Waiting for the Rain

In my afternoon course today, my lovely fellow-Dearbornite classmate turned to me during a break to share a photo of two chalk drawings that dominated the epicenter of the campus footpath.  One message used the brass block M – the M -- to spell out "Trump 2016."  Just below it, in equally large letters:  "#StopIslam."   

While I am deeply troubled by everything that is Donald Trump, I respect the creative use of this stupidly coveted letter of the Wolverines.  I feel deeply uncomfortable about the idea that anyone anywhere supports a man running on an explicitly violent, sexist, racist platform, but I'm not necessarily going to demand that his name is removed from this dominating position in the walkway. 

However.  #StopIslam.  No.  Just no.

So, I called Campus Operations, and I told them about the hashtag chalk writing.  I explained that I found it extremely offensive and troubling, and I requested that someone rinse off that chalk.  

Campus Operations basic response to me:  No.  Just no.  

The woman to whom I spoke kindly explained that it was their policy to not remove any of the chalk writing unless it includes profanity, so that writing will just have to stay there until the next rainfall.  

By the time I had made the call, some wise, justice-minded person that had passed before my friends and me had smudged out the word "stop."  But, like a healing wound, I could still see the damage that had previously been done.  I felt that all traces of it should be eradicated.  I felt that there should be a resounding campus response that that's not what we are about.

Let me just be clear that I am perfectly aware of the counterargument to the chalk removal.  I know that the First Amendment to the US Constitution protects freedom of speech and freedom of religion, side by side.  I need not give my elementary analysis of constitutional law here. And, again, I will hold myself back from ranting about a nation with viable presidential hopefuls who promote oppression. 

But, what I want to dig my heels in about for a moment is the University of Michigan and its supposed commitment to “diversity, equity, and inclusion.”  While I mostly understand why that perfectly kind woman at Campus Operations would not scrub down the diag, I still feel that intentionally, institutionally washing it away was the right thing to do.  I feel like it was a moment when the university could take a stance that this campus does not tolerate that sort of exclusion, that it acknowledges the inequities that exist for the Muslim American community, and that it wants to promote a welcoming environment for a diverse community of students. 

My classmate who initially shared the photo with me is a Muslim.  And, in that moment of eye contact after we both looked at the image, I could feel her disappointment and alienation.  I could feel the frustration from 900 similar experiences of discrimination that she had confronted previously.  And, I couldn’t help but think (…though not for the first time…) that this whole “leaders and best/Michigan difference” rhetoric is a croc of shit.    

Today, perhaps, I will call another UM department to file my complaint.  And, when I get around to buying some sidewalk chalk of my own, I will have a different message to write on the diag:

#StopChristianPrivilege

#Understandwhiteprivilege

#AcknowledgeOppression 

    

Cow Attack!

Yesterday, I was attacked by a cow.  Actually, two cows, to be precise.

I stay in a guesthouse that can only be accessed by a small alleyway.  This small path has charming potential, but not when it becomes the labyrinth of cows.  And, for the majority of the day, there is at least one sorry-looking uttered animal loitering in this space.  

Freshly back in India from the not-so-wild West, I have felt high irrational cow anxiety.  As I dodge them, the even more menacing monkeys, the mangy dogs, the checker board of animal feces, and the constant flow of people and motorbikes, I'm sure I appear to be doing some strange superstitious white girl dance through the streets.  

None of these obstacles pose any real danger.  Particularly the cows.  They are everywhere.  They are docile.  And, according to everyone around here, they are holy creatures.

Still, I was head-butted twice last year by one of these god-like beings, one time leaving a hell of shiner on my thigh.  Both incidents took place in the same confined space: the alleyway to my guesthouse...which, again, I walk down several time a day...through the labyrinth of cows.

I was particularly anxious when I met the labyrinth yesterday.  I paused, took a few a deep breaths, assessed my path.  I looked Cow #1 dead in the eyes, in a pleading sort of way.  Just as I was about to make my pass, Cow #2 went into attack mode.  His rage seemed to be directed at Cow #1, but I was becoming just as much a part of their skirmish.  There are no words for my fear or my level of ridiculous.  No one ever taught me how to react to a cow attack, and I'm certain I did everything wrong.  There was pushing.  There was screaming. There was throwing of a water bottle.  There was running at a very unimpressive rate back towards my point of origin.  There was hiding behind the guesthouse gate.  

