again if we got back safely. We finally got back. Ellen got out of the car and walked quickly ahead of me and Lizzy. I managed to catch up with her. “What’s wrong?” I asked.
”You guys totally overreacted the entire night. You’re the ones who wanted to do this and then you lost complete control. I’m going to bed,” she barged on ahead.
Our evening ended with the three of us quietly staring in our tent. The next morning none of us said a word about our frightful evening. It wasn’t until years later while Lizzy was visiting me that we told this story to a group of friends and the two of us laughed harder than ever at our dangerous evening.
“I can’t believe we did that,” Lizzy said shaking her head, “I forgot about that night.”
“We are so lucky nothing happened,” I said.
Considering all the things that could have happened that night, we certainly are lucky we weren’t left in the desert without a trace.
All the hip Israelis went there in the spring wearing baggy tie-dyed pants and smoking joints. It was also known for great snorkeling as it is on a little cove on the Red Sea. We had to stop for the night in Sinai and continue our trip the next morning. Our first night we found a tiny bunker-type room that looked like a cement sauna inside with benches and thin mattresses. There was no electricity and it was very hot but we had to keep the door shut as thieves were supposedly rampant. We were tired from all our travels so we went to bed shortly after dinner.
The next morning, we found a taxi fairly easily and started our journey through the desert to Dahab. It felt like hours in that stifling hot car, even with the windows down. When we arrived, we saw beautiful white beaches and clear waters. The beach had little tents everywhere for sleeping and some make-shift restaurants with cushions on the floors and flowing curtains. I hadn’t smoked pot for nearly 4 years, but the whole setting suddenly made me want to get high.
That evening I asked my friends if they wanted to get high. Lizzy said “yes,” and Ellen replied dryly, “Whatever you guys want to do is fine.”
Young boys with dark curly hair would often pass us and say in Hebrew, “grass, grass.”
“Do you think they’re selling pot?” I asked Ellen and Lizzy.
“Why don’t you ask the next one?” said Ellen.
“What happens if we get caught?” I asked.
“Well, you’re the ones who want to get high,” Ellen replied.
“Oh, dear,” Lizzy kept repeating which made me hesitant.
“Do you want to get high?” I asked her.
“Yes, I do but…” she gazed off into a far away land.
“Okay, so, should I ask the next guy who says “grass” to us?”
“Yes. That’s a good idea,” Lizzy said.
“But, what if we get caught? Do you think we’ll get caught?” I asked.
“Will you guys just make a decision?” asked Ellen, the equivalent of a man watching two indecisive women in a clothing store.
A young boy in a taxi slowly drove by and said out his window, “Grass, grass.” I walked up to his car. We spoke in Hebrew. He had pot but we had to get in his taxi to go get it. Of course, this started another dialogue between me and Lizzy with Ellen once again saying, “Will you guys just make a decision.”
The three of us got in the back of his taxi and he sped away, far away from our happy land of tourists and tents on the beach to a place we probably should not have gone. He stopped in the middle of the desert far from the sea. There were some tents and a type of café with men clothed from head to toe in white flowing garments and sitting on pillows in the sand. He led us to the café. We were the only girls there. He had us sit at a table where a teenage boy and an old man were playing backgammon.
“Order a drink while I go inside and get your stuff,” he suggested as he disappeared into the café.
Each of us ordered a Coke and we sat quietly. Lizzy looked paranoid, Ellen looked bored and I sat trying to look like we had come expressly for some cold drinks. The boy and the old man finished their game. Our taxi driver came and sat down with us.
“Do you play?” the teenage boy asked us. He had a gold front tooth and a red and white turban wrapped around his head. The old man smiled and had lots of missing teeth.
Lizzy shook her head shyly.
“I play,” I said.
He set up the board. The boy and the old man probably assumed I had notions of the game. But, I knew backgammon well and had learned it at a very young age. Within the first roll of the die, I was playing better than expected. Five minutes into the game, the boy was smiling nervously, his gold tooth shining and the old man heartily laughing. Our taxi driver sat quietly.
