Streetcar Stories: Black shoes, black belt

Black belt. Public Domain. Via Wikimedia Commons.

A man bounded onto the streetcar on my way home yesterday. He was 40, had lived in Texas much of his life, but was originally from Toronto, having left when he was 13.

I know all this not by sight but because he told me and another passenger soon after he sat down.

"I'm so confused," he said. "I don't recognize anything. I don't feel like I fit in here." He didn't say this morosely but with a smile and a laugh, one part amazement, one part exasperation, and maybe even one small hint of desperation.

I smiled genuinely but as I do so often in life, kept a certain amount of distance between me and the conversation that the man and the other passenger were having. Honest, I'm not trying to be aloof--it's just self-preservation in a world that I often find overwhelming and confusing myself. In my heart of hearts, I want to be open to the world, but the reality of said world often makes me think better of it. As I've said before, people can surprise you--sometimes in a good way but other times in a disappointing, even frightening way.

I let the other passenger do the talking and listening for a while.

The car stopped at Bremner Blvd. and the other passenger exited. I thought, well, I can exit, too, as a way to end the conversation, then walk the rest of the way home. But for some reason I decided it against it.

The man smiled, and all of a sudden, I heard myself say, "For what it's worth, I feel out of place here, too. I'm from the States originally, and I don't feel like I fit in either. And I've lived here for four years."

Which is completely true. Canada is like America's slightly off doppelganger. Things look similarly on the surface, but when you get below the surface, nothing seems the same. It's jarring--people sound mostly the same, English is the predominant language in Toronto, the accent and vocabulary are similar, and yet it's all different as well. Queen's Park, Parliament, hockey, cottage country, Harvey's for hamburgers and Second Cup for coffee, the prevalence of marijuana smoke and no one particularly stressed about health care costs. At least when I'm in Argentina I know the culture is different and I have to communicate in a different language. But in Toronto ...?

"Where are you from?"

"North Carolina originally. But I lived in Texas for many years as well."

"Ah, a Southern boy!" Which is a funny thing for a 40-year-old man to call a 57-year-old man, but I took it in the spirit intended.

We compared notes about Texas, having both lived in San Antonio.

"I don't know what's going on. I spent my time in athletics, then the military. Not like this, playing football, sports, the Army, not trying to ..." his voice trailed off. "But my Dad said, 'Come on up!' so here I am!"

He got up, ready to exit the car at the next stop, my stop.

"I have a question for you," he said. Which always makes me nervous because in my younger days, when someone said this to me, it usually resulted in some wildly indecent or offensive comment in a public place from a man or a woman with few boundaries.

"Can you come over here so I can ask you?"

Oh dear god. What in the name of ...?

Foolhardy person that I am, I walked closer. There were others around, and he wasn't using his inside voice, so I figured I could easily escape or deflect an unwanted comment if I needed to. I knew where my wallet was, and it was not easily accessible to him.

"I'm going for a job interview. I have a dark blue coat, dark pants, white shirt, and a red tie. Should I wear black shoes and a black belt or brown shoes and a brown belt?"

That was the question?

"Well, you might get by with either. Personally with the white shirt and red tie, I would go with black shoes/black belt. It can depend on how dark the blue is but black would be the safer choice, in my opinion. It won't look odd or out of place."

"Great! All I have are black shoes and a black belt! I don't have time to get anything else!"

Yes, that was the question. Frankly, having seen enough men wear brown shoes with a black belt, I was impressed that I didn't have to explain to him why that would be a bad idea.

"Thank you, man! I really appreciate the advice. Thanks for talking with me."

And with that he bounded off the streetcar and headed out into the world.

I lost track of him in the crowd at Queens Quay and Spadina. I walked along the waterfront, deviating from my normnal route a little and watching my back, then arrived safely at home.

Back to our regularly scheduled shallowness already in progress

Despite a week of protests against racism conducted by local government agents and congressional revelations about torture conducted by federal government agents (what, no state government agents? slackers . . .), my early '90s nostalgia continues. This time in the mix, Tejano music star Selena and my favorite Spanish-language song by her, "Amor prohibido" ("Forbidden Love").

When I moved to San Antonio in August 1995, Selena had already been dead a few months, murdered by the former president of her fan club, a woman whose name I will not mention here. (She is simply not worthy of the publicity that she seems to crave, even 20 years later.) Yet in spite of having been murdered five months earlier, feelings still ran high and strong in South Texas.

