THE BUILT ENVIRONMENT :: Installment 7.1

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THE BUILT ENVIRONMENT :: Installment 7

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November 6, 2009 :: BLACK/BIRD

Forecast: thunderstorms, acid rain

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1. LAUNDRY

Besides being Nick Hornby’s newest film adaptation, an education is an important part of growing up.

Concerning music, mine was haphazard. My parents exposed me to a few of the classics: Simon & Garfunkel’s “Scarborough Fair.” Credence Clearwater Revival’s “Fortunate Son.” Such poetry! Such grit!

But then there was Steppenwolf. The Dirty Dancing soundtrack. Neil Diamond.

It was obvious by then. My parents had given up.

I finished out my childhood musically malnourished. Now I’m part of a group who, oddly, becomes aware of some of the century’s most iconic music through the work of some passionate filmmakers. The soundtracks to Across the Universe and I’m Not There both exposed me to music I’d never heard before. For some, this might seem like the opposite way one should hear The Beatles or Bob Dylan. But I’m grateful to Julie Taymor and Todd Haynes. Without them, my musical education might’ve stopped with Tap Root Manuscript.

If you’ve read other installments of The Built Environment, you know I’m fascinated by what one can learn through studying music. And like many anthropologists, I most often turn the microscope to my own culture’s offerings.

I’m sitting in Bubbleland, the coin laundry down the street from our apartment. It’s a bright, happy place, with multi-colored polka dots on the walls, and it is, I suppose, about as good a place as any for discovering the reason, if it exists, that a readily combustible brownish-black sedimentary rock and winged, bipedal, warm-blooded, oviparous, vertebrate animals have become increasingly ubiquitous in contemporary musical imagery.

That’s a pretentious way of asking, “Why are so many recent songs about coal or birds?”

It’s a pointless question, I know. Who knows? Who cares? But these types of investigations always fascinate me. I find joy in pitting myself against metaphysical forces and qualitating them.

Like Charles McNair in his essay on Where the Wild Things Are. Instead of simply reviewing the new movie, this guy chose instead to explain why Sendak’s book became so beloved. Granted, his final conclusion was a bit lacking. He argued that it was neither the story nor the illustrations, but the fact that is was not a children’s book. It was an everyone book.

Which is true.

But every good children’s book is an everyone book. The pivotal books of my childhood still appeal to adults today, and I think it is the mark of great children’s literature that it remains perpetually relevant.

So here I go. Attempting perhaps the impossible. But needing something to do while my clothes dry.

2. HOW THIS ALL CAME TO BE

It was Paste’s 55th Sampler CD.

The most recent of the mix-tape-like albums included in each issue, I studied #55’s tracklist and noticed two songs back to back: Southeast Engine’s “Black Gold,” and Joshua James’ “Coal War.” Interesting that coal and a popular euphemism for coal would be referenced in two song titles on the same CD.

I went a few Samplers back. Another one: Track 13 of #51. A band called Black Gold. A song called “Detroit.”

Coal. Black Gold. Detroit. Engine.

Why all these related terms? Especially now, when cars are on the decline, Detroit is a jobless city, and coal mining is practically a bygone practice?

Additionally, I’ve become aware that birds are the subject of a number of new bands, their albums and the songs contained therein.

Andrew Bird, for starters. Patrick Watson, oft compared to Bird, and his “Big Bird in a Small Cage” phenomenon. Holly Conlan’s Bird. A favorite of my brother’s, Gregory and the Hawk (note: bird) and their album The Boats and Birds. What Bird, the band. “The Bird and the Blanket,” by The Fifteenth.

Sam Beam—aka Iron & Wine—likes birds. “Bird Stealing Bread.” “Flightless Bird, American Mouth.” “Lovesong of the Buzzard.”

Derek Webb and Allison Moorer separately wrote songs called “Mockingbird.” The Golden Shoulders and Langhorne Slim have both sung about hummingbirds.

And then local guys I know.

Royal Osprey.

Bird Money.

One of my favorites: N. Asher Istas’ “Little Bluebird.”

Why these recent obsessions?

The discussion of that question and where it led me coming soon.

THE BUILT ENVIRONMENT

new installment coming soon. thanks for reading.