It all happened quite fast.  By the time I was behind the gate, assessing my left foot that was clipped by a cow foot, the cow squabble was over.  An emotionless-faced local man passed by and motioned for me to come out from behind the gate.  He grunted at me and the cows to model how to work my way through the labyrinth.  Once I emerged, I proceeded with Anna Skinner drama protocol: I walked straight up to every person I knew in town to tell the tale of the cow attack.  

The consensus from the Indian men:  You need to carry a stick and work on your cow grunt.

The consensus form the new-age Western yogis:  The cows could smell your fear.  You manifested the cow attack.  You need to cultivate love for the cows.  Perhaps pet them under the chin.

I'm going to take a multi-pronged approach to the cows and follow both sets of advice. I may try to apply the cow wisdom more broadly, too.  Generally speaking, India -- the whole massive country of a billion people --  scares me senseless.  As with the cows, this fear is fairly irrational.  I mean, India has given me a few metaphorical shiners, but mostly it has provided me with lots of interesting experiences and life lessons and wonderfully kind people.  So, perhaps I should cultivate more love in my heart for this big bonanza of a country, not focus so much on my extensive patchwork quilt of fears.  I will try to pet it under the chin a bit more, but I will also keep a firm grip on my protective stick.        

An Obituary of Sorts: Howell's Bar and Grill, 1941 - 2014

I spent a good chunk of yesterday afternoon writing about lessons from the loss of a cheap ring I've been wearing for over 10 years.  In the evening, I received a text message blast about the blazing fire that was raging at my most beloved bar in the whole world.

Perspective.

Howell's Bar, located in the heart of west Dearborn, was an institution for the beer-drinking, burger-loving local community.  It maintained the soul of a classic 'shot and beer' dive bar while staying just polished enough to be unintimidating to newcomers and the 21-year-olds overflowing from the neighboring new generation of westend watering holes.  So many bars put a great deal of effort into achieving what Howell's did organically, effortlessly.  In the over 60 years of its existence, it had evolved to a state of being simultaneously completely normal and truly extraordinary.  It was a classic -- a multi-generational bar's bar.  

To its dying day on April 25, 2014, it carried Strohs on tap and accepted cash only.  Need I say more?

Like every good bar, it had that Cheers feel to it.  The staff had all been there for an impressive tenure.  After only a few visits, you probably knew Jimmy was cooking your chicken dinner, and you could recognize at least a few of the names of the exclusively female bar-staff that generously poured your cocktails.  You were familiar with Ford, the bar-hand who dropped empty beer bottles down the makeshift chute to the basement and kicked your ass out when the clock struck 2am.  And, though you may have never known their names, the most loyal regulars were unmistakeable.  They were usually saddled up at one end or the other of the bar -- rarely in the middle.  That is if they weren't throwing darts or occupying the "Sinatra Suite".

You didn't have to be a regular to feel at home, though.  Equal to the comfort I felt from the sight of the familiar faces was the joy from the rampant random interactions.  The world over, I have never so easily found myself in conversation with such a wide range of complete strangers as sitting on that vinyl bench that lined the wall facing the bar.  It was there that I first met the soft touch of "Dan-o-the-Man-Ho".  One night, I gained some wisdom from a man I called "Indian Santa Claus".  I received history lessons from Vietnam vets, and I often ended up in conversation with somebody who knew somebody who knew somebody...      

The jukebox, in all of its various incarnations, had been essential to the vibe of Building H.  At its best moments, Jimmy controlled it.  I had an affinity for Sunday afternoon and early evening weekday visits when his playlist of 60s R&B and soul went uninterrupted.  But, there was also something familiarly endearing about the sardine state of the bar on a Friday night, when some patrons did not have full respect for Jimmy's music code.  The place would shake with a strange mix of Metallica and Katy Perry until Jim got fed up about "the crap" and put his money in the machine to relieve the masses with a bit of Otis Redding or The Temptations.    

That was the beauty of Howell's.  You could feel at home as a 21-year-old on a strictly pop music diet, a 30-something Pearl Jam enthusiast, a nearly 40-year-old Phish head, a Ford retiree who was faithful to the Beatles, or a former high school teacher and small-time bookie who sang along with Jim's playlist.  Howell's may have generally been Wonder Bread White, but the diversity of age, interest, and experience within its small confines was rich.

