A Certain Point of View

Went to dinner with Ted, Todd's mentor. Ted was Todd's advisor as an undergrad, too. I like Ted; fatherly, funny, practical, laughs at my jokes.

I listened like a good wife while they talked shop, while they talked about how to improve Todd's syllabi, his class ratings, how to keep his tenure process on track.

When I began harping about Todd's writing (or lack thereof?) Ted was calm. Todd finally admitted to writer's block and I set the context of how the pressures of our homelife were affecting him. Ted didn't bat an eye, good ole Ted. So reassuring. Well, we'll just have to look at research projects and things you can work on, then. Wednesday? Ok.

And I am happy and hopeful again.

Bob. My parents have a friend they've known for years. Bob had the first house on our block in the neighborhood. Bob ran a service station for years, and his wife used to buy Girl Scout cookies from me. He sold the service station property for a jillion dollars and retired when I was in high school so I never got to be a customer. But Bob posed as my father when I bought my first car and told me if I got a good car or not. Their kids were already grown by the time I was born, but I went to school with two of their grandchildren, Audrey and Scott. Audrey tried out for Miss Nisei week in college. She was Pretty, a Popular Girl, but she was always ok to me, and really nice to my dad.

My parents moved back to the old neighborhood seven? eight years ago, and right next door to Bob. Daddy and Bob might be ten years apart, (maybe not, because Bob married young) but they hang out together and help each other garden. Bob has done civic projects for the local community, and gets Daddy, who is shy, and doesn't like to speak English, and doesn't like to speak Japanese to the Sansei, to help. I think this is good for both of 'em.

Bob is tough. He's already buried two children. One died of cancer, the other one died in a crash on the way to the first one's funeral. He buried his wife. I know one son is back home again, Audrey's Dad, actually, and I'm not sure if it's because Bob is alone now, or if it's because he needs a place to live. Audrey's Dad brings ne'er do well friends home, which I'm sure doesn't make Bob happy. And now, Bob has had a granddaughter come for an extended visit. Bob's granddaughter is Japanese and African American. Let's not put too fine a point on it, she looks Black. Bob (I didn't know this) has a daughter who lives in South Carolina. She was raped. She gave birth to, and decided to raise, a little girl. To this little Black girl who had never visited before, Bob determinedly lavished affection. Bob took her to all his social commitments and introduced her proudly as "Another granddaughter" even though (apparently) everybody knows. Bob is tough.

The Little Granddaughter, whose name I don't know, of course loved her Grandpa, but fell in love with Odo and my Daddy's company. Imagine my Daddy's face, the first time, when he answered the faint knocking at the door, saw no one, looked down, and saw The Little Granddaughter, all of wide-eyed five, whispering very politely, asking to be let in to play with the cat. The Little Granddaughter played with Odo until Odo got fed up and bit her. She bravely showed Daddy the bite site, the teeth marks, and Daddy comforted her as best he could in his broken English, issued her a Band-Aid, called Bob and sent her home. Imagine my Daddy's face, the second time, the third time, the fourth time, when he answered the faint knocking at the door.

She came to visit daily, for weeks. Daddy didn't think he'd like her. "She may be Bob's granddaughter, but she's Black!" "Bob's tough. I don't think I could do what he does." But she was sweet, and polite, and never cried, no matter how irritated Odo got or how hard he bit. (And Odo knows little from big, too, he never hurt Jessie, who is very old. And he never hurt Duke, who was dying, at my father in law's house. Odo is not a bad cat.) Daddy started cleaning things up so there was space to play. Then he started buying sodas and sweets to share. Then he started buying toys for her, too. "Little things."

One day, her mother came to get her, they got on a train, and went home to South Carolina. Daddy found he missed her almost-daily visits very much.

I came to visit and asked where all of Odo's toys were. When Odo lived with me, it seemed like all the other cats conspired to never let Odo play with toys; when I brought Odo to my parents' house, I bought lots of new toys. "Odo stuffs all the fuzzy glitter balls into weird crevices and it's a waste to have 'em disappear." Daddy began, and I replied that it was a waste to have them out of reach. "The point of fuzzy glitter balls is for him to stuff 'em into weird crevices! They'll keep popping back in and out. Where are they?" Daddy pointed to a shelf. They weren't there. We looked elsewhere. Did Odo find them after all? We searched all over the house.