TBE 6, Part IV :: “AN AFTERWORD”

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THE BUILT ENVIRONMENT :: On Paseo Boricua and the American Experience, Part IV

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October 21, 2009 :: AN AFTERWORD

1. Of, By and For

As I investigated ways in which becoming local was the same as becoming American, another aspect loomed large in my lens: this country’s conspicuous cultural repertoire—the diversity I saw in Chicago, in Humboldt Park, in our apartment building.

Sure, there are places devoid of it, where people are [seemingly] of one mind, one spirit, one color, one religion.

But it’s not the American norm. Because the United States has always been a place of the immigrant, by the immigrant, and for the immigrant. Many of this country’s greatest thinkers, inventors, and leaders have been foreign-born.

I know as well as any the plight of today’s immigrant—I have relationships with a number of undocumented aliens, and plenty of second-hand knowledge of the situation—and it isn’t pretty. But in addition to this picture, we have another scene, one in which the immigrant is at least allowed to begin a life here. They fight harder than any of us, and oftentimes get less than most of us. But they continue to fight.

Occasionally, they win.

Ron Huberman was born in Israel, his parents Holocaust survivors. They immigrated to Tennessee and then to Chicago, where the boy Huberman attended high school. After college he worked as a police officer and went on to become a top member of the Daley administration and, more recently, the president of the Chicago Transit Authority. When Obama took Arne Duncan to D.C. with him, Mayor Daley put Huberman in charge of the Chicago Public School system. It was during this transition that I read a feature about him and realized how many American success stories star immigrants.

Take the nanny scene here in Chicago. [Yes, nannies have a scene.]

A friend of mine, who’s a nanny for a one-year-old girl, said groups of nannies meet up in the park during their work days, to talk, to hang out, to let the kids play with each other. There’s only one problem. She can’t find the English-speaking nanny group. “There’s the Portuguese nannies, the Hispanic nannies, the French nannies,” she told us. But she hasn’t had any luck in finding a group that speaks English.

2. Germany, Poland, and Puerto Rico

As a result of people like Huberman and the greater immigrant populace, it’s much too late for the local American economy to be a monoculture, too late for us to be isolated from other customs and rituals and beliefs. And I’m thankful.

I don’t have to pit supporting local business owners against my respect for foreign cultures. In 21st-century America, I can shop at the local farmers market and participate in a global transaction.

More than this, living in a diverse community I’ve found that local stores have more to offer from around the world than do the global retail giants. In Humboldt Park especially, with its German origins, Polish influence, and Puerto Rican heritage, I could shop at places like Café Calao and Ciclo Urbano—our friends from Parts I and II—and be more connected to other countries and customs than if I shopped at big-box stores that actually imported goods from all over the world.

Despite the various countries implicated by “Made In…” stickers, the atmosphere of these international retailers is actually the closest thing we have to an American monoculture. A country’s participation in the global economy says nothing for its representation there, and I find no value in buying a Tibetan t-shirt or Filipino flip-flops when the transaction takes place in such stores. However, go to Chinatown, Little Italy, Greek Town, or Rogers Park and I can find wares from Asia, Europe, and the Middle East. Go to Azucar and I can order an Alhambra Negra, prompting a friend to regale us with a tale of two Spanish fútbol teams and the feud created by their domestic beer sponsors, of which Alhambra is one.

Places like this represent a healthier version of a globalized system: first-, second- or third-generation immigrants peddle wares from their home countries, many of them hand-crafted, to other local residents.

The convergence of local and global planes.

For the fearful, it is still possible to avoid those different from you, but for those of us who seek them out, global citizens can be found around every corner here, living in apartments below us, running the businesses around us, leading the way to greater freedom in truth.

Read: The House on Mango Street, Sandra Cisneros.
Watch: The Visitor, Thomas McCarthy.

These Noblest of Friends

The past 8 weeks have been the toughest of my life, or so it has seemed in the midst of it. Directionless, moneyless, and tired, I’ve spent the majority of my time crafting cover letters that have served only to fill file folders.

But I have also been the recipient of strangely well-timed bits of happiness and overwhelmingly perfect gifts lately. So I want to acknowledge those. As a Thank You. As a Reminder. As a Testament.

But who wants to read a cheesy list of great deeds and sacrifice? No one. Plus, I know many of you may want to preserve your public persona of being a selfish asshole.

