In Texas, driving north from the border that is the Rio Grande, I hit an INS checkpoint. The uniformed officer who flags me over is red-haired and freckle-faced. And young. She calls me "ma'am." Her eyes sweep over the chaos that is the interior of my car - tent, sleeping bag, carton of books, my backpack spilling over the passenger seat.
She asks me where I'm coming from, what was I doing there, have I been out of the country, am I a citizen of the United States. I answer and she waves me on. She doesn't look under the quilt that's spread out in the back, a quilt big enough to hide two illegal aliens (three if they're petite). The quilt is covering only my cooler and a heap of laundry but she doesn't know that! She doesn't even ask to see my driver's license. I could be anyone! But, of course, I'm not. I'm an aging white woman in a suburbanite's vehicle with Ohio plates, decreed to be totally benign. Which, of course, I am.
I know that I've reached the age of invisibility on the beach and that construction workers, if they whistle at anybody anymore, are not going to whistle at me, not that they ever did. That part's more than OK with me. I'm less comfortable with the assumption that, based on my appearance, I'm harmless. I don't think I like being written off that way.
I'm mulling this, wondering if I should do something - anything - to alter the image I present to the world - spike my hair, get me some gangsta gear, wear bright blue fingernail polish (OK - I've already done that a few times). As I listen to one more NPR discussion of the Trayvon Martin tragedy, I scroll through recent memory revisiting erroneous assumptions I've made about people solely on first impressions and think maybe I should buy a hoodie.
It might remind me not to be so damn judgmental (I am), and maybe I'll look just a little bit dangerous when I wear it (but not in Florida).
About Me
- Jan C. Snow
- Since 1984, my light commentary, Marginal Considerations, has been a feature of Weekend Radio. Moving into the 21st century (yeah, I know - a decade late and more than a dollar short), it may be time to explore the format known as "the blog." (Still on the radio, BTW.) I am the author of A Natural History of Socks, illustrated by the late Eric May, You May Already Be a Winner (and other marginal considerations) and The Nonexistence of Rutabagas, plus maybe 1K features, essays, book and arts reviews in newspapers and magazines nearly everywhere, except perhaps Kansas. I live on Lake Erie one city to the west of Cleveland with too many musical instruments, several large plants and no cats. My front door is purple. I collect dust, take up space and burn fossil fuel. I kayak, knit, hike, sing, canoe, write choral music and play hammered dulcimer, but not all at the same time. I read too much and don't write enough, but what's new?
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Where have I been? (Well, where am I now . . .)
Once again my blog settled in for a long winter's nap, so long that it dozed into spring. (I think it was sleeping with my muse; she hasn't shown up for a while, either.)
Why so long away? Who knows . . . holidays, too many music commitments, friends' needs, whatever. Lame explanations with only one decent excuse: a chunk of this time was spent someplace warm and sunny, and a portion of that well off the grid. But I'm here now, still feeding the dust mites, still taking up space and burning fossil fuel. Exactly where 'here' is, however, is under consideration.
Before I left for Costa Rica, which is where the warm and sunny was, I tried to look up the street addresses of two hotels in the city of San Jose. The first lodging was where I would be after some weeks of hiking and birding. The second was where I would meet up with seven other volunteers with whom I'd be working on a humpback whale study, the off the grid part. In between, I'd have some time on my own. Being more of a Spanish-mispronouncer than a Spanish-speaker, I wanted to have these addresses in writing ready to hand to cab drivers if necessary.
What I found for the first hotel was "5km from the International Airport, Paseo Colon," for the second, "south of Parque de la Paz." I called the travel agent who had helped set up the first leg of my trip.
I could hear her computer keys clicking away. "That's all I have," she said. "There doesn't seem to be any numbered address for either. But I'm sure any cab driver in the city will know where they are."
I learned that indeed any cab driver does know where those hotels - and everything else - is, as did the guy driving the bus for the birding group, even though there were few street signs and almost no names or route numbers to be seen on roads outside the city.
"We don't use numbers," I was told when I asked about this. "We go by landmarks." My source illustrated this with his former address: "Jaime T-C, behind the fruit stand, Sarapiqui."
What if the fruit stand closes? I wanted to know. Or moves across the street? What if it sells out to a gas station or is taken over by a chain store?
He laughed at me. "Don't worry," he said. "The guy who delivers the mail knows where we are." Well, the guy who delivers my mail knows where I am, too, but he has a street name and house number to give him some clues. Without those, I wondered, where is 'here'?
My address could be "300 yards from the city ball field behind the Discount Drug Mart." It might also be "thirteen doors from the railroad tracks on Avenue French." So far, though, the best Costa Rican-style address I've come up with is "two blocks south of the lake, next to the house with the singing greyhounds." If you decide to come visit, just turn down my street and drive very slowly until you hear the dog duet. They do really great harmony.
Why so long away? Who knows . . . holidays, too many music commitments, friends' needs, whatever. Lame explanations with only one decent excuse: a chunk of this time was spent someplace warm and sunny, and a portion of that well off the grid. But I'm here now, still feeding the dust mites, still taking up space and burning fossil fuel. Exactly where 'here' is, however, is under consideration.
Before I left for Costa Rica, which is where the warm and sunny was, I tried to look up the street addresses of two hotels in the city of San Jose. The first lodging was where I would be after some weeks of hiking and birding. The second was where I would meet up with seven other volunteers with whom I'd be working on a humpback whale study, the off the grid part. In between, I'd have some time on my own. Being more of a Spanish-mispronouncer than a Spanish-speaker, I wanted to have these addresses in writing ready to hand to cab drivers if necessary.
What I found for the first hotel was "5km from the International Airport, Paseo Colon," for the second, "south of Parque de la Paz." I called the travel agent who had helped set up the first leg of my trip.
I could hear her computer keys clicking away. "That's all I have," she said. "There doesn't seem to be any numbered address for either. But I'm sure any cab driver in the city will know where they are."
I learned that indeed any cab driver does know where those hotels - and everything else - is, as did the guy driving the bus for the birding group, even though there were few street signs and almost no names or route numbers to be seen on roads outside the city.
"We don't use numbers," I was told when I asked about this. "We go by landmarks." My source illustrated this with his former address: "Jaime T-C, behind the fruit stand, Sarapiqui."
What if the fruit stand closes? I wanted to know. Or moves across the street? What if it sells out to a gas station or is taken over by a chain store?
He laughed at me. "Don't worry," he said. "The guy who delivers the mail knows where we are." Well, the guy who delivers my mail knows where I am, too, but he has a street name and house number to give him some clues. Without those, I wondered, where is 'here'?
My address could be "300 yards from the city ball field behind the Discount Drug Mart." It might also be "thirteen doors from the railroad tracks on Avenue French." So far, though, the best Costa Rican-style address I've come up with is "two blocks south of the lake, next to the house with the singing greyhounds." If you decide to come visit, just turn down my street and drive very slowly until you hear the dog duet. They do really great harmony.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)