For the most part, I love the environment that surrounds me. That is why I started this blog. I decided I needed a place where I could be more expressive about the topic of place. I wanted to give myself a venue to discuss my surroundings and maybe learn a thing or two in the process. I realize I have learned less about my neighborhood than I anticipated and that I am more inspired by the people who surround me than the buildings I walk past.
The more that I think about it, I guess my love of physical place has never been about my adoration for the beauty of cornices and wainscotings or mullions and muttons or even the efficiency and effectiveness of architectural design. My interest always lies primarily in how architecture and interiors reflect the desires of the people who experience them. I am intrigued by why certain classes of people reside in certain types of houses—mostly the working class and their very charming worker cottages—and what this says about them and their values. I am enchanted by decrepit old buildings and the stories they tell, like the 100 year-old mai wah noodle parlor in Butte. In the kitchen of this noodle parlor, in front of the wok stations, are sunken divots of worn concrete where cooks once stood and tirelessly cooked noodle dishes. I like that place is not just about environment, but about people. I think the personal connection is sometimes missing in today’s discourse of architecture and physical place.
Design and architecture is about how people experience them. If we didn’t encounter and participate in our physical surroundings then we may fail to recognize the necessity of their presence in our daily lives. Sometimes I wonder if Rem Koolhaus designed the Seattle Public Library to illustrate the importance of architecture in civic buildings rather than just an ineffective deconstructionist building or developed his ridiculous “the generic city” theory to make people realize the importance of variety in city design rather than making claims that people are not loyal to place anymore. At least I hope that’s the case, otherwise…
What I’m saying here is that I realize structures are important, but I am more concerned about how they affect the people in and around them. I think that’s what I want to communicate about here as time goes on.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Sunday, February 17, 2008
a man's boots
My grandfather is 92 years old and wears cowboy boots every day. His boots always come to mind when I think of him. He is a man that I always enjoy hearing talk about his life. His stories are about hard-work and the joy and pain that come with it. He has lived through the advent of the telephone, the great influenza epidemic of 1918 that killed his mother and many other Americans, the Great Depression, and several year-long labor strikes. But his stories are always up-beat with mentions of community dances and parties so people could share food during what he calls the hard times, he talks fondly of meeting my grandmother when, on a break from cattle herding, he rode up to her at a well and she offered him water, honing his talent as a miner, and meeting people that have become life long friends in those moments. I relish these stories and the insights he has because of these experiences. Believe me, I could talk for days about all of the collected memories we share, but now that the time I spend with him is less frequent I call upon my memory to remind me of them. When I do so, one image rushes to the forefront of my mind. That image is his boots.
As far as I know, his boots have made the rounds with him for about the last quarter century of his life—all the years of my life or maybe longer. The steps he takes in those shoes are the steps that are part of who I am. When I was little I watched him pull galoshes over them to shovel snow during the harsh Butte winters, I watched him leave paths of smushed grass when he watered the summer-length lawn, I watched him give my brother and sister “horsy rides” on the end of his leg when they were babies, I watched him take long morning walks in those after breakfast, and smash pop can’s under his feet on the concrete in the garage. I gather comfort from knowing that there is something as simple as a pair of shoes that make my grandfather make sense to me.
I like that the things I love so much today are pieces of my grandparent’s and parents lives before I knew them. My grandmothers’ earrings, pins, and plates, my grandfathers’ jeans, boots, and hats, my mother’s books, camera, and photos, and my father’s records, belt buckles, and t-shirts; I like that when I hold these things or wear these things I come to know them in a different way. I like how I get a better sense of them as an individual. I like that these things were loved by them and have become important to me and also hold the potential to become something special to someone else in the future. For me, the handing down of objects is part of the intergenerational fabric of my life, it keeps their history (and somewhat my own) current and alive. I like that. I like that history isn’t just the past because for me it as present as the boots on my grandfather’s feet.
Monday, February 4, 2008
yes, we can
Do you remember your first political instruction?