So, as to avoid incriminating anyone by their being selected for this list of beautiful moments, each individual’s name has been removed and replaced with that of a character from one of four Wes Anderson films. Your pseudonym has nothing to do with what I think of you, neither does the prestige of the character imply something about you. I offer a most sincere apology to the many women on this list; Mr. Anderson’s films are strangely devoid of female characters.

Without further ado, These Noblest of Friends.

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Wolodarsky & Inez practically furnish our apartment with all the free, leftover furniture they gave us. Also, at the end of summer, they randomly acquire an air conditioner for us.

Margot Tenenbaum & Young Margot cook us soul food in honor of last year.

Richie Tenebaum randomly sends money so I can take Allison to mum for our anniversary after all.

Pele dos Santos and Anne-Marie Sakowitz offer to cook us carne asada. Again. AND they bring with them a free dining room table.

Klaus Daimler forwards my resume to people he knows, tells them about me. I get a job because of him.

Jack’s Ex-Girlfriend is generosity incarnate, bringing bread and wine upon every trip to our humble apartment.

Ned Plimpton & Jane Winslet-Richardson invite us over for dinner having met us exactly once.

Eleanor & Steve Zissou decide to pay for our plane tickets home for Christmas.

Henry Sherman and Etheline Tenenbaum buy us a jelly roll pan and a much-needed cooling rack. On an impulse.

Waitress at Diner, German Lady #1 & German Lady #2 make us pies and loan us movies and play the role of friends, confidants, and colleagues.

Jack L. Whitman and Rita open up their home numerous times for dinner parties.

Oseary Drakoulias offers advice and encouragement, keeps me sane by letting me play music, provides insight and inspiration, a little bit of home.

Alistair Hennessey sends hilarious and heartfelt micro-messages via gchat or text messaging at perfect moments of desperation or hopelessness.

Alice thanks me for the little I do, still loves me.

googlisms

it just gets me. i can’t not post some of these. every few months a search just brings up the most oddball phrases… i love it. the obsequious questions of the Google Generation.

Type in “have there” and receive:

1. been any hurricanes in 2009
2. been threats on Obama’s life
3. been more democrat or republican presidents
4. been any jewish presidents
5. been a lot of plane crashes lately
6. been any hurricanes this year
7. been any swine flu cases in cancun
8. been large recent sea level changes in the maldive islands
9. been recent changes in climate ask the fish
10. how many moon landings have there been

i guess we’re most preoccupied with safety and recent American history. and the maldives.

A Wild Holy Band

some storytellers masquerade as songwriters.

Exhibit A: Scotland’s Mike Scott and the brilliant narrative contained within “A Wild Holy Band.” An excerpt:

In a dim-lit motel room, two sad lovers were discoursing on the dignity of exile and the merits of divorcing.

She said, “All certainty is gone.” But he leapt up, still denying. Cried out, “I won’t believe the flame I lit is dead or even dying.”

She left him brueling in the dust, and rucksack packed begun her journey to the border, which is where I wooed and won her.

She was Aphrodite, Helen, Phetus, Eve among the Saturns. She was Venus in a V-neck sweater. She was all that ever mattered.

The only way to get this song (legally) is to snag The Believer’s most recent music issue. I suggest you find the nearest 826 and purrrrrchase it.

dreams

1. derek’s dad wanted him to play football. derek jumped in the van headed to the forensics meet anyway. his dad was angry. i carabinered the garage door shut so he couldn’t do anything bad to derek.

2. a woman leaned over to me in church and told me to trim my beard because eventually the long squiggly hairs would make me go insane.

3. they couldn’t afford to pay me.

TBE 6, Part III :: “ONE RED THREAD”

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THE BUILT ENVIRONMENT :: On Paseo Boricua and the American Experience, Part III

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October 9, 2009 :: ONE RED THREAD

Local Forecast: Rain. Global Forecast: ???

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1. EMBRACING ALL OF HISTORY’S FAULTS

That two popular, paradigmatic trends (“appreciate other cultures” and “shop locally”) are, by simple logic, in tension with one another first came to me thusly:

“To shop locally is to become intrinsically All-American.”

I followed simple logic:

“If I began buying locally made everything, I would have to, at some point, come to terms with a dulling truth: everything I am, everything I do, is American.”

That rubs a lot of us the wrong way.