They were all gone, a whole bag of them, 15 or 20 of them. My parents are getting cluttery, as old people do, and I said they must have misplaced them, as "they couldn't have just walked out of the house." And my mother replied darkly, "They probably did. Black children learn quickly."

Huh? And then I learned about the Daily Visits of The Little Granddaughter.

But my father, who spent so much time with her, who overcame such racist thoughts and learned to love her, was crushed. "Surely not," he said. "She went home empty handed every day." But that wasn't true, either, she would come with a toy purse or a backpack full of toys she made for Odo to try.

My father pines to tell Bob, but Mom thinks that would hurt his feelings. Bob would want to set things right, or maybe get angry. I think Daddy just wants to talk about how he thinks he misunderstood Little Granddaughter. (And, gee, it couldn't just be because five year olds are greedy for toys and things that are shiny or goofy, or just because of bad parenting, etc., no - it's because she's BLACK, eh?) There is a chill between Bob and Daddy that I hope wears off.

"She's the product of rape. It's bred in the bone." My parents tell each other darkly. "Nothing you can do about it."

Came home from vacation and realized that Todd's ten-speed bicycle was gone. Someone, while the garage door was up, strolled in and took it. And while we're at it, the pick-axe is gone too. Probably, someone saw the pick-axe from the street (it was visible in the garage from the street) and came in to take it, saw the bike, and off he went.

We filed a police report. Todd and I both believe in exercises in futility.

Because the garage is attached to the house , it's not considered petty theft anymore; it's considered burglary. According to police stats, we were burglarized.

When Todd's bike got stolen, it was upsetting. When it got labeled a burglary, somehow, it changed something in my brain, and now I'm scared.

We went to Mammoth Lakes. Well, we stayed in Mammoth Lakes. We hiked Mono lake, listened to a lecture on the ecology and conservation of Mono Lake (the tour guide was really cute) and visited Bodie ghost town, and stopped in Bishop and Manzanar.

Manzanar internment camp has a NPS visitor's center now, which is really very cool. The rangers that work there are far too hippy for my taste, though.


Gee, I'm tired. I'll rewrite this at a later date. Come back in a day or two.

On August 8, 2004, my new and fragile little world crumbled to dust.

Things were going well. The house was starting to clean up, slowly. I had hired my friend Rose's son, Kevin, at $5 an hour, to come and help me sort stuff out and keep me company, and vacuum and chat. Sort of reverse babysitting. My Disaster Workshop lecture for the Nevada Museums Association was coming along, as was the collection of 'artifacts' to be sacrificed in a disaster. My studio was finally refloored, and the unpacking was coming along. Various objects would finally be in progress after a long delay. Work was going ok, too, despite some annoying customers. The most officious manager was getting married and moving to Florida.

Then walked in Greg. I didn't recognize him, and he didn't recognize me. He asked me for help with a copier, copying a manuscript, and we chatted a bit. He mentioned he was a professor, and I told him about the Kinko's teacher's discount card. Cal State L.A.? Did he know Todd? And then we realized that we had met several times. Oh, hi, Greg. How has your summer been? Greg, as department chair of publicity, told me he was worried about Todd's progress for tenure, how he hadn't published anything. It was my understanding that Todd had recently published a couple of articles... I recovered my wife-face and covered for him, assuring him that Todd was writing a lot this summer. I felt a little like Lori Hacking. Except for the murderous rage and fear in my heart.

Todd's third year review is next year. Again, as at his last tenure track position, it is unclear if he will achieve tenure. I know he has begun having persecution nightmares, where people are trying to kill him or where he is being chased, as he did once before. He has begun to need visits to casinos again, to play nickel slots.

Tenure watch has begun again, and I am afraid. He won't go to counseling, alone or with me, and I don't know how to help him.

So much depends on tenure. Todd's happiness, and our security. I so want Todd to be happy. I'm working on being happy. I want/need to have children soon. I want to live in the house we bought last year. I want to continue to grow my business, with the stationery I ordered. I want to stay in Los Angeles, now that we've returned here, near his parents and near mine.

Help! Oh, I wish I could write a book for him.

