Take A Walk Project

 

Broken Sidewalk, Broken Pedestrians

Amy and I, in partnership with some folks from our church/community, are embarking on a short-term community project this summer to survey broken sidewalks in our neighborhood, talk to residents about ways to repair the damage, compile photos of all the unsightly paths with affected folks (read: all pedestrians) and present our case to the powers-that-be to get some of Obama’s STIMULUS FUNDS into our streets. I know as much community activism as my Arabic, so we’ll see how it pans out. Follow our progress at the Take a Walk Project.

Stars and Gangstars

Joshua Tree National Park

Many people seem to make LA out to be a city of two extremes.

There is Hollywood…

OMG, I wanna go Hollywood! All those stars! 

… and then there is South LA (previously known as South Central). 

OMG, all da ghettos! All da (gang)stars! 

That’s it. Nothing between them. Thanks a lot, Hollywood. Although, hey, Training Day was a great flick.

Stereotypes. We’re all guilty of them. (Did I just make one there?) There aren’t any ‘good’ stereotypes, there aren’t any ‘accurate’ stereotype. Stereotypes box an entity or a people in. Stereotypes are what we use to describe something or someone when we don’t know any better.

Some stereotypes are bland, overused, so commonplace that they are almost dismissive. For example, Asians are amazing at math. Koreans like kimchi. Black people are unanimous in their love for Barack Obama. All Honda Accords are a sure thing.

Stereotypes do not build up; yet not all of them are destructive. But then there are stereotypes that, when applied, either intentionally or inadvertently put or tear a people down. For example, Malays are lazy. Police suspects for a campus assault: black, male, 6 ft, dark hoodie. Everybody dat live in da hood talk like dis mofo, foo!

When a people or a community is subject to such discriminatory and deconstructing mentalities and/or speech, it is hard to break free from them. I especially take offense whenever an old friend of mine, cognizant that I live in the land of stars and gangstas, would IM me with a traditional, recurring: “Yo whassup dawg?! Howz life in the hood, mah brudda?” He lives in Japan. I do not ask him how da Yakuzas were doing.

The anger comes and goes in a flash, but a certain sadness lingers. I wonder how South LA, with its dense population of African Americans and Latino immigrants much maligned with a history of violence, poverty, and substance abuse, can ever climb up, above, and beyond the stereotype that has boxed it in and kept its people in its vice-like grasp for years past and years to come. 

One tiny yet hopeful way is how a neighborhood block club started up in the area lately. The maiden Normandie/Brighton/Halldale block club meeting was held on Monday to start a community dialogue and mobilize neighbors to improve the quality of life in the neighborhood and reduce blight and criminal activity. The following is an excerpt Anna posted on the Redeemer Community Partnership blog, a reflection by Bob Lupton, a community developer in Atlanta:

Crime thrives when it is ignored. It springs back with resilience following police sweeps. It is immune to the threat of tougher laws and stiffer jail sentences. But it does not do well under the daily scrutiny of watchful neighbors.

Take Walker Avenue for instance. This two block, forty home street is an oasis of health in the midst of a high-crime area. Children play in safety and mothers push strollers down the street on carefree afternoon walks. Break-in’s are rare because neighbors have established an active crime watch. Any stranger who pauses on Walker Avenue is bound to have someone inquire as to his business. What goes on in people’s homes also becomes community business. Consequently, unwholesome activity soon comes to light.

Awhile back a neighbor across the street from us started picking up daily doses of illegal drugs on his way home from work. He would split his purchase with a friend a couple doors down. What began as a friendly gesture soon turned into an enterprise. Before long his house had a steady flow of traffic coming and going all hours of the day and night. When the pattern became too obvious to ignore, four adjacent neighbors met to discuss the matter. We elected a representative to go and speak to him on behalf of the community. We said that we were making no accusations, merely sharing our concerns, but that we were unwilling to take the chance of any of our children being cut down in the cross-fire of a transaction gone wrong. No threats were exchanged, but a clear, firm message from caring, watchful neighbors was communicated. The traffic dried up in less than twenty-four hours! 

Every criminal (or potential criminal) lives somewhere. Ignore his activity and the house and street where he lives will soon become malignant. All it takes for crime to flourish is for responsible people to look straight ahead when they drive down their street and pull their blinds when they get into their house. And then lobby the government to put more police on the street and build more prisons.