Being entirely of the United States of America, with no influence from other countries, cultures, customs…. it seems imperialist, ethnocentric, Western. White. It embraces all of history’s faults.

All its shit and by-products.

We don’t want to choose one over the other, global over local or vice versa. But neither can be fully lived out without somewhat sacrificing the other.

As we choose where to work, where to shop, and what to care for, where do our priorities lie? In the ever-accessible diversity of the global arena? Or in the visibly interconnected local economy?

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2. THE THREAD UNSPOOLED

We’ve let our country become two-dimensional, a paper airplane we’re just waiting to launch, in hopes of riding ourselves of bloody legacies left by oppressive regimes. But that history is narrow—paper-thin, in fact—taking into account a purely political past.

The U.S. is multi-faceted, with a destructive track record but with a vast and beautiful canvas it can and does continue to paint.

Like a blood diamond.

It tells a story of slavery, corruption, oppression, and greed. Much like the stories of the pilgrim, the frontiersman, the cowboy, the oilman. But while its past is tarnished, and likely unforgivable, the diamond’s physical grade—color, clarity and carat—is not affected.

So it is with our country. As a citizen, whose parents and grandparents contributed through their indifference to a magnificent array of atrocities and who has perpetuated his own undeniably sizable share, I regret our past. I want it taken back. Undone. The thread of human history unspooled, snipped at crucial moments, tied together with careful and caring hands, and rewoven.

One harmonious strand.

But this isn’t possible. And the gratuitous hatred that results from this hopelessness hinders many of us from seeing the sparkle.

It’s a matter of focal point.

We see value in the places we live—Chicago, Los Angeles, Lawrence, Austin, Lynchburg, Endicott, Hillsboro.

We see value in our regions—the no-bullshit work ethic of the Midwest, the progressive artistry of the desert Southwest, the deep history and architectural significance of the East, the hospitality of the South, the nefarious activism of the West Coast.

But we devalue America. We’ve even come to hate it. But who hates the Northeast? Or Wisconsin? Or Denver?

In an ironic twist of synecdoche, the things that make up America are good, but America is not.

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3. THE TREES OF MY CHILDHOOD

The old adage, “One bad apple spoils the bunch” is true in things like theater productions. But not in all things.

Our politics may be notoriously self-involved and our history disastrous, but historians, no matter how gruesome their tales, and politicians, no matter how misinformed, are not in control.

This is best evidenced by the people and places we love.

What fault do I find in the Konza Prairie? It is in the heart of America, the United States, the country that authorized the murder of Charles Horman in Chile during the coup in 1973. But what role did the Konza play in the overthrow of Salvador Allende Gossens?

I lived in Kansas for over twenty years. The place is intricately woven into who I am. Yet Kansas is part of an entity that in its birth enslaved millions of West Africans and today perpetuates a hundred new forms of slavery.

I am ashamed of this. But I am not ashamed to have been born in Kansas.

How is it that to have been born in the U.S. is painful, but when I refocus my eyes to instead see the trees that I, as a child, climbed, I no longer see the American forest—rooted in inequality and injustice—but an old mulberry, split in three and tied up with wire? An ash with a Baltimore oriole’s nest in its highest branches. A Kentucky Coffee with a stump for an arm. A wind-damaged cedar. Tent-wormed walnuts.

These are not the trees of America. They are of my childhood, the sentinels of my youth, most of them still guarding the prairie-style house and its outbuildings where I ran and played and grew.

My friends and family, my hometown and favorite cities, my professors and mentors, are almost all American. I cannot deny it. And why should I? Why demonize my entire country, when to do so would indict everyone I love?

Instead, I refocus my lens to see that the individual people and places that dot this country are American and valuable and good.

As more of us accumulate and appreciate the wealth of this understanding—the way in which these parts make up the whole—perhaps we will no longer vilify our nation. Once we see how our writers and artists and educators fit together to form the United States, our view of it cannot be entirely anything; it will be as multi-faceted as a jewel from the ground.

The blood diamond carries with it a weight that cannot be forgotten. But one can shoulder that weight in a quest to understand the crimson thread of its history and set to work redesigning the industry that infused it with blood. This is the work of the American.