Speaking of money and ostentation, I've often wondered what I'd buy for myself if I had a million dollars. That's not a lot of money anymore, either. I suppose I should invest it all carefully and live off the proceeds, that's the most intelligent thing to do. I think Johnny Carson said the only difference between being rich and poor for him was that his problems just had more zeros after them.

I'd like to have my own laundromat, like four washers and two dryers, so the washing could get done way faster. I like doing my own laundry, I do. Sometimes I wish it would get done faster, is all.

I'd like to have real furniture, like real joined Mission furniture, that would last forever. Cool.

I'd like to have an Electrolux vacuum like my mother had. Expensive. Lasts forever.

I'd finally buy all the Star Wars trading cards I couldn't find as a kid. And the Burger King drinking glasses.

I'd finally complete the yellow and blue Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew series, just to finally do it.

I'd finally buy a house with a cottage in the back for my parents. I suppose, though, I wouldn't give them my keys.

I've been coming home tired and crabby and too sleepy to check email, let alone blog.

In one pay period:

Judy, who works the floor with me, went in for surgery and asked for a weekend off. Her request paperwork was lost and I worked the floor alone for a weekend. My requests for help went unheeded. I didn't get to eat lunch for four days straight. My feet haven't been quite the same since.

A man threw an apple core at me. Rather, I was going through the trash barrels for recyclable paper, and he tossed an apple core in the middle of it. Gee, thanks, buddy.

A poorly supervised child took off the plastic red or green stickers (stuck on with velcro, they indicate to staff the wear patterns of various copiers) and tried to eat one. I pried it out of his mouth. Good thing his mother was embarassed, rather than outraged.

A woman was looking at a broken copier and poking at the buttons and I said, "I'm sorry, that one is broken, can I show you to another machine?" And she shouted back, "I know that, I kin read!" (As others stopped and stared, I responded "Well, God bless you ma'am, of course you can." I still think that was a pretty good response, coming from a grumpy Buddhist...)

A bride got her CD of photographs stuck in the photomaker and she got really bent. I called the support number to find they're in the path of hurricane Charlie and please call back. I finally got the CD out, but she hollered at me anyway. Brides are weird. I hate brides.

Crystal, who is really smart and pretty cool, an undergrad at Cal Poly, is going to Italy for ten months. Bye, Crystal. Cherry, who is so self-absorbed she could be mistaken for a roll of papertowels, just passed her boards and is now a Registered Nurse and is looking for a real hospital job. Heaven help us all. Cherry wouldn't cry if her dog died. I wouldn't let her near my Daddy, I'll tell you that. Bye, soon, Cherry.

It occurs to me that I'm the hardest working idiot there. If I don't vacuum, if I don't dust, if I don't help the clients all that much, I still get paid the same lousy pay. Why do I bother?

On the bright side, I think I have a fair amount of confidence back. I've lost a fair amount of weight, too, and eating McDonalds driving home to boot. Meanwhile, a work ethic is a terrible burden, and I keep thinking I could be making more doing something equally stupid.

A recent visit to Vegas was a series of unfortunate events.

The Tuesday morning of the drive over, I realized I had to take my Daddy to a doctor's appointment 11am on Thursday morning, so we'd have only one solid day in Vegas. Sorry, Todd.

A box of Harry and David cookies bought en route and stored in the ice chest sprang a leak and turned into mush.

A tub of nickels belonging to Auntie Sharon was stolen after dinner when we got up to leave.

I ran into Wally H., a guest at my wedding, and a guest at my best friend's wedding. While it was through him that I discovered that, indeed, my best friend's husband and my husband ARE acquainted, he's still not exactly my favorite person. Worse yet, I discovered he has a brother. And they both have denture breath that would knock a buzzard off a shit wagon.

Retreating to my hotel room, I discovered that the Main Street Hotel has ESPN, TBS, PBS, CNN, The weather channel, ABC, CBS, NBC, but not WB, and not UPN. So, no Gilmore Girls. No Star Trek. Wimper.

Visiting my friends/clients at the Clark County Museum, I specifically went there to pick something up, and promptly forgot it there.

I was distracted, you see, because while I was there I discovered that my workshop would not be 20 pe0ple, as I asked, but 30. Gee, thanks for telling me, Nevada Museums Association.