While Selena was born in Lake Jackson, Texas (in Brazoria County over toward Houston), and grew up in Corpus Christi, San Antonians knew her and loved her well. San Antonio was, after all, sometimes referred to Mexico's northernmost city, at least in Texas, where more than 60 percent of the population is of Latino origin, chiefly Mexican American. It is a Mexican American population with a long history in the region, back to the early 1700s at least, when Spain began to colonize South Texas. Even after being declared independent from Mexico in 1836 and later becoming part of the U.S., Mexican influence remained strong and constant with successive waves of immigration throughout the 19th and 20th centuries, which resulted in the development of a homegrown, native-born Tex-Mex (or better, Tejano) culture. Tejano music is a fine example of that.

When I lived there from 1995 to 2004, I loved this aspect of San Antonio, more than all the Alamo and Republic of Texas meshugas--so white, so American in perspective. Fiesta San Antonio, cascarones, that Mexico seafood place on the Southside where I had to order in Spanish, aguas frescas, corn in a cup (hard to find in SA but usually brought out during festivals), code-switching, a passionate local literature scene, las Posadas, tamales at Christmastime, the close proximity of both the Texas Hill Country and Mexico, the slower pace, and a montón of other things--I miss them all. I spent a good nine years of my life there, and as winter in Pittsburgh stalks me once again, I often wonder why I left.

Oh, but I do remember why. I had my reasons, many of which seemed very good then and even now make a lot sense. I hated the Texas heat, all seven months of it, even if it was mostly a dry heat. The slower pace belied a lack of dynamism as well, a go-along-to-get-along attitude that chafed me professionally and intellectually. The strong sense of familia, which could be welcoming and comforting even to an outsider like me, also meant that a lot of gay people lived their lives in the closet.

A snide aside: Nevertheless, by the number of times I've been hit on by married white gay men in other parts of the country, I do wonder if a lot of gay folk have a "familia" issue to deal with. At least Latino gay men in San Antonio seemed happier and better able to live life on the hyphen.

Seriously, though, if I could have found a decent job in a decent library at a decent university in Houston, or maybe even Dallas (but steady on, let's not go to extremes), I think I would have stayed in Texas--or just would have cut to the chase and moved to Mexico, which I love deeply for some of the same reasons, as well as several hundred additional ones. But things turned out differently for me, and the crazy charm of Texas in the '80s and '90s seems to have resulted in just pure "t" crazy in the '00s and '10s. So let's keep the regrets to a minimum and move on.

Back to Selena: She was everywhere in 1995, before and after death. I remember seeing tributes to her in office cubicles in the city's personnel department; constant gossip and worry about her relationships with her father, her club president, and her husband; this huge (and somewhat unflattering) portrait unveiled and displayed at the public library; and her songs in heavy rotation on the airwaves. Yes, we were still listening to the radio back then.

In fact, if I recall correctly, at the time I drove across the Texas border on IH-10 near Beaumont, I picked up a station on the car radio playing either "Amor prohibido" or "Como la flor"--I can't remember which now. It may have been a tribute to Selena's sad, untimely death at 23, but for me, at the ripe old age of 33, it felt like a new beginning.

Sometimes I wish I had just stopped the car in Houston--far more dynamic, far more cultural and cutting-edge. Hot, sweaty, full of "oil field trash" and godawful traffic, and marred by a tragic lack of zoning and urban planning but also blessed with fantastic museums (the Houston Museum of Fine Arts and the Menil Collection being noteworthy on an international level), opera, ballet, the Galleria, huge Asian supermarkets, and the intersection of Montrose and Westheimer, epicenter for Houston's gay community. I think I would have been happier, more satisfied, and would probably never have left Texas.

And in so doing, I wouldn't have met Cairo; wouldn't have edited a journal; wouldn't have gone to Montreal to study French and learned about an entirely different culture; wouldn't have become president of a regional library organization; wouldn't have made some wonderful friends in Gettysburg; wouldn't have reconnected with friends in Washington; wouldn't have traveled to Scotland, France, Germany, and England (twice); and wouldn't have done a whole host of other stuff either.

I might not have ended up in another Pittsburgh winter either with a hectic job that feigns at being a career "opportunity." I might have more than just a couple of half-hearted friendships. I might not have gained eight pounds in the last year. But it's give and take most days. Win some, lose some, or come to a draw. But most of all, keep moving.

So perhaps this post isn't as shallow, frivolous, and nostalgic as I might pretend. Maybe in the last 20 years, years that have passed by faster than a Rip Van Winkle REM stage dream, I have learned and grown and laughed and loved and striven and succeeded more than I realize. Life feels slow in the here and now, like cold molasses most days, but oh, it does go by and it goes by fast. And whenever I can stop for a moment, catch my breath, and look where I've traveled from and not focus so much on where I'm running to, I realize that I love my life, more and more, truly, madly, and deeply.