I do. It came, initially, when my grandfather decided I was capable of grasping the magnitude of party preference. I think I was seven. I must have been seven, because that was 1991 and it was leading up to an election year. He said, you, you’re a BICD, and don’t you ever forget it. Well, walking around saying that meant very little to me way back then. Who cares what a seven year old thinks? But now, now it matters. ‘BICD’ is roughly translated as “Butte Irish Catholic Democrat” and in a town like Butte where the holy trinity of Ethnicity, Political Affiliation and Religion makes the man-- a place where a seven year old girl's party affiliation is just as important as a 70 year old man’s.
Well, today I am just as much the BICD I was when I lived in Butte only an older, more educated Seattleite (who just happens to be admittedly less catholic). Regardless, why is this important? Well, my grandfather is one of the most instrumental political figures in my life. A man whose lessons and wisdom stressed community centeredness, an obligation to serve, a duty to others, loyalty to the collective, and an unwavering awareness of the potential of a life incorporating these values. He also happens to be a staunch supporter (still) of John Kennedy. And last summer I had a conversation with him about politics and about what I perceived to be a tremendous change on the horizon. And, fittingly, he told me a story…
“In the 1960s, I was an unemployed WWII veteran with five children and a mortgage. I was in need of something that made my life make sense, something that could lift me from the uncertainty and pressure of my responsibilities, something that would ensure a promising future for my family and for my community. I was ready to vote for change”
Last Christmas I was having a conversation with him about Barack Obama and he sat across from me and said, “have you noticed I haven’t said anything to you, now it’s your generation’s turn, I’m old hat, but you all want change.”
I left the room and walked into the dining room and climbed a ladder that happened to be there from an earlier venture into the upper closet. Tucked away in the back corner was something i'd nver seen before. Inside, tucked away, was a voluminous stack of newspapers from the 1960s that chronicled the campaign, election, inauguration, and assassination of JFK. I didn't know what to think and then almost immediately something really powerful washed over me, in onlya a mere few seconds, for the first time in my life, I think I understood what a movement meant to a person, I understood what it was like for someone to be part of a movement for change.
I want that feeling. I want to feel like I am part of something that monumental. That a political figure’s ability to change the course of history, to move the world with words, to bring together a polarized society in equality and equitability is possible. That feeling is important to me. And that assertion is the most profoundly certain I have been in quite some time.
I want to one day tell my grandchild that something really mattered, that I, too, was part of a movement. Like my rather inspiring grandparents, who you see flanking President Kennedy in the photo above.
I do. It came, initially, when my grandfather decided I was capable of grasping the magnitude of party preference. I think I was seven. I must have been seven, because that was 1991 and it was leading up to an election year. He said, you, you’re a BICD, and don’t you ever forget it. Well, walking around saying that meant very little to me way back then. Who cares what a seven year old thinks? But now, now it matters. ‘BICD’ is roughly translated as “Butte Irish Catholic Democrat” and in a town like Butte where the holy trinity of Ethnicity, Political Affiliation and Religion makes the man-- a place where a seven year old girl's party affiliation is just as important as a 70 year old man’s.
Well, today I am just as much the BICD I was when I lived in Butte only an older, more educated Seattleite (who just happens to be admittedly less catholic). Regardless, why is this important? Well, my grandfather is one of the most instrumental political figures in my life. A man whose lessons and wisdom stressed community centeredness, an obligation to serve, a duty to others, loyalty to the collective, and an unwavering awareness of the potential of a life incorporating these values. He also happens to be a staunch supporter (still) of John Kennedy. And last summer I had a conversation with him about politics and about what I perceived to be a tremendous change on the horizon. And, fittingly, he told me a story…
“In the 1960s, I was an unemployed WWII veteran with five children and a mortgage. I was in need of something that made my life make sense, something that could lift me from the uncertainty and pressure of my responsibilities, something that would ensure a promising future for my family and for my community. I was ready to vote for change”
Last Christmas I was having a conversation with him about Barack Obama and he sat across from me and said, “have you noticed I haven’t said anything to you, now it’s your generation’s turn, I’m old hat, but you all want change.”