I did manage to see a movie: Thunderbirds To The Rescue. This rocked. Rocked! This, indeed, saved the whole trip. If you ever watched the Super Marianation TV show as a kid, the movie caught the flavor and the spirit well. And Lady Penelope and Tintin are much more interesting now. I don't believe the movie made a lot of money, but it got good reviews and was well received. The ending was poised for a sequel... Oh, please, oh, please, oh, please...

There's a homeless guy living in his car parked on my parents' block. He's about 50 or so, and he grew up in the neighborhood, and he even went to my high school. He's even Japanese American, which really devastates my mother. I know, because his best friend is my parents' neighbor.

Bob built his home in 1950, the first house on the block, and raised his kids there. He watched our house get built, long before we even showed up. Bob's granddaughter Audrey and I went to high school together, but we weren't terribly close. Audrey's Dad (I think his name is Ron) lives with Bob now. Bob and my Daddy are about the same age, or maybe Bob's ten years older, but Daddy had me late, and Bob had his kids young. Daddy likes to go over and visit and goof off at Bob's a lot.

Anyway, Ron's best friend is homeless and Ron lets him park his car outside the house and use the bathroom and stuff. I think maybe Ron has hit hard times, or maybe he got divorced and Bob let's him stay rent free because he's his son, but Bob won't let Ron's friends stay rent free in the house.

Daddy got a whole mess of fresh salmon from some friends who went fishing, far more than he could possibly eat. So he gave half to Bob. And Homeless Guy saw it and wished aloud he could have a bit, doesn't that look good. And Ron asked his father if his friend couldn't have dinner with them that night. And that started a discussion. Not an argument, they're too old for that, a low voiced discussion. Daddy left, he felt really bad to have started something.

What's it like to be 50 and have screwed up so badly to have nothing but your late model Japanese import car and a big screen TV stored in Ron's half of the garage?

My mother thought Ron was a good boy, generous, to share. I thought so, too. I could see Bob's position on tough love, too.

I was thinking about my closest friends, too. If I were homeless, they'd take me in, I'm pretty sure of that. I'd still have my sense of enryo, that need to hold back, though, too. More important, though, I think they wouldn't just sit there and watch me sit there, they'd point me on resources, like easy jobs, cheap apartments, Drug Abuse Recovery and Homeless Shelters, and places to go. I may not like it, but I think they'd send me, kicking and screaming, to various resources, to get back on track.

It's going to be winter soon. West L.A. isn't exactly New York City, but it can be damp and miserable. What's going to happen to Homeless Guy then?

Odo worships my mother. When she comes home, he runs to her and mews until he's petted. He sits by her feet. He sleeps by her hip, often with one paw flung over her leg. When she takes a bath, he puts his paws on the tub edge and looks at her like she's crazy. Sometimes, when they're in bed or sitting on the sofa, he bites her finger, ever so gently, as to not break the skin.

This makes my father nuts. He spends all day with the damn cat, to be ignored most of it. When he comes home and opens the door, no one greets him. Odo finds my father annoying. But they do have an understanding of sorts. Odo finds my father is good for distributing food and toys. And my father enjoys being bitten. When Daddy hollers for Odo and sticks out his finger, Odo will saunter over, and take a chomp right off the tip, and the two of them will smile at each other, I kid you not.

For Daddy, I bought lots of toys. Toy mousies, fuzzy glitter balls were Odo's favorites. Daddy liked the fishing pole with the mouse as bait that you could actually cast with. Ping pong balls. One of the dumber toys, in my mother's opinion, was the great furry glove, a kitty oven-mitt, to use to play with bitey cats. I figured it was good for Daddy, who was anemic, and was getting far too many holes in his wrists playing with Odo.

One night, Odo got tangled up in the fishing pole toy. He ran around and around the apartment, getting hit by the bait-mouse or the fishing pole. Daddy woke up and roused Mommy, who was a sound sleeper. Odo was all bushy and was ready to bite anything that came near, friend or foe. Mommy put on the furry oven-mitt and let him bite down hard while the two of them cut and loosened the toy fishing-line. Odo was not the least bit grateful, as cats are, and retreated under the bed until his dignity returned.

I just loved it when my mother calls me up and thanks me for my inspired purchases. How handy it came in, and what injury it prevented, and how incredibly practical it actually is. And what a good cat, a sweet, funny cat, (although abused a lot once, which isn't his fault) Odo is.