The loss of Howell's, then, is a big one for Dearborn. There are surely many grieving, nostalgia-riddled, barfly refugees like me feeling a deep sense of personal loss after last night's fire.  As is the case with any great bar, it was the site of many a celebrated triumph, many a soothed heartbreak.  It was on those barstools that I celebrated one of my best friend's weddings, discussed the divorce of another, contemplated the death of my father, and toasted to my 30th birthday.  I even got pulled into a bathroom bar fight there once.  

For me, Howell's was an unwavering pillar of familiarity.  Other than my parents' Dearborn home, there is nowhere that has instilled in me as true a sense of place and belonging in the metro-D as this pub.  I've lived in six different countries, heading back to Dearborn between each tour, and I've always come home to Howell's.  

Of course, that wise Thomas Wolfe quote tells us, "you can't go home again".  For me, that is an important part of the lesson from the unexpected glorious blaze in which Howell's left us. We all change, and so does Howell's.  It has a life cycle just like the rest of us.  Beauty is born, and then it burns.  And, something new blossoms in its wake (let's all just hope its not another parking lot or chain restaurant).  

So, while I will miss the irreplaceable vibe of Howell's Bar, I will do my best to try to accept that it was just its time to leave us, to appreciate that the places we consider home change just as everything else in this world.  The vessel is gone, but the lessons and the memories carry on with us as we attempt to create new barstool homes.     

Cheers to you, Howells.  Your well will never run dry in our hearts  

America, The Beautiful

I’ve been back on American soil for 55 days now.  About half of those days have been spent in The Debo and half have involved me criss-crossing the country.  After the Bokuniewicz mania of the holidays subsided, my itchy feet were on a series of planes, visiting friends in LA, DC, and Seattle.  While employment eludes me, why not enjoy my mother’s American Airlines benefits and visit the people sprinkled across the country that make me proud to be an American?

From coast to coast, during these 55 American days, I have been in a pretty continuous state of contemplation about the question that everyone likes to ask:  What next, Anna? 

My precise answer to this question will hopefully soon be delivered by way of organizations responding to my job applications.   The vague plan is to see what it feels like to live in the US as a grown-up, to have a job without an expiration date, to savor a place/experience without the knowledge that my time in it is clearly limited.

[…that is if my Kiwi husband doesn’t show  up on my doorstep…because if that happens, I will have to delay this whole American experience thing because I will be heading straight to Wellington, to bask in the glory of intercontinental romance and the love of my wonderful community of friends and acquaintances there…]

Giving this American life a shot is exciting in many ways, but it also feels really strange.   Don’t get me wrong; America -- like everywhere else I have been in the world -- is an absolute delight in its own unique way.  Great people, great place.  Great.  But, me and America?  Can we see eye to eye?

On Saturday, I lounged on the couch with a classic cup of American filtered coffee and listened to “Wait! Wait! Don’t Tell Me!” and a lovely segment on Pete Seeger.  I watched the snow fall through the same window from which I have been gauging precipitation, life cycles, and demographic shifts for over 29 years. I listened to “We Shall Overcome” and stories of the civil rights movement.  And, all of this filled me with gratitude and amazement over the United States and the beauty existing beside the hardship.

America!  You are so cool!  Take me to your 30-something Pete Seegers!

On Sunday, I went to a lovely Super Bowl gathering – chips and dip, a low-stakes pool, beer games involving ping pong balls, a television, and potentially the world’s most wholesome family.  I swooned over Bruno Mars’ hip swinging, gold-blazer wearing, instrumental entourage and talked about the coolness of the ‘12^th man’ concept in Seattle.

America!  You are so fun!  Let’s unite over this weird game and catchy pop music!

Then, the great Bob Dylan appeared in that Chrysler commercial asking, “Is there anything more American than America?” 

America.  Humph. 

I will resist the temptation to engage in the internet-world’s social commentary of this advertisement and that of Coca-Cola (…though I have no shortage of opinions…no shortage at all…)  What I’m reporting on is how the incredibly stupid question of a great American modern poet rubbed up against my re-entry blues.  I have transitioned to and from the US many times, so I tend to downplay the difficulty of the readjustment.  But, despite the fact that this has become a regular practice for me, the hardness of finding my American footing never ceases to sneak up on me.  It’s just that now it’s a bit of a snake in the grass.  I mean, wasn’t I just celebrating America’s greatness? 