Is it mere coincidence that at the very time we are seized by a national epidemic of violent crime, we are simultaneously experiencing the disappearance of community? It shouldn’t take a rocket scientist to establish the causal connection. If we are too busy to get to know our neighbors, too absorbed in individual pursuits to consider the common community good, too involved in church activities to show concern for the well-being of our neighbors, then it should come as no surprise when crime springs up in the very places where we once felt secure.

Don’t just do something. Stand there.

Note: There are two Amy’s in this entry. Amy Spector will be referred to as Amy. My Amy will be referred to, um, as MyAmy.

Stained, Beautiful, Lovers

The previous post may have been sadder (and sappier) than I had intended. Clarification: this short visit to Pittsburgh was not dreary or dreadful–far from it.

Some periods were slow, like when Chloe and I moved as leisurely from breakfast at Coca Cafe to errands in the Strip District and the new Target up the river in Harmar. Other times went by as quickly as the Clipper’s season, such as time with the Van Haitsma kids and Sunday afternoon with old friends from Friendship Church. Forget the wedding, the real reason I came back was to see how much the Friendship kids have changed. Curiously, they look pretty much the same. I must stop expecting kids to hit puberty at 4.

A young lady I met at the wedding reception had a flight out at 6.30 a.m., a good 12 hours before my plane even taxied onto the runway. “I don’t know anyone here [anymore],” she said. Leaving early to head back to familiar places, familiar faces. A part of me wanted that, too. But I am thankful for Friendship, where I know I can return again and again, year after year.

Executing planned trips is one of my biggest bru-ha-ha’s: I love to follow plans and leave no leeway for idleness. On a vacation/getaway, time is limited and precious, each part of the day has to be filled with equally valuable activities. Bang, visit this bridge, bang, see that tower, bang, ride the bull sculpture. WHAT? Stay in and watch the Food Network? Do you know how much we paid for this trip? Stop chilling and get moving!

What annoys MyAmy more than my incipient time-filling is not my tiny predisposition to idleness or being in the present, but of my strong reaction when the best laid plans become unraveled and I sit on the curb, heels of my hands deep in my cheeks, eyes staring violently at the ice cream cone that had needlessly upended itself in the gutter.

“What do we do now? We are ruined.”

She puts a hand on my knee.

“Dear. Look at yourself.”

“No.”

“We can stay in and watch TV. Read a book. Talk.”

“We should have gotten it in a cup. We should have done this. Should have done that. Should, should, should.”

By now, MyAmy will remove her hand from my stubborn knee. Stalk away to the other corner of the room. Engross herself in a book. A little later, I’d sidle up to her, tails between my legs, ask for forgiveness. Forget the plans. Let’s watch the Food Network.

This weekend gave me 60 hours in Pittsburgh–how would I fill it seamlessly, productively? I drafted an ambitious line-up of back-to-back appointments. Every haunt had to be revisited. Every acquaintance rekindled. Every last stone unturned. As it turned out, I slept most of the time. I only caught up with a few friends and church families. I never even made it campus to closely examine the progress of the Gates Center. I did less, and as the result, enjoyed more.

Amy and Daniel’s wedding was not spectacular, but that in itself was remarkable to me. Sparse registry? Admirable. Acappella benediction? Superb. Cute dog carried down the aisle to help usher Amy’s entrance? Masterstroke.

The lack of known peers was discomfiting at first. I selected a row and slid all the way down the pew to the aisle. I recognized faces here and there, smiles, sharing laughs, telling their best and most embarrassing bride and groom stories. I sat alone and wondered why I had made it specially out from California for a wedding where I knew few others than the bride, with whom I will probably, from experience, never have a meaningful conversation with before the end of the day, despite our the best of our intentions.

Pastor Cheng delivered the homily and I was blessed by it. My memory of the entire message may be blurred (like most sermons I sit in on) but where he exhorted Amy and Daniel to depart from society’s predominant culture struck me. “Listen to your spouse,” he said. Many people tend to do critical listening–criticizing everything that is brought up by one’s beloved–or problem-solving listening, where one tries to immediately fix every complaint or issue that is brought up. Pricks.