I left the room and walked into the dining room and climbed a ladder that happened to be there from an earlier venture into the upper closet. Tucked away in the back corner was something i'd nver seen before. Inside, tucked away, was a voluminous stack of newspapers from the 1960s that chronicled the campaign, election, inauguration, and assassination of JFK. I didn't know what to think and then almost immediately something really powerful washed over me, in onlya a mere few seconds, for the first time in my life, I think I understood what a movement meant to a person, I understood what it was like for someone to be part of a movement for change.
I want that feeling. I want to feel like I am part of something that monumental. That a political figure’s ability to change the course of history, to move the world with words, to bring together a polarized society in equality and equitability is possible. That feeling is important to me. And that assertion is the most profoundly certain I have been in quite some time.
I want to one day tell my grandchild that something really mattered, that I, too, was part of a movement. Like my rather inspiring grandparents, who you see flanking President Kennedy in the photo above.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
a broken heart in a vacant lot
Lately I've been slightly more hesitant to venture out of my house to walk around my neighborhood. The recent capitol hill slaying and the university district attack have me on absolute edge. Unfortunately for me, and for a lot of women in my neighborhood, there is an unfortunate aura of fear blanketing the neighborhood and with it an assumed pressure to approach our environment with increased trepidation. Yes, violence often flourishes in cities, but something about these incidents seems uncommon for a city like Seattle and I refuse to accept the circumstances of urban life as an explanation for these events. These incidents seem different—senseless and unusual. It is rare to read stories about women like myself—college educated women, social workers—being stabbed to death or beaten with a hammer until unrecognizable. And what disturbs me is that there has yet to be an arrest in either case and there is an uncomfortable absence of updates in the local media. I'm sick of waiting around for an explanation and I'm sick of waiting around to feel safe.
As a person of the city, I it is my very strong opinion that I should not be afraid to walk to my local grocer after six o'clock at night, I should not have to feel obligated to assess my surroundings when simply walking around the corner for a cup of coffee, up the hill to my friend's apartment, or even when taking the bus to another neighborhood; simply being aware should be enough. And, as a woman, it is the age old challenge of my entitlement to that security that rushes to the forefront of my mind. My life is my own and I should not feel as though it is some commodity that can be bought or sold, it is not something anyone other than me is entitled to. I have a right to my security and safety and I have a right to expect that to be respected. And, furthermore, as a woman, I should not have to fear the person walking down the street behind me; I should not have to feel like a target in my own environment.
Safety will come with empowerment and until the ownership and dominion people have over their bodies is respected fear will permeate and there will be no resolution to the problem that is violence. The only thing I can do for myself is continue to navigate my environment with awareness. I mean, this city is my home, too, god damn it and I refuse to be afraid of it.
As a person of the city, I it is my very strong opinion that I should not be afraid to walk to my local grocer after six o'clock at night, I should not have to feel obligated to assess my surroundings when simply walking around the corner for a cup of coffee, up the hill to my friend's apartment, or even when taking the bus to another neighborhood; simply being aware should be enough. And, as a woman, it is the age old challenge of my entitlement to that security that rushes to the forefront of my mind. My life is my own and I should not feel as though it is some commodity that can be bought or sold, it is not something anyone other than me is entitled to. I have a right to my security and safety and I have a right to expect that to be respected. And, furthermore, as a woman, I should not have to fear the person walking down the street behind me; I should not have to feel like a target in my own environment.
Safety will come with empowerment and until the ownership and dominion people have over their bodies is respected fear will permeate and there will be no resolution to the problem that is violence. The only thing I can do for myself is continue to navigate my environment with awareness. I mean, this city is my home, too, god damn it and I refuse to be afraid of it.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
a tuesday favorite
I hope that someday the happiness in my life can be summed up with a photo like this. Enjoy this collection, it is fantastic.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
dancing on smoke stacks
Twenty-six miles from my hometown is a little town called Anaconda, and in between the two is another little town called Opportunity. My grandfather likes to make this joke that goes, “what lies between Butte and Anaconda?” I reply, “What?” He delivers, “Opportunity.”