Every time I’d make a move, the boy would shift on his cushion and Lizzy would laugh apprehensively. None of us knew how the boy with the golden tooth would react if he lost. After much concentration from both parties, I won the game. The old man said something in Arabic to the boy, then slapped his thigh and shook with laughter. The boy looked at me with a little resent.
“Okay,” laughed Lizzy trying to break the tension a little.
“Let’s play again,” the boy said hoping to win this time and bring the score to even. He started to set-up the board.
Before I could respond, our taxi driver stood up and said, “Let’s go.” We paid for our Cokes and followed him.
“Let’s smoke a little together,” he said and led us to an empty tent. It was black outside except for the twinkling stars above. The boy left to go find a pipe. I don’t think he was used to smoking pot. He seemed harmless so when he came back, we began to smoke together. The more I smoked, the harder it was for me to understand Hebrew and when I spoke, my ridiculous accent echoed inside my head.
Lizzy and Ellen fell silent. The boy began drumming on his legs and the music vibrated and filled the tent. He was actually a pretty good percussionist (or maybe it was just the pot). We accompanied him with some clapping and swaying, then abruptly he stopped and we all laughed. We lie down staring up into the dark, relaxed. Then, he decided it was time to climb on top of Ellen. She remained calm.
“Hey! What are you doing?” I yelled.
Lizzy quickly left the tent and appeared seconds later holding a huge rock above her head she must have found in the sand. “That’s enough!” she hollered in Hebrew.
The boy got a frightened look on his face.
“Don’t overreact, you guys. I’ll handle this,” Ellen managed to say from her pinned-down position. She talked to him quietly in Hebrew, trying to reason with him. Whatever she said, it worked.
He got off of her and we told him to take us back. At first, we followed him as he wondered aimlessly in the dark desert. He couldn't find his taxi. I began imagining the worst-case scenarios, one being he had planned on someone taking his taxi so we'd be stranded with him and possibly his friends for god-knows-what. But, soon enough, we came upon his taxi. This was a huge relief.
It wasn’t too long into our drive when the boy started his own paranoia attack. “I can’t drive! I can’t drive!” he cried “I’m too stoned. I have to stop. Let’s go to my friends’ house and wait," he said.
Suddenly a vision of going to his friends’ house for a pre-meditated gang rape entered my head. I became fixated on this thought and could barely contain my fear. I had no idea where we were. In fact, no one had any idea where we were. We could be murdered and thrown out into the sand without a trace.
“Take us back now!” I said sternly. “You have to drive. You can do this. Stay calm.”
“Oh, no. Oh, no,” he cried, “I have a headache. I have to stop.”
"This is really bad," moaned Lizzy, "this is really bad."
I stared out the window and deliberated jumping out of the car and rolling as I hit the sand, the car speeding away.
“Keep driving. You’ll be fine,” said Ellen calmly. “Take us back now.”
I promised God I would never smoke pot again if we got back safely. We finally got back. Ellen got out of the car and walked quickly ahead of me and Lizzy. I managed to catch up with her. “What’s wrong?” I asked.
”You guys totally overreacted the entire night. You’re the ones who wanted to do this and then you lost complete control. I’m going to bed,” she barged on ahead.
Our evening ended with the three of us quietly staring in our tent. The next morning none of us said a word about our frightful evening. It wasn’t until years later while Lizzy was visiting me that we told this story to a group of friends and the two of us laughed harder than ever at our dangerous evening.
“I can’t believe we did that,” Lizzy said shaking her head, “I forgot about that night.”
“We are so lucky nothing happened,” I said.
Considering all the things that could have happened that night, we certainly are lucky we weren’t left in the desert without a trace.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
The Magical Mystery Tour
When I was 21 years old, I lived in Israel as a volunteer. After three months of intense Hebrew study and working on a kibbutz, I was sent up north to a small village near Tsfat. I was going to live with another American girl, Ellen. We were to teach English together at the English Center.
