Love Thy Neighbor

I like to think that I was raised properly, and my parents passed along a number of traditional, old-fashioned values.  One of those principles included “knowing the neighbors.”  Mom and Dad were always cordial with the neighbors, and my mother always made a point of greeting new residents to our street.  I’ve tried to continue that practice, and after moving into Park Lane Apartments, I tried to follow their example and introduce myself to others.

While I would classify many of the Park Lane residents as “characters” (see my previous post about Baby Clown), Padmalaya will be the focus of today’s entry.

When I first met Padmalaya, I was immediately charmed.  A diminutive Indian woman in her early 60s, Padmalaya speaks with a crisp British accent, but she quickly put me at ease when she told me that I could call her Patty.  

Within seconds of meeting Patty I announced that if she ever needed anything, she could ask me.  Unfortunately, I spoke to soon, because shortly thereafter, I realized that Patty was loco.

After making my offer of assistance, Patty immediately asked where I was from.

                “Oh, I’m from Pasadena,” I replied.  “I just moved up to the Bay for work.”

                “No.  I don’t mean that.  Where are you FROM?  I am a US citizen.” 

While slightly annoyed that Patty needed to know my ethnicity within seconds of meeting me, I decided to withhold judgment.  I responded saying, “Oh, my dad was from Egypt, and my mom’s family was from England.”

                Patty, clearly intrigued, paused.  “Oh, you’re Egyptian!  But are you a CITIZEN?  I am a citizen.”

My frustration with Patty was growing, and I wondered why she kept repeating that she was a citizen.  Did she fear that I was an INS nark?  Or worse, was SHE an INS nark who suspected that I was in the US illegally?    

I decided to laugh off her question and replied, “Oh, I was born in Orange County, and I’m a citizen, alright!”

She smiled, but I could almost swear that a glimmer of relief flashed across her face.  Feeling awkward after my interrogation from La Migra, I made an excuse and headed off to my car.

                                                

I had nearly forgotten about Patty until three weeks ago, when I heard a knock on my door.  I assumed it was Davey, my goofy neighbor from across the hall, and I quickly opened the door.  At first I didn’t see anything, but then I looked down and I saw a five foot Indian woman smiling up at me.

                “Hello, Mark.  You said you could help me?  I have some bags in my car that I need you to get.”

Honestly, I frequently make offers to help people, but no one’s ever taken me up on them, so I was slightly taken aback that Patty followed through!  I quickly collected my thoughts, though, and I followed her to the car where I retrieved six plastic bags of Ensure.  

Patty and I walked back to her apartment, where she fumbled with her keys and opened the front door.   As I crossed the threshold, I was shocked.  

Patty was a Level Five Hoarder.

As I scanned her living room, I was overwhelmed by the piles of boxes, papers, and mounds of clothing.  I couldn’t make out an empty surface, much less a place to deposit the bags of Ensure.  

                “Uh, where should I put these?” I murmured, trying not to stare.

                “Oh, just put them at your feet.  I’ll unpack them.”

After muttering some pleasantries, I escaped to my apartment, perplexed by this turn of events.

                                                                                            

Since then, Patty continues to resurface in my life, and apparently Walgreen offers frequent specials on Ensure, because I’ve schlepped loads of bottles to her apartment.  I’ve also seen Patty at church, but I tried to avoid making eye contact throughout the service.

My neighbor Davey always has a bemused expression on his face when he sees me with Patty.  And I confess that I would not have chosen Patty as a friend, but we’ve developed an understanding, and we “get” each other.

Plus, she’s also a Cal alum.  Go, Bears!

Baby Clown

As a child, I hated clowns.  I found their garish, painted faces extremely frightening.  My grandmother had two images of clowns hanging in a hallway, and I would always avert my eyes whenever I walked past them.  Later, when a kindergarten classmate had a birthday party featuring a clown, I fled the patio in terror.  No, I was definitely not a fan.

Thankfully, I have managed to avoid all contact with clowns until a few weeks ago.  And this encounter occurred in the most unlikely context: the San Francisco Bay Trail.  I frequently run along the Bay Trail, and I love it.  Both cyclists and joggers use this network of paths, and there’s frequent pedestrian traffic.  At one point, as the trail passes a NASA research center, the narrow path rises above the landscape, and there’s a steep embankment on either side.  I enjoy this portion of my run since it affords open, unobstructed views of the surrounding wetlands.  

While jogging on this stretch of path, I glanced up to see a GHOSTLY FEMALE CYCLIST BARRELING DOWN THE TRAIL!  The specter had a painted white face and a swarm of curly hair that billowed from under her helmet.  Startled, I nearly fell down the rocky embankment.  As I regained my balance and continued on my jog, I determined that the spirit on the cycle had been wearing an extremely heavy layer of sunscreen.  What else could explain a clown on the Bay Trail?   

Several days later, as I entered the grounds of my apartment complex, I overheard two residents talking by the stairs.  While I could not determine the specifics of their conversation, I noticed that the woman had a childlike voice.  As I rounded the corner, I realized that the squeaky speaker was none other than GHOSTLY FEMALE CYCLIST!  She was, in fact, wearing her cycling jersey and she appeared to have just returned from a long ride.  (Where she had, no doubt, terrorized other local residents.)

The high-pitched squeal of this woman’s voice made me smile, and that’s how I arrived at my neighbor’s nickname: Baby Clown.