Way back in the day, we’re talking in the days before American Industry had to outsource portions of industrial procedure to China, Anaconda was home of the largest smelter works in the world. The stack itself is about 500 ft. tall and is one of the more remarkable structures in southwest Montana, and is the tallest masonry structure in the world. What is important about this stack is not its design or how remarkable the engineering of the structure is, but rather what once happened on top of it.
In 1919 a celebration was held to dedicate the smoke stack before the smelter operations began thus turning the stack into a glorified chimney. In the days before the scaffolding was removed a group of men and women climbed to the top of the stack and had a party. My great-grandmother was one of them. At the age of 19 she climbed a unbelievable 500 ft. and danced on top of the smoke stack, a story she relished telling until late in her life. This is what women of Butte did; this is what Julia Rafferty had done. She was a gilded-age flapper, a dancer, a college graduate, a teacher who drank Manhattans with dinner, a woman who never once wore pants, and perhaps most importantly a woman who so greatly feared growing old out of fear for missing an experience that she lived her life for the feelings of youth. I gather that she was one of my mother’s strongest influences--a feminist before the feminist age, yet a woman of tradition, insight and progress.
Way back in the day, we’re talking in the days before American Industry had to outsource portions of industrial procedure to China, Anaconda was home of the largest smelter works in the world. The stack itself is about 500 ft. tall and is one of the more remarkable structures in southwest Montana, and is the tallest masonry structure in the world. What is important about this stack is not its design or how remarkable the engineering of the structure is, but rather what once happened on top of it.
In 1919 a celebration was held to dedicate the smoke stack before the smelter operations began thus turning the stack into a glorified chimney. In the days before the scaffolding was removed a group of men and women climbed to the top of the stack and had a party. My great-grandmother was one of them. At the age of 19 she climbed a unbelievable 500 ft. and danced on top of the smoke stack, a story she relished telling until late in her life. This is what women of Butte did; this is what Julia Rafferty had done. She was a gilded-age flapper, a dancer, a college graduate, a teacher who drank Manhattans with dinner, a woman who never once wore pants, and perhaps most importantly a woman who so greatly feared growing old out of fear for missing an experience that she lived her life for the feelings of youth. I gather that she was one of my mother’s strongest influences--a feminist before the feminist age, yet a woman of tradition, insight and progress.
I think about my grammie today because my newest thing is to savor my time and live a life less rushed. I am realizing that I am incredibly young and still have so much to learn. Do you remember being young, I’m thinking of those post-adolescent college years here, and thinking that you know everything there ever was to know about life? Then one day you are surprised to find yourself in a car accident or keying your neighbor’s car or ruining your friendships over small disagreements and then all of a sudden realized you know nothing at all. Well, I have been there and I should not have been so naive to think they would stop once I graduate from college or got a real job because these moments just keep on presenting themselves. Yesterday I was discussing a few things with my mother and she got all “are you even thinking?” She started in telling me how much time there is in life, how many goals I have yet to attain, how many things I have yet to experience and I kind of had to stop and agree.
I mean, I want to think I know everything, but I don’t. I have so much yet to learn. And for the first time ever it felt good to make that realization. It felt good to realize exactly how young I am and how much I have ahead of myself. And it makes me sad to think about how little I’ve been expressing myself and how limited my experiences have been and how rushed I let myself feel. And how important it is to slow down and savor my youth.
I’m so wildly, deliciously young!! And I’ve got all sorts of things ahead of me. Good things. Things I think will be the most defining, wonderful moments of my life.
I think all I really needed was a friendly reminder and some calm encouragement from the mom department telling me that it’s okay to climb high walls and dance on buildings and try to see the things others will not ever see—to take advantage of the opportunities that come my way. And that it is okay to take risks and have experiences because I’m young and I have to learn it sometime. And in the long run it is those youthful adventures that will keep us young beyond our years.
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