We had first visited our place a month earlier. It was a labyrinth of furniture so walking around was nearly impossible. Our house had served as a home for volunteers over the years. It looked like a squat. Our bathroom had a shower with no shower head, just a pipe sticking out of the wall. Spiders were encrusted into the frost of our tiny freezer that was big enough to hold two ice trays. Our fridge smelled like decomposing garbage and our kitchen cabinets were full of dirty red plastic dishes.
In our front yard which was overgrown with abnormally long dead grass, were old rusty bike remains, and if you dug in the sand at our front door, you could find huge black sleeping scorpions. But, we heard the people were friendly and inviting and we wanted to have a real Israeli experience with the people and the language, so we figured it was worth it and we’d make our house nice little by little.
I happened to arrive by bus one evening by myself. Ellen was to arrive a day or two later. I had a big duffle bag and a rolled-up carpet wrapped in plastic in hopes to make our dump feel more like a home. I knew no one so I was planning on finding another bus from Tsfat to my little village.
I tried to get some information but no one was around. So I sat in the bus depot waiting optimistically. Not long after I sat down, a balding stocky dark man around 30 years old approached me. He was slightly effeminate in his ways.
“Hello! You speak English?,” he asked.
“Yes,” I responded.
”No more buses tonight. Where you go?”
“No more buses? Are you sure? I’m going to Moshav Biria,” I replied.
“I drive tour bus. Waiting for next bus to bring my friend. I know Moshav Biria. I give you ride if you like.”
“Okay,” I said feeling lucky as I was sitting all alone and he probably was right about there being no more buses.
“Let’s go," he said waiting for me to get up and walk with him.
“What about your friend?” I asked
“It’s okay. I bring you and come back.”
“Are you sure? We can wait,” I said not quite sure if this was the best thing to do.
“Sure. Let’s go! I help you,” He heaved my heavy rug over his shoulder. I followed him to a white and red bus. We climbed in. I sort of knew the way, at least I recognized which direction to go. At a fork in the road where he should’ve turned right, he took a left.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“To my place. I just need to check my messages and see if my friend called.”
I did not like this answer. He turned on the radio. A Phil Collins love song was on. “I love this song,” he smiled and began to sing out loud. “You like this song?” he asked.
I told him yes even though it made me feel like gagging. This was getting uncomfortable. Not long after, we parked in front of some nice apartment buildings. He turned the engine off and started to climb out.
“I’ll wait for you,“ I said trying to minimize my risks of sexual harassment, murder, rape, mugging, and kidnapping.
“Come. Come,” he beckoned, “only a minute.”
I began to gather my belongings before getting out of his bus.
“Leave. Leave. No worries. We come right back.”
I followed him up some stairs. I looked down at his parked bus to see if by chance he had arranged someone to come steal my things. What was I thinking? We went inside his apartment which was neat and clean and well decorated. Maybe he was gay and I had nothing to worry about.
“Sit. Sit,” he motioned to his couch. “I make you tea.” He put on the kettle then came into the living room to check his answering machine. He had no messages. “My friend will probably call soon. Then, I go get her.”
“Okay,” I said looking around and taking in his place, his things, any hint of craziness I might find though I had no idea what a murderer or rapist’s home might look like.
He brought some tea and chocolates to a low table by the couch. “I’m tour guide,” he said. Then he went to a chest of drawers and pulled open a drawer full of post cards. “Look,” he showed me all his thank you letters from past tourists.
I sat quietly drinking my tea and eating a few chocolates. I was starved from my long bus ride and hadn’t had dinner. I was hoping his phone would ring and we’d leave. He showed me card after card, smiling with nostalgia and feeling proud he was so loved.
“I also do massage at the spa,” he showed me a brochure of a hot springs spa. “I work there. Very nice.”