I only wish Selena had had the same opportunities. Talented, personable, and by all accounts a lovely, kind person, she deserved better. We all do.

Benelux-urious dreaming

Tram 25 at the Damrak, Amsterdam
(CC0 - Courtesy of Wikipedia)

I'm somewhere in Amsterdam on a trolley, and I start talking with this young woman from Texas. She looks around and points to the city and asks in her vaguely remembered twang, "Is this your heritage?" I say no. 

Meanwhile young guys keep walking up to flirt with her and one sits in her lap. They look at me. I look at them. They are sexy, but they are not interested in me, specifically. They're just 18 and perpetually turned on by the world. I'm just in their line of sight, their aura, for a brief moment.
 
I turn and I'm now talking with a 30-something Dutch businessman on the same trolley. His hair is a mix of red and blond. He's burly, slightly chubby, and professional-looking in his gray suit. Handsome but in an unassuming way. 

We talk about Brussels. I tell him I think Brussels has the most beautiful public square in the world, and I get a picture in my mind of a morning-bright plaza, crisp and springlike air, and bold-colored flowers everywhere. 

The businessman looks forlornly out the window as we pass a neon-lit bookstore. It's named Loekers or Lookers or something like that. "I was offered a job in Brussels once, but it didn't work out. I was supposed to end up in Brussels," he sighs.

The trolley rolls on. The city passes by. I ask how and where to get off the train. I want to go to Brussels now. I get off the trolley with the Texas girl and the Dutch businessman. It's a sparse, suburban station. There's no one around, even though it's late afternoon, and the station should be full of commuters.

We start to walk through the neighborhood. The houses and buildings are odd and moon colony-like with small, recessed windows and queerly pitched roofs with off-center peaks. The village makes me think of Le Corbusier, and I wonder if he designed it.

And then I wake up.

Maybe I should lay off the Gouda before bedtime.

* * *

My wise sister  had this to say about the dream: 

Your life is in transition (train). You don't want to lose connection with your past (Texas, the girl gets off train with you). You would like to go somewhere exotic and new (Brussels), but the transition is slow and uncertain (walking through sparse neighborhood). Freud's got nothing on me. You're welcome.

Spot-on I'd say. 

More about that transition soon, I hope.

Un lieu dans la campagne

Moi à la Chute Pedernales, ca. 1997

Soyez gentil, y'all. This is only my second attempt ever to write an essay en français. This one's about Fredericksburg, Texas, a favorite place of mine.

* * *

Un lieu dans la campagne que j’aime est la petite ville de Fredericksburg, dans l’état de Texas. Pendant j’habitais au Texas, je visitais souvent cette belle ville et cette région historique.

La ville n’est pas ancienne à coté des villes et des lieus de l’Europe : Des immigrés de l’Allemagne ont établis la ville pendant le moyen de la XIX siècle, bien que la région s’ait eu installée déjà par des gens indiens. 

Malheureusement, aujourd’hui il n’existe presque personne de ces gens originaux, à part des noms de lieu (que sont rares) et des reliques que on peut trouver parfois dans la campagne.  Cependant, il existe encore beaucoup de caractéristiques allemandes dans la ville. Par exemple, il y a des restaurants allemands qui servent la nourriture traditionnelle du pays. Il y a beaucoup de noms de lieu qu’on écrit en l’allemand (par exemple, « Hauptstrasse » et le « Vereins Kirche »). Il y a encore des coutumes allemandes qui sont pratiquées à Fredericksburg, inclus des fêtes, la fabrication de la bière, et de l’architecture de la ville.

Mais, cependant, Fredericksburg est une ville texane, avec une culture « cowboy » et « western. » Les rues de la ville sont très larges – parfait pour tourner une charrette et des chevaux. L’architecture inclut des motifs traditionnels de l’ouest des États Unis, par exemple, la roue de la charrette, le fer à cheval, les clôtures à bois, et les murs à calcaire. C’est la campagne du cheval, du cowboy, du ranch, et du élevage de bétail. Il y a une tradition riche de la musique « country » aussi : La région est très célèbre pour la proche village de Luckenbach et sa mode de musique, « outlaw country. » Des musiciens célèbres ont habitées dans la région, inclus Willie Nelson, Waylon Jennings, Jessie Coulter, et plus.

Mais il y a plus de la musique et de la nourriture à Fredericksburg; il y a aussi beaucoup de belle campagne. Fredericksburg est située dans la région appelée le « Texas Hill Country. » Par conséquence, il y a beaucoup de collines et de vues panoramiques. Il y a beaucoup d'arbres, comme le chêne, le pecan, et le peuplier qui fournissent beaucoup d’ombre quand il fait chaud et le soleil brille. Malgré le chaud, il ne fait pas trop humide. Il y a beaucoup de parcs et il n’y a trop de voiture sur les chemins. La région est presque parfaite à faire de la randonnée et à faire du velo.