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READ: 1) A People’s History of the United States, Howard Zinn. 2) Phil Elverum interviewed by Brandon Stosuy, The Believer Magazine, July/August 2009. 3) The official U.S. State Department response to Costa-Gavras’ Missing

TBE :: Installment 6, Part II

THE BUILT ENVIRONMENT :: Installment 6, Part II
ON PASEO BORICUA AND THE AMERICAN EXPERIENCE

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FORECAST: Brisk, breezy: bicycle weather.

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October 8, 2009 :: PARTICIPANTS IN A PARALLEL UNIVERSE

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Before I knew about Bickerdike Redevelopment Corporation, I wrote a poetry series called “The Bickerdike Apts,” titled for the small, brass plaque on the apartment building directly east of ours. I was watching kids play in the dormant grass three stories below from a perch on our back stairwell, and at the time Bickerdike was only a title. Since then, it’s become an organization that commands my admiration.

Juanita Irizarry is probably 4’11” but carries herself as if she were Obama’s right-hand. She’s incredibly spirited and knowledgeable (a vital combination for a Latina woman with political aspirations), and before she was the Institute Director for the Christian Community Development Association, she worked for Bickerdike, heading up many of its campaigns for low-income housing and fair housing laws for community residents.

Last Wednesday Allison and I were lucky enough to attend her lecture and discussion on the history of Humboldt Park, the Chicago neighborhood in which the three of us live.

[A quick note on the name Humboldt: it was named for Alexander von Humboldt, a German explorer whose given name is the absurdly long Friedrich Wilhelm Heinrich Alexander Freiherr von Humboldt. He is quite famous; over 40 things are named for him, including animal species (Dorsidicus gigas—the Humboldt squid), lunar mares (Mare Humboldtianum), and small towns (Humboldt, KS—130 miles from where I grew up).]

One point of Irizarry’s particularly intrigued me. She said as more affluent people (mostly White) move into the area, they create a parallel universe.

It’s not science fiction.

What’s happening is wealthier newcomers are avoiding locally owned places—the signs might be in Spanish, or it might be difficult to tell what type of establishments they are—and instead are frequenting only businesses that resemble places they’re used to. In doing this, parallel paths are drawn by the community’s residents, this group going here, that group going there. Additionally, the neighborhood becomes more segregated, and established businesses are unable to capitalize on the area’s influx of wealth.

The parallel worlds rarely collide. Instead, the one is subsumed. Like the weaker tectonic plate.

Gentrification has always been a tough, touchy subject. At times it seems like a plague, one with an enormous death toll. Other times it seems like the lesser of two evils: communities can gentrify or remain blighted. On some occasions, it even seems benign.

But my temptation to bestow upon the subject any benevolent connotation was shattered by a story Irizarry told. While at Bickerdike, a friend of hers infiltrated a meeting of real estate developers and political higher-ups where the topic of discussion was nothing less than “how to take West Town and Humboldt Park.”

Irizarry repeated this so we didn’t miss the language they were using: “how to take West Town and Humboldt Park.”

Gentrification doesn’t just happen. It is strategic. And it is ruthless.

At this point feeling like I’m supporting a parallel world that was in bed with these calloused, seditious developers, a redemptive moment came when Irizarry said she meets people exclusively at Café Calao, a small Puerto Rican-owned bakery a few blocks from our place. Ok, so we weren’t totally caught in this parallel universe; we’d discovered Calao too, and its guava-and-cheese turnovers had forced us to make it our new breakfast spot. (Plus, the Tribune rated its coffee in Chicago’s top-ten.)

The night wasn’t all scary soul-searching. Juanita explained a lot of the local culture. We spent a lot of time on Paseo Boricua (see Part I), the section of Division Street between the two giant, metal Puerto Rican flags. The passage has become a vibrant strip of local businesses and organizations and houses a statue of revered (or reviled, depending on your view) political leader Pedro Albizu Campos. It remains the heart of Puerto-Rican Chicago.

And home, of course, to the identity-confused Ciclo Urbano.

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READ: Family Properties, by Beryl Satter.

RESEARCH: Puerto Rican’s Declaration of Independence from Spain four years before the Spanish-American War

THE BUILT ENVIRONMENT :: Installment 6 :: On Paseo Boricua and The American Experience

FORECAST: Brisk, breezy: bicycle weather.

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October 5, 2009 :: Part I

THE SPRITE WHO RULED THE BIKE SHOP
(Plus: How to Beat Road Rage!)