I looked at the brochure quietly.
“I give you massage. I’m very good.”
“No thanks,” I said.
“Yes. Yes. Just your head. You will like. Lots of nerves in our head. Need to get the energy out,” he came to sit next to me on the couch and the next thing I knew, I was semi-reclined, my back against his chest. I felt awkward in this almost sexual position and remember hoping he wouldn’t get an erection. Luckily, he never did as far as I could tell. This did relieve me to some extent.
He began using his knuckles to apply abrupt circular motions all over my head in a slightly painful manner. He did these tight little movements over and over. It felt like he was making tiny knots. Finally he stopped. He got up, left the room and seconds later came back holding a pair of red silky shorts in has hand, the kind Jane Fonda would’ve worn in the 70’s. “I do your legs. Put these on,” he said.
Was this a joke? I felt like laughing. “No thanks. I need to use your bathroom,” I said.
I went into his bathroom and when I looked in the mirror, I was terrified at what I saw. He had massaged my normally long curly hair into a giant afro. Frantically, I tried to smooth my hair down to no avail. I had to get out of there. He needed to take me home. But what if he refused? What if he wouldn’t let me go? Panic. I left the bathroom. “Take me home now,” I said.
“Okay. Okay,” he said not at all ruffled.
The first thing I did when we got in his bus was verify all my belongings were still there. Indeed they were right where I left them.
“I guess my friend not coming,” he said as we drove back, his radio turned up loudly.
Please get me home safely, I repeated in my head, bargaining with a higher power. The closer we got to my home, the more I began to panic about the situation…me with a stranger in a bus. I wouldn’t feel safe until I was in my dilapidated house with the doors locked. We finally arrived and I got out feeling blessed and relieved, “Thank you so much,” I said.
“Very welcome,” he smiled and drove away. I watched him and waited until I saw his bus far away before I walked inside my house. Two days later when my roommate Ellen arrived, I told her about my tour bus adventure. Several weeks later, she was walking to town when lo and behold, a red and white tour bus stopped alongside the road and the same fellow proposed to give her a ride.
“I know who you are,” she said to him supposedly giving him an evil look. After that, he promptly drove away.
A month or two afterward, she claimed to have seen his photo with a warning for a man posing to be a tour guide! Throughout our year in Moshav Biria, we would occasionally see him scouting the streets in his empty bus. Once in a while a group of army kids would get in and he’d bring them up the hill. I guess he was just a lonely guy. Maybe he was a pervert? Who knows what would have happened had I put on his red silky shorts…would he have made a pass at me or just massaged my legs or both? I’ll never know but he does deserve to go down as one of my Israeli adventures, my magical mystery tour bus man.
We had first visited our place a month earlier. It was a labyrinth of furniture so walking around was nearly impossible. Our house had served as a home for volunteers over the years. It looked like a squat. Our bathroom had a shower with no shower head, just a pipe sticking out of the wall. Spiders were encrusted into the frost of our tiny freezer that was big enough to hold two ice trays. Our fridge smelled like decomposing garbage and our kitchen cabinets were full of dirty red plastic dishes.
In our front yard which was overgrown with abnormally long dead grass, were old rusty bike remains, and if you dug in the sand at our front door, you could find huge black sleeping scorpions. But, we heard the people were friendly and inviting and we wanted to have a real Israeli experience with the people and the language, so we figured it was worth it and we’d make our house nice little by little.
I happened to arrive by bus one evening by myself. Ellen was to arrive a day or two later. I had a big duffle bag and a rolled-up carpet wrapped in plastic in hopes to make our dump feel more like a home. I knew no one so I was planning on finding another bus from Tsfat to my little village.
I tried to get some information but no one was around. So I sat in the bus depot waiting optimistically. Not long after I sat down, a balding stocky dark man around 30 years old approached me. He was slightly effeminate in his ways.
“Hello! You speak English?,” he asked.
“Yes,” I responded.