Mais faites attention! Voici des animaux dangereux! J’ai vu des serpents proche des rivières et j’ai vu des tarantules et des scorpions sur la terre. Il y a des coyotes dans les champs. J’ai vu une fois un puma au parc « Enchanted Rock », mais, par bonheur, il ne m’a pas vu. Même le tatou timide et mignon est dangereux – il porte les bactéries que font la lèpre. 

Grandma's cornbread

In memory of J.R. Ewing, I made my Grandma's cornbread.

No, not really. For one thing, this isn't my Grandma's cornbread. Lord knows how she made it when she did; she never wrote anything down, just did it from memory and habit. I do know she probably used lard, which I did not. I used vegetable shortening, which theoretically is healthier but not necessarily tastier).

For another, I had planned to make cornbread this weekend anyway, treating myself and my downstairs neighbors (who are from South America) with some Southern comfort food.

So no, I didn't make cornbread in honor of J.R. If I had done so, it would have been a lot less crumbly but just as delicious.

Besides, J.R. (and Larry Hagman) was from Texas, not North Carolina and cornbread is more of a southeastern and south central thing, not a Texas thing, which is less about cornbread and more about biscuits. Or maybe flour or corn tortillas.

I always liked how on Dallas, J.R. was never played as a Texas hayseed but as a Texas sophisticate. It made total sense of course. A oil billionaire from Texas wouldn't be a yokel. But Hollywood has a strange way with . . . everything. Still, they got it right on Dallas and on Texas.

And I realize I miss Texas more than anything right now
.

The man who would be . . .

. . . Prom king. And I'm not sure at this late date he's even qualified for that.

As a former proud resident of the Lone Star State, it's difficult for me to fathom Rick Perry's appeal as a candidate on The Dating Game, let alone for President of the United States of America--a less-than-perfect union he eschewed and threatened to secede from should the federal government actually do its job.

It was a bizarre moment when he uttered those hard words and any number of ones since then. Truth be told, when my and Rick's worlds more or less peacefully coexisted in the early Naughties, he seemed like kind of a cypher, sort of a lighter-than-a-feather version of George Dubya.

I'll let that sink in for a bit.

*Crickets chirping*

*For, like, hours*

And we're back.

So why the sudden change in personality, Rick? You seem more aggressive, surly, and rigid, sort of the Lone Star equivalent of Doc Jekyll and Cowboy Hyde. Are you chafing in the extreme Texas heat? Is it the male menopause? Or are you just frightened by the possibility of having to live out your dying days in dry-as-dust Paint Creek or Peahen Lick or Possum Shizzle or wherever the hell you came from?

I'm assuming its a sudden change of life. Admittedly, I haven't paid any attention to you since I left Texas in 2004.

In the early years of "the Rick," the only passionate agenda I remember Perrypuss in a fervor over was this wild-ass plan to build super-highways and super-railways all over Texas, none of which actually went into the cities but, instead, went around them. I was never sure how anyone was supposed to get from the train station to downtown or anywhere else people might actually frequent or live, given Texas's aversion to urban mass transit (the very nice DART system in Dallas excepted). But, then, a little old thing like public access never stopped anyone anywhere in the U.S. from sticking an airport out in Palooka Palisades and expecting you to float a loan to pay for parking.

So failed über-transportation systems aside, and a tendency to be quick with the lethal injection excepted, apparently now God wants Rick Perry to run for national office, Prom King of these here U.S. of A. Divine intervention and inspiration! I'll be sure to try that reasoning for all future, questionably-reached decisions. When I call in sick for work at a future date. "God wants me to stay home until Mad Men returns to TV in January." May I get scads of unchecked funding from the Koch Brothers and endless hours of media coverage from Fox & Friends for my pronouncement.

Of course, he's Governor Goodhair, 1980s edition, with that Marlboro Man squint and firm, square jaw. But, honestly, brown hair, brown eyes, brown tie, brown suit? In this photo, he looks like he's been styled by exceptionally hapless children from the Texas School for the Chromatically Impaired. What, was an all-beige ensemble unavailable that day?


Nonetheless, let it never be said that, as an equal-opportunity nation, we Americans discriminate against The Handsome Community, no matter how questionably apparelled. Never! In our fair-to-middlin' nation, even poorly attired but well-funded, narrow-minded, former male cheerleaders who at midlife turn to God and politics can succeed! Twice over!

Praise!