As best I can determine, Baby Clown is about 60 years old, and she LOVES to exercise.  While I frequently see her on the Bay Trail, she also enjoys swimming in the pool of our apartment complex.  When she swims, however, she wears a full wetsuit, with only her painted white face peeking above the surface of the water.  She’s a rather vigorous swimmer, and I whenever I walk by the pool, she utters heavy, high-pitched grunts.  I find the whole performance quite entertaining, and I’ve been tempted to film portions of her routine, but that would be creepy.  

And she’s the creepy one, not me.

Where the White People Are

As a child, I was fascinated by Maurice Sendak’s Where the Wild Things Are.  The illustrations captivated me, and the notion of entering another world both intrigued and terrified me.  

I’d forgotten about that wonderful book until I started the first week of school.  I’m not sure the exact moment the book returned to my consciousness, but at some point I stared at my class of thirty-two students and didn’t see a single person of color.  Then reality hit: I was Where the White People Are.

I had no idea that places like Los Blancos High School still existed.  When I visit family in the Midwest, for example, I anticipate less diversity, but not in California.  So when I looked at my third period roll sheet and saw a sea of British, Polish, and Russian surnames, I realized that my landscape at changed.  Dramatically.

And working at Where the White People Are has also meant a shift in cultural values and expectations.  First of all, parents have immediately referred to me as Mark.  For the past eleven years, the Asian and Latino parents at South Pasadena called me Mr. Afram.  To be fair, the parents at Los Blancos have been cordial and introduced themselves by only their first name.  Still, most parents have assumed a level of familiarity with which I am unaccustomed.  

I’ve observed another cultural shift with athletics.  Yes, South Pas valued its teams, but different sports held sway.  Track and cross country were extremely popular, as were boys volleyball and girls tennis.  Los Blancos, however, loves its football.  In fact, it’s a sort of a football powerhouse.  When I was moving, several Bay Area friends commented on the legendary coach who’d led the team to victory over the past thirty years.  I attended countless football games at my former school, but those games were casual affairs.  Los Blancos, by contrast, takes it football seriously.

With all these changes, I am reminded (to state the obvious) that I’m not in Kansas anymore.  There are new relationships to build, and I must work to earn students’ confidence.  Kids don’t know me, and I’m an unknown quantity. At this point I suspect that they are withholding judgment, waiting to see how I treat them and their fellow classmates.  These first weeks are pivotal in establishing trust, and I want to extend myself and assure them that I’m on their side.

I know that I made the right decision in moving, and on the first day of school, while I was passing out papers, one of the students whispered to me, “I think they like you.”  I was thrown by this unexpected kindness, and the teen’s reassurance boosted my spirits. At the end of the day, an origami flower mysteriously appeared on my desk, a gift from a student in Period 7.  Welcome to Los Blancos, indeed.

The Long and Winding Road

 Doesn’t that picture make me look crazy?  I mean, who tows a sedan behind a ten-foot U-Haul?  No one.  Except for me.  Because I’m insane. 

But for the past three years I’ve seriously considered moving to the Bay Area from Southern California, and finally, I couldn’t sit on my dream any longer.  So many people asked me why I was moving.  After all, I’m close with my family, and we all live in LA.  I have a wonderful job, and I work with great people.  It’s hard for public school teachers to find a good gig, so when a teacher lands a plumb position at a stellar school, educators white knuckle precious tenure.  Finally, a move to the Bay meant leaving a supportive network of friends who had sustained me through the deaths of my parents, along with the lesser griefs of life.

Despite all the reasons to stay in SoCal, the Bay haunted me.  I frequently returned for vacations, and one summer, I even taught at an elite school for five weeks.  Finally I could no longer ignore my desires; in other words, the dream could no longer be deferred.  I managed to secure a new teaching position, and I rented a U-Haul truck with a camel’s head blazoned on the side panel.  (Aside: This design choice both pleased and horrified my Egyptian family.)

So, on an unseasonably cool Saturday in July, I found myself charging up the Grapevine at a record thirty miles an hour, praying that my truck wouldn’t overheat or that my sedan wouldn’t slip off the hitch and barrel into oncoming traffic.  In the truck cabin was my sidekick Susan, who took pity on my trek and volunteered to accompany me through the wilderness to the Promised Land.

At the time of our adventure, Susan’s father, who also lives in the Bay, was undergoing surgery to receive a pacemaker.  Our conversations on Highway 5 were punctuated by frequent phone calls to the hospital.  In between medical updates, we dreamed about my future, discussed Susan’s screenplay, and psychoanalyzed Susan's love life.

As the desert flashed past our windows, we frequently saw cars sidelined on the road.  Each time we saw a stalled car I clenched my steering wheel more tightly and muttered a frantic, unintelligible prayer.

Our mantra throughout the trip was, “We’re not in a hurry,” but I secretly felt the pressure of time.  I had arranged for two college friends to help me unload the truck, and I didn’t want to keep them waiting.

About halfway through the journey, Susan’s father received his pacemaker, and she cheerfully spoke to her father.  Since Susan’s father is hard of hearing, Susan yelled her medical advice through the mobile mouthpiece: 

            “HOW ARE YOU FEELING?”

            “YOU SHOULD NOT EAT THAT FOOD.  IT’S TOO GREASY!”

Three hours after the phone call, we pulled into U-Haul facility.  One customer asked me if I was moving to the Silicon Valley.

“Yup!” I happily replied.

“Are you working at Google?” he asked.

“No, I’m a teacher.”

The U-Haul employee, who overheard our conversation, laughed.  As he inspected my truck he turned to me: “The guy in LA who hitched your car to the truck didn’t do it right.”

Here’s to new beginnings…