”No more buses tonight. Where you go?”
“No more buses? Are you sure? I’m going to Moshav Biria,” I replied.
“I drive tour bus. Waiting for next bus to bring my friend. I know Moshav Biria. I give you ride if you like.”
“Okay,” I said feeling lucky as I was sitting all alone and he probably was right about there being no more buses.
“Let’s go," he said waiting for me to get up and walk with him.
“What about your friend?” I asked
“It’s okay. I bring you and come back.”
“Are you sure? We can wait,” I said not quite sure if this was the best thing to do.
“Sure. Let’s go! I help you,” He heaved my heavy rug over his shoulder. I followed him to a white and red bus. We climbed in. I sort of knew the way, at least I recognized which direction to go. At a fork in the road where he should’ve turned right, he took a left.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“To my place. I just need to check my messages and see if my friend called.”
I did not like this answer. He turned on the radio. A Phil Collins love song was on. “I love this song,” he smiled and began to sing out loud. “You like this song?” he asked.
I told him yes even though it made me feel like gagging. This was getting uncomfortable. Not long after, we parked in front of some nice apartment buildings. He turned the engine off and started to climb out.
“I’ll wait for you,“ I said trying to minimize my risks of sexual harassment, murder, rape, mugging, and kidnapping.
“Come. Come,” he beckoned, “only a minute.”
I began to gather my belongings before getting out of his bus.
“Leave. Leave. No worries. We come right back.”
I followed him up some stairs. I looked down at his parked bus to see if by chance he had arranged someone to come steal my things. What was I thinking? We went inside his apartment which was neat and clean and well decorated. Maybe he was gay and I had nothing to worry about.
“Sit. Sit,” he motioned to his couch. “I make you tea.” He put on the kettle then came into the living room to check his answering machine. He had no messages. “My friend will probably call soon. Then, I go get her.”
“Okay,” I said looking around and taking in his place, his things, any hint of craziness I might find though I had no idea what a murderer or rapist’s home might look like.
He brought some tea and chocolates to a low table by the couch. “I’m tour guide,” he said. Then he went to a chest of drawers and pulled open a drawer full of post cards. “Look,” he showed me all his thank you letters from past tourists.
I sat quietly drinking my tea and eating a few chocolates. I was starved from my long bus ride and hadn’t had dinner. I was hoping his phone would ring and we’d leave. He showed me card after card, smiling with nostalgia and feeling proud he was so loved.
“I also do massage at the spa,” he showed me a brochure of a hot springs spa. “I work there. Very nice.”
I looked at the brochure quietly.
“I give you massage. I’m very good.”
“No thanks,” I said.
“Yes. Yes. Just your head. You will like. Lots of nerves in our head. Need to get the energy out,” he came to sit next to me on the couch and the next thing I knew, I was semi-reclined, my back against his chest. I felt awkward in this almost sexual position and remember hoping he wouldn’t get an erection. Luckily, he never did as far as I could tell. This did relieve me to some extent.
He began using his knuckles to apply abrupt circular motions all over my head in a slightly painful manner. He did these tight little movements over and over. It felt like he was making tiny knots. Finally he stopped. He got up, left the room and seconds later came back holding a pair of red silky shorts in has hand, the kind Jane Fonda would’ve worn in the 70’s. “I do your legs. Put these on,” he said.
Was this a joke? I felt like laughing. “No thanks. I need to use your bathroom,” I said.
I went into his bathroom and when I looked in the mirror, I was terrified at what I saw. He had massaged my normally long curly hair into a giant afro. Frantically, I tried to smooth my hair down to no avail. I had to get out of there. He needed to take me home. But what if he refused? What if he wouldn’t let me go? Panic. I left the bathroom. “Take me home now,” I said.
“Okay. Okay,” he said not at all ruffled.
The first thing I did when we got in his bus was verify all my belongings were still there. Indeed they were right where I left them.