The words from the Chrysler ad (stupid or not) were pretty inconsequential.  (I will let you theorize about my mental dialogue regarding the American-ness of America and how the fist-pumping patriotism relates to me.)  It could have been anything that set me off, really.  Every time I come home, I have moments of highs about the good ole US of A, but I spend a lot of time stewing in unfair expectations of the country.  I expect more social justice, more participation, more public transportation, more vitality, more quality radio, more impressive humor in the Super Bowl commercials, and more inspired Bob Dylan.  It’s really easy to accept places that are not your own, and it is even easier to harshly judge the place that you call home. 

On one hand, I feel that if we all expected more of America, we would be living in a more stand-up society.  On the other hand, it seems like I should probably cut America some slack and focus more on the positives of Pete Seeger, the civil rights movement, pretty snowfalls, and my awesome friends.   When I was 19, a very wise man told me that “the secret to life is to have no expectations.”  So, from this moment on, I’m trying to take America for what it is, not what I think it should be.  To counter Mr. Dylan with an equally stupid but potentially suitable statement: America is America after all.    

Polka Boosting in the New Year

Sometimes you don't have to stray far from home to find adventure (or some weird 'Being John Malkovich'-type wormhole).  In The Debo, I rang in the new year just a few blocks from Grand Central Skinner, in a scene somewhere between adventure and wormhole.  

A bit of essential background information:  I grew up as the first granddaughter in a proudly Polish American family.  During the summers, we spent many weekends at the local Catholic church fairs, rocking out in the official Polish tent.  Kielbasa, piergoi, and polka dancing abound!  Somewhere around the age of 10, my polka-dancing gene fully kicked in, and I became obsessed with those wooden outdoor dance floors.  I was the only young child busting into polka in a crowd of gray-hairs, but I loved every second of it and eagerly waited until it was my turn to dance with Uncle Len.  To this day, there are not many things in the world that make me as happy as being swung around in the polka zone.  And, to this day, I am practically the only non-gray hair on the floor at these (now infrequently attended) events. 

My mother's older sister, the legendary Auntie Mary, is the one person who actively keeps the polka tradition alive in our family.  When she was in town for the holidays, she enthusiastically tried to persuade everyone to attend a New Year's Eve Polka Booster event at the local American Legion hall.  My mother and I were the only takers.  Mom went out of pity.  I went out of shared enthusiasm. 

So, on the 31st of December, the only three single women of two Bokuniewicz generations arrived at the Stitt Post Hall wearing our light up 'Happy New Year' tiaras and high-top shoes. (Let it be known that this is the hall where the funeral receptions for both of my grandparents was held.) The tables had already been assigned, and it was quite clear from the start -- whether another soul took a seat or not -- that we were at the table of outcasts.  All of the other eight-top tables were populated by Polish, heterosexual couples, 95% of whom were over the age of 75.  After about 30 minutes, a German woman in her early 70s from a few suburbs over joined our crew.  She was quite distressed about her difficulty finding the hall.  She was so distressed, in fact, that she told the story of being lost on the streets of Dearborn Heights over and over and over and over again.  A big part of the distress was associated with her four friends that were MIA.  (Because of this weird old-person vortex, no one was operating on a cell phone level.)  The other ladies eventually took a seat at the four remaining seats at our table (similarly distressed) about an hour later.  They were absolute outcast gems -- a Thai 70ish year old woman, her Thai daughter, another 70-something German woman (who -- for the UM alum out there -- was a card swiper at the Bursley Hall cafeteria), and her 35-year-old German niece who was just visiting for a few weeks and did not speak much English.  