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The Paseo Boricua Business Center proclaims itself in yellow vinyl on a storefront window at Division and Campbell. The building’s northwest corner houses Ciclo Urbano, a local bike shop.

I believe this bike shop is schizophrenic.

When I took my bike in, the atmosphere was one of hip-yet-down-to-earth professionalism. The girl working was petite, with bobbed pigtails, thick-framed glasses, and an apron. She examined my bike with almost clairvoyant clarity, diagnosing the front-wheel wobble as a problem with the hub within seconds.

I left the bike there for overnight service. Then I went back.

It was a different place. People were milling about, in front of and behind the counter, and it became impossible to tell who worked there. They were talking and laughing; I felt invisible. Finally, the antithesis of yesterday’s omniscient sprite asked me if I need something. This guy fulfilled every stereotype of American obesity: 6’5”; 300 lbs; a messy array of yellowed, protruding teeth; a too-tight T-shirt; and holding, no lie, an Everest-sized slice of greasy pizza. There’s nothing wrong with being overweight (that wasn’t an issue at all – it was only in contrast to the day before’s girl that I noticed it), and there’s not anything wrong with dressing sloppily or scarfing pizza. But my beautiful, new-found bike was bipolar, pleasant one day, depressing the next.

I’m fairly sharp, but overnight personality switches throw me off. Do I recommend this place or not? If you were sure to get the bike fairy, I would say yes. But there’s a chance you will get the Big Unfriendly Giant. And that is not okay.

What is okay is the fact that despite the bike shop’s mental disorder (I will humor University of Manchester professor Richard Bentall by not using the term “schizophrenia” due to its alleged scientific meaninglessness), my bike is now in tip-top shape.

In the past few weeks, I have catalogued reasons why anyone living in a city the size of Chicago should bike as often as possible. The following list is not exhaustive.

REASONS CITY-DWELLERS SHOULD BICYCLE

Typical Reasons
1. Your Health. This is a no-brainer. Cardio. It’s good for you.

2. The Environment. Also a no-brainer. No emissions. No gasoline. No oil. No foreign wars. (Okay, that’s idealistic. And pretty libelous. Exxon-Mobil, I apologize.)

Atypical Reasons
3. Your Mental and Emotional Well-Being. Similar to Reason 1, this goes beyond physical health. The wind on your face is the perfect antidote to a crappy job, stressful day, or traumatic break-up. The exercise releases endorphins, which help to numb said crap, stress or relational trauma. And you avoid the violent anger associated with road rage, because you will NEVER HAVE TO:

a) turn around (you can mount sidewalks if you accidentally find yourself with No Outlet),
b) pay attention to One Way signs (c’mon, they don’t apply to cyclists), or
c) wait for more than one green light (bicycles don’t pile up at red lights like cars do, so you never have to watch your green turn to yellow while you inch forward).

Also, you automatically feel better due to Reasons 1 and 2 (see above), knowing you aren’t clogging your arteries or annihilating your children’s children.

4. Good Ol’ American Convenience. It might seem like a bike would have its ass handed to it by a car in a footrace, but allow me to present Exhibit A: Large, Asian Woman on Bicycle on Halsted Street. A heavy-set female on a cruiser bike kept up with me (in a Honda Civic) the entire way from Washington Boulevard to Belmont Avenue, a distance of roughly four miles.

5. Community (with Helmets!). As more people begin to bike (many for economic reasons – oh yeah, I should add that: it’s much cheaper to bike than it is to take a car or public transportation), bike lanes begin to fill up, letting riders actually interact with one another. Many still ride in silence, just as drivers—with their windows up and radios on—do. But when you pull up to a red light and you find yourself amidst four or five other cyclists, you feel a sense of community that is non-existent for the car-operators next to you. As more and more people bicycle, I imagine this will only become more pronounced, to the point where you will begin to recognize people, meet up with fellow commuters, and even plan bike-pools or caravans (bikeavans?).

If you don’t have a bike, there are plenty for sale. Use craigslist or visit your local bike shop. Just make sure you look for glasses-clad girls in pig-tails. Not fat guys with pizza breath.

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READ: Richard’s 21st Century Bicycle Book, by Richard Ballentine.
RESEARCH: Mayor Darwin Hindman