“I guess my friend not coming,” he said as we drove back, his radio turned up loudly.
Please get me home safely, I repeated in my head, bargaining with a higher power. The closer we got to my home, the more I began to panic about the situation…me with a stranger in a bus. I wouldn’t feel safe until I was in my dilapidated house with the doors locked. We finally arrived and I got out feeling blessed and relieved, “Thank you so much,” I said.
“Very welcome,” he smiled and drove away. I watched him and waited until I saw his bus far away before I walked inside my house. Two days later when my roommate Ellen arrived, I told her about my tour bus adventure. Several weeks later, she was walking to town when lo and behold, a red and white tour bus stopped alongside the road and the same fellow proposed to give her a ride.
“I know who you are,” she said to him supposedly giving him an evil look. After that, he promptly drove away.
A month or two afterward, she claimed to have seen his photo with a warning for a man posing to be a tour guide! Throughout our year in Moshav Biria, we would occasionally see him scouting the streets in his empty bus. Once in a while a group of army kids would get in and he’d bring them up the hill. I guess he was just a lonely guy. Maybe he was a pervert? Who knows what would have happened had I put on his red silky shorts…would he have made a pass at me or just massaged my legs or both? I’ll never know but he does deserve to go down as one of my Israeli adventures, my magical mystery tour bus man.
Claire Scissorhands (Part II of Mona Lisa and Van Gaga)
The day finally arrived. Claire, two and half years old, was finally introduced to some great artists: Van Gogh, Botticelli, Leonardo de Vinci, Picasso and more.
You must be thinking, "It’s about time! I learned about art history when I was one year old." I guess we are just not pushing our children as much as we should these days. Claire’s arts and crafts teacher arrived with her important assistant, the art historian. If you remember, the teacher needed a specialist for her class of three toddlers. First, the art historian (today I am convinced she has never worked with children) laid out portraits including Mona Lisa, Van Gogh’s self portrait, the Venus, one from Picasso and a couple others. Then she asked the children, “Which one do you like best?”
Claire, very enthused, proceeded to show me a new boo boo on her finger. Angélique stared blankly without contributing much to the discussion. The art historian posed her question again; confused she wasn’t getting any answers, “Which style do you like the best?” (Maybe using the word style would elicit a bigger response.) Then she explained the styles and asked the children to choose their favorite one.
Trying to engage Claire, I pointed to the 6 or so portraits in front of her. “Claire? Claire? Which one do you like?” First she chose Picasso, then she chose Botticelli. She wore a bewildered look on her face as if to say, “Hey! Where’s the paint? When are we going to paint?” Inside I was bubbling with rage thinking, “They are little kids, let them have fun. Why does it have to be so intellectual already?”
The art historian explained to the children the following, “You are going to make your own portrait. You can choose the eyes, ears, mouth, and nose from any of the portraits you like. First you need to draw a big circle on your piece of paper.” She handed out a piece of paper. Claire automatically started scribbling.
My friend who teaches pre-school told me teaching circles is good for children 3-4 years old but that it takes a lot of practice and it is very hard. She does weeks of activities just to help children understand what a circle is. For example, she plays games using balls and then has a specific activity of making balls with clay or painting circles. She may work on the whole concept for months. So, when Claire was asked to draw a circle from thin air, I held my breath. “Claire. Let’s draw a circle.” I handed her a pencil. She began to scribble dark vertical lines. “Let me help you,” I took her pencil and drew a big circle that was supposed to serve as her portrait’s face.
Then, we were told to let each child cut out the eyes, ears, mouth of each portrait in front of them. Claire is just learning to hold a pair of scissors and is excited to just open and close them. To actually use them efficiently is at least a year or two away. “This activity is hard for Claire,” I said trying to just state the obvious, “she is not capable of cutting things out with scissors yet. She is still learning to hold them.”
The assistant looked concerned. Had she prepared an activity that surpassed a two and half year old capacities? Yes. But, the teacher was not going to let me rain on their portrait parade.