But our multi-cultural, multi-generational, all-female table was really just the tip of the random iceberg.  BBB was hitting the rum and Coke hard (which, incidentally, she had brought in her own covert carrier bag -- God forbid she partake in the cheap beer and wine that was exclusively on tap).  Her inebriated state mixed with a state of extreme anxious horror about the 35-year-old German girl and what she must think of America based on this New Year's Eve scene of old people, canned green beans, and polka tunes.  The younger Thai woman locked her keys in her car and spent a good chunk of the night in the parking lot, waiting for AAA to arrive.  And, the original German woman continued to bang-on about how difficult it was to find the joint.  In the meantime, Duane Melanowski had started kicking out the jams.  Auntie Mary and I were tearing up the dance floor, but we had both forgotten that polka dancing is about the most aerobic workout in the world.  Auntie Mary is now 65, so she couldn't dance full-tilt for too long.  Luckily, there were a few men that asked both of us to dance. (An awkward Ohio farmer seemed particularly keen on obedeks and my dance moves).  

We set off rocketballoons with our fellow outcasts around 11:30pm.  We left the hall shortly after and pulled into the Skinner driveway almost precisely at midnight.  Betty jumped out of the car before the stroke of 12, but Auntie Mary and I listened to the WDET DJ count down the seconds.  In the driveway.  In the car.  Finally, we went inside, listened to BBB babble about the huge crowds in Time Square and the uninterested look on Miley Cyrus' face, and then we all went to sleep.

Did I mention that I was experiencing all of this sober?  What a strange time to decide to distance myself from the Miller High Lifes...  

Despite the twilight-zone nature of the evening, it all felt really right.  This was Dearborn.  This was the Polka Boosters.  This was part of my heritage.  It was weird and wonderful, of me yet also completely foreign.  And, it would have made my grandparents damn proud.

So, all in all, I'd call it an interestingly auspicious start to 2014.  I challenge this year to get even weirder, wilder, and more wonderful. 

Glory Days

The Boss and I had quite different 'glory days', but I surely understand the nostalgic glory of a free and easy time in life (when I, too, felt like a boss).  My two truest periods of glory were in Wellington, New Zealand and Cape Town, South Africa -- the first and final destinations of the Greatest Hits Tour, as divine intervention would have it.

I like to think of my connection to Cape Town as something special, but the truth is that it is almost impossible for anyone not to love this city.  I mean, look at the place.  Table Mountain's commanding presence.  Beautiful beaches.  Colonial buildings.  New Orleans-style balconies.  Hipsters mixed with the spirit of Africa.  It's a cosmopolitan paradise.

One thing, though, that may give my love of the city more depth is being acquainted with one of its most wonderful residents, Khumo Ntoane.  Khumo was the first friend I made in Cape Town seven years ago.  We worked together at a restaurant in the middle of the city's party district on Long Street.  It might be more accurate, though, to say that we 'worked the party district' in a more general sense.  This woman of strength, intelligence, and liveliness has a similar love of the random to my own.  She indulges all of my nonsense.  She gets me.  We have one of those friendships that defies space and time.  In the blink of an eye, I was spilling red wine on her new duvet as we spoke in an animated manner about life and love and joy and pain as if we had just been making Long Street the Wrong Street the night before, as if the six and a half years since our last session of wine and girl talk did not exist.

The other factor that might set my love apart from most outsiders is that I attract/seek out the beautiful madness that lingers just under the city's surface.  I want to get amongst all of it -- the wild and the gritty and the questionable and the slightly uncomfortable.  For me, Cape Town is about random conversations on the mini-bus taxis.  It's about bumping into those taxi acquaintances on Long Street and mistakenly accusing them of acting like 'hungry lions.'  It's about engaging in a playful physical battle over a bottle of water with the attendant of the mini-bus.  It is about stomping and clapping and singing on the train from Fish Hoek.  It's about joining a story-telling circle on the beach.  It's about shaking my ass like I own the dance floor with an assortment of other unknown women who also believe that they own the dance floor.

The only difficult part of being in a place that hums the melodies of your glory days is leaving that place. When my adult-life timeline comes up with strangers, I sometimes feel a slight sense of agitation when someone responds by saying, "wow, you have really been traveling!"  Yes, I have been traveling.  I have climbed to the tops of volcanoes and hiked to the bottom of canyons.  I have slept on long distance buses and trains and entertained silly conversations with folks who have been kind enough to pick me up as a hitch-hiker.  I have wandered and shopped and explored and laid on beaches with a cocktail in my hand.  All of that has been awesome, but much more significant than those moments of adventure and exchange in foreign territories have been the different relationships and communities I have fostered in my longer (if still relatively short) stays.  That has not been a vacation; it's been my life (unless, one were to argue that the life of Anna Skinner is a vacation...).  So, when I leave a place like Cape Town, a place that is so charged with nostalgia and meaning for me, it's not just like departing a spring break destination (even if there was a lot of binge drinking involved).  It's like leaving my natural habitat, leaving a bit of my heart, leaving one of my homes...and feeling the pain of not knowing when I will return.    