“The goal is for her to get acquainted with the scissors. You can help her.” I let Claire pick and choose her portrait’s eyes, ears, nose, and mouth and let her hold her scissors and attempt to cut the paper along side me while I cut bits of the face out for her. It was hard getting her to pick these things out, she was uncommitted to the entire portrait concept. She enjoyed using a paint brush and glue though the concept of where eyes and other pieces go was not registering nor of any interest. I let her do as she wished since there was enough structure to stifle any creative fire still alive.
The assistant came over and tried to reason with Claire, “Look, Claire. You see, you have two eyes and here you have a nose, and then your mouth. So, where do you think her mouth goes?” Claire listened intently and then glued bits of paper that were scraps of rectangles and strips and glued them this way and that, unconcerned that her portrait had no mouth and the eyes weren’t where they should be.
Soon the teacher came over to us. She was persistent in Claire learning to cut and put things together in a logical manner. She sat Claire on her lap and helped her open and shut the scissors ad nausea and made her cut out a mouth and then a neck which she felt was very important for the portrait.
My pre-school teacher friend told me making portraits is an activity for much older children, kindergarten level and older. She told me the whole concept of a face takes months and lots of time. Claire focused on painting with glue over and over until the entire paper was shiny and resembled nothing close to a portrait. Tziki’s portrait was spectacular because the teacher insisted on everything being precisely so. The teacher announced the goal is just for the children to become aware of faces and how to put them together.
Several weeks ago, I made a reference to my friend Jeeves that all French coloring books have two pictures on each page, one is the picture un-colored for the child to color, and the other picture is colored so the child can copy it and do it correctly. I absolutely hate this! Jeeves told me the French are extremely influenced by the philosopher Descartes who believed in taking things apart, analyzing them, and then putting them back together. Descartes was one of the first people to compile an encyclopedia.
Seeing all this structure enforced in a simple toddler’s arts and crafts class may reflect these concepts. Or, another theory is simply that the teachers are not trained in pre-school education. However, it’s easy enough to talk to people who are competent to see what is appropriate, don’t you think? These beliefs of coloring in the lines, copying something color by color and focusing on a finished product makes me feel like I need to enforce originality and creativity even more to tip the balances back to something “healthy.”
I’m so close to pulling Claire out of this class, but if I do, then I should at least tell the teacher why. Will I seem mean and judgmental? And if I do seem that way, does it even matter? If we stay, Claire will be doing projects out of her league. Now is the time for her to have fun, use her hands, smear paint around without an agenda, feel sticky glue dry on her hands and enjoy the sensation of peeling it off. I think my true desire is to just get back to basics and enjoy the simple things. Why complicate things?
You must be thinking, "It’s about time! I learned about art history when I was one year old." I guess we are just not pushing our children as much as we should these days. Claire’s arts and crafts teacher arrived with her important assistant, the art historian. If you remember, the teacher needed a specialist for her class of three toddlers. First, the art historian (today I am convinced she has never worked with children) laid out portraits including Mona Lisa, Van Gogh’s self portrait, the Venus, one from Picasso and a couple others. Then she asked the children, “Which one do you like best?”
Claire, very enthused, proceeded to show me a new boo boo on her finger. Angélique stared blankly without contributing much to the discussion. The art historian posed her question again; confused she wasn’t getting any answers, “Which style do you like the best?” (Maybe using the word style would elicit a bigger response.) Then she explained the styles and asked the children to choose their favorite one.
Trying to engage Claire, I pointed to the 6 or so portraits in front of her. “Claire? Claire? Which one do you like?” First she chose Picasso, then she chose Botticelli. She wore a bewildered look on her face as if to say, “Hey! Where’s the paint? When are we going to paint?” Inside I was bubbling with rage thinking, “They are little kids, let them have fun. Why does it have to be so intellectual already?”
The art historian explained to the children the following, “You are going to make your own portrait. You can choose the eyes, ears, mouth, and nose from any of the portraits you like. First you need to draw a big circle on your piece of paper.” She handed out a piece of paper. Claire automatically started scribbling.
My friend who teaches pre-school told me teaching circles is good for children 3-4 years old but that it takes a lot of practice and it is very hard. She does weeks of activities just to help children understand what a circle is. For example, she plays games using balls and then has a specific activity of making balls with clay or painting circles. She may work on the whole concept for months. So, when Claire was asked to draw a circle from thin air, I held my breath. “Claire. Let’s draw a circle.” I handed her a pencil. She began to scribble dark vertical lines. “Let me help you,” I took her pencil and drew a big circle that was supposed to serve as her portrait’s face.
Then, we were told to let each child cut out the eyes, ears, mouth of each portrait in front of them. Claire is just learning to hold a pair of scissors and is excited to just open and close them. To actually use them efficiently is at least a year or two away. “This activity is hard for Claire,” I said trying to just state the obvious, “she is not capable of cutting things out with scissors yet. She is still learning to hold them.”
The assistant looked concerned. Had she prepared an activity that surpassed a two and half year old capacities? Yes. But, the teacher was not going to let me rain on their portrait parade.
“The goal is for her to get acquainted with the scissors. You can help her.” I let Claire pick and choose her portrait’s eyes, ears, nose, and mouth and let her hold her scissors and attempt to cut the paper along side me while I cut bits of the face out for her. It was hard getting her to pick these things out, she was uncommitted to the entire portrait concept. She enjoyed using a paint brush and glue though the concept of where eyes and other pieces go was not registering nor of any interest. I let her do as she wished since there was enough structure to stifle any creative fire still alive.
The assistant came over and tried to reason with Claire, “Look, Claire. You see, you have two eyes and here you have a nose, and then your mouth. So, where do you think her mouth goes?” Claire listened intently and then glued bits of paper that were scraps of rectangles and strips and glued them this way and that, unconcerned that her portrait had no mouth and the eyes weren’t where they should be.
Soon the teacher came over to us. She was persistent in Claire learning to cut and put things together in a logical manner. She sat Claire on her lap and helped her open and shut the scissors ad nausea and made her cut out a mouth and then a neck which she felt was very important for the portrait.
My pre-school teacher friend told me making portraits is an activity for much older children, kindergarten level and older. She told me the whole concept of a face takes months and lots of time. Claire focused on painting with glue over and over until the entire paper was shiny and resembled nothing close to a portrait. Tziki’s portrait was spectacular because the teacher insisted on everything being precisely so. The teacher announced the goal is just for the children to become aware of faces and how to put them together.
Several weeks ago, I made a reference to my friend Jeeves that all French coloring books have two pictures on each page, one is the picture un-colored for the child to color, and the other picture is colored so the child can copy it and do it correctly. I absolutely hate this! Jeeves told me the French are extremely influenced by the philosopher Descartes who believed in taking things apart, analyzing them, and then putting them back together. Descartes was one of the first people to compile an encyclopedia.
Seeing all this structure enforced in a simple toddler’s arts and crafts class may reflect these concepts. Or, another theory is simply that the teachers are not trained in pre-school education. However, it’s easy enough to talk to people who are competent to see what is appropriate, don’t you think? These beliefs of coloring in the lines, copying something color by color and focusing on a finished product makes me feel like I need to enforce originality and creativity even more to tip the balances back to something “healthy.”
I’m so close to pulling Claire out of this class, but if I do, then I should at least tell the teacher why. Will I seem mean and judgmental? And if I do seem that way, does it even matter? If we stay, Claire will be doing projects out of her league. Now is the time for her to have fun, use her hands, smear paint around without an agenda, feel sticky glue dry on her hands and enjoy the sensation of peeling it off. I think my true desire is to just get back to basics and enjoy the simple things. Why complicate things?
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