But, as they say, "tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all." As I embarrassingly cried on the plane, looking down at the beauty and confusion and vitality that is Southern Africa, I did so not just in a state of self-indulgent loss but also in deep gratitude for the way the region has deeply changed my life, for the knowledge that it will always be a bit like home, for the joyous memories, and for the important life lessons.  A few tears may, too, have been dedicated to the deep hope that I will get to relive those glory days again soon.  

Seven

I did not realize that seven was a special number until my official dread release ceremony in April.  As I debriefed the timing of the farewell to my beloved hairstyle seven years after its creation, my wise girlfriends shed light on the significance of this number in science, spirituality, and other symbolism.

Since the de-dreading, the number seven has continued to show its importance on the Greatest Hit Tour.  In Rishikesh, I studied the seven chakras.  I spent seven months outside of the Western world.  I had seven brushes with romance (if you count me grabbing a beer with my ex-boyfriend and his current love).  I even met a nice man named Seven who gave me a ride to Katatura.  

Probably the most significant seven of all has been returning to Namibia almost precisely seven years after I packed up and moved out of my flat on Theo Ben Guirab Street in Walvis Bay.  I found this seven year timeframe to be magical -- the perfect window of time to allow me to see and feel some real, significant changes while maintaining a feeling of familiarity and connection.  For my three weeks in Namibia, I constantly felt like everything was simultaneously completely different and exactly the same.  

In seven years, my former workplace, the Walvis Bay Multi-Purpose Centre, had pretty much disintegrated into a skeleton of what it once was.  The offices were populated mostly by new faces and new organizations, with barely a trace of the vibrant HIV-related programs I knew so well.  Even though there was a new cast of characters involved in different plot lines, the general vibe remained -- dudes sitting in the reception area, reading The Namibian, humorously chewing the fat (literally and figuratively). Adelheid -- the former receptionist now giving directorship a go -- was still holding it down, using the same euphemism for sex ('has it been raining for you, my dear?').  Loving children ran around outside, waiting for the soup kitchen to serve lunch as the woman with Walvis Bay's brightest smile, Meme Teresia, quietly watched their game playing and prepared to clean up after their mess.

Seven years later in Owamboland, my mind was blown by the number of malls and blinging cars.  Oshakati had a number of fancy new buildings, and Ongwediva had an entire UNAM engineering campus that had not existed 'back in my day'.  The taxis, however, were still jamming too many hot bodies into a small space, and they still played the same song on loop (though they use MP3 players these days).  It probably goes without saying that the village is still the village is still the (beautifully awkward for an oshilumbu) village.

And, nearly seven years since I last saw The Tall One -- with seven years worth of wisdom about life and love behind me, with the deep understanding that nothing could ever make less sense than me and this guy -- when my ex-boyfriend stepped out of the taxi to meet me for dinner, I frighteningly felt something similar to the first time we met.

Namibia.  Same same, but different.

It's no surprise, then, that I felt so comfortable back in Namibia.  It sometimes felt like I was fluidly picking up where my 24-year-old self had left off.  I was refreshingly connected to the version of me who was regularly drinking beers at Fagan's and making daily stops at the Shop 4 Value.  But, there have been many metaphorical building developments and organizational overhauls in my life, just as I saw in Namibia.  After days of marveling over the personal life developments of my friends and former colleagues, I realized that a lot has happened in my own seven year window:  I have lived and worked in five different countries, I have fallen in and out of love twice, I have had 10 different jobs, I have made friends of such significance that it is hard to believe that I haven't known them my entire life, I sat next to my grandmother and my father as they passed on, I found yoga, and I developed a taste for olives.  

Anna Skinner.  Same same, but different.  

It is difficult to imagine what the next seven years holds for Namibia and for me.   I have a sense, though, that the we will both always more or less be 'same same but different'. I just hope that we meet again before the next cycle of seven begins.