Ah, why does it sound so familiar?! MyAmy can testify that I am one of the biggest problem-solving listeners out there. I can be frustrating. I want to fix everything on the fly. There is no need for idleness. Oh, the shame. Where is my dunce’s hat?

I recalled a passage I read recently in a book by Madeleine L’Engle, Two-Part Invention. She was reflecting on the time when her husband, weak and in pain, was hospitalized with a freshly-diagnozed cancer, and how she too felt weak and pained at feeling helpless at his bedside.

There is nothing that I, personally, can do, except be there. At my family’s suggestion I begin taking my little six-pound electronic six-pound typewriter with me so that I can write while Hugh is napping. This helps. For, like most of us, I feel frustrated when a situation arises where I am totally helpless, where there is nothing I can do to make anything better. I can, I hope, help Hugh a little by my presence, by the touch of my hand. But is nothing specifically for me to do. And I think of a friend who has a coffee mug with the inscription: DON’T JUST DO SOMETHING. STAND THERE.

Stand there, that’s what I must do more, what I need.

Stand there for each other, Amy and Daniel. Congratulations to you both.

Pittsburgh: Welcome Back

Kalu Never Tires

Back again, Pittsburgh. It has been almost two years–and yet, it feels like I have never left.

Welcome back, said Amy. Welcome back, said Chloe. It’s good to be back, yes. The overcast sky. The wide rivers. The grimy cathedral walls. The lovely Friendship kids. All things familiar, having spent 6 of the last 8 years of my life in this city.

Riding in on the 28X, I hugged my backpack close and looked outside: things haven’t changed much at all. Same buildings, same roads, same businesses save for one or two. I confess that I felt a little disappointed. Disappointed that, after almost two years of absence, the familiarity of the landscape that whizzed by translated to a lack of growth, lack of progress, lack of change for the better. Disappointed that there is nothing (much) new. Disappointed that my time away had been in vain, that I should have returned after 5, 10, 15 year intervals instead to have been able to point out what used to be.

Strange and silly, I know. Of course, there have been changes. The chairs at Kiva Han have ruptured seats. There’s a new PNC building downtown. Bus fares have hiked up.

And yet, tucking into a pad see ew at the Bloomfield Thai restaurant this evening, looking out onto the sidewalk through the bright neon glow and strands of Christmas lights, it is as though I have never left.

But I have left, and now am back, only to leave again on Sunday. Leaving Pittsburgh is not heavy on my heart. I left my heart in Los Angeles, my new city, where my love resides. This is the first time I have traveled away from her, and I must admit, it wasn’t easy to leave her alone. I have grown accustomed to her face, and leaving her only reminds me of all the times during our Pennsylvania dating stint when we’d tearfully wave goodbye on a train platform, a Greyhound station, a Wendy’s restaurant.

I never want to go back to those days.

Danny Boy

Peekaboo

Daniel Alzate turned one year old today. He joined the legion of kids worldwide that worship the Red and Furry.

Barnsdall Art Park

On a hill, far away...

A Saturday afternoon at the park. We need more parks in LA–or do we?

Water resources are low as it is. LA is a desert and we are in a season of drought. More parks means more grass; more grass means more water demand. Urban parks will also need a dedicated amount of maintenance and security. No one needs another lot of patchy turf patrolled by gangbangers.

We don’t need to spend wads of dollars remediating abandoned contaminated sites into more parks. LA already has huge parks like Griffith and Kenneth Hahn, many times the size of a certain benchmark called Central Park in NYC. Trouble is, these parks are located in the (foot)hills of the City–you cannot get to one without first getting into a car. What we need may not be more parks, but perhaps channeling resources to improve the standards of existing parks and figure out a better way to get people to these places. And, of course, integrate recycled water systems so that grassy thirst will not usurp ours.

The Garden

Lunchtime

Flowers are amazing things. Am I getting old?

Our community garden turned one early this month. Our plot is perceptibly barren, with new spring seedlings just starting to sprout. While we wait on the fruits and vegetables, the temporary wildflowers in the southeast corner has blessed us (and hopefully other gardeners) with their brilliant colors and variety.

I’ll be sad to see them go in the summer.

Unarrange Me

Another year, another sorry reflection.

Wishing that I was something better.

Wishing that I did more. Wishing that I did less.

Wishing that I had discipline. Discipline to write. Discipline to worship. Discipline to love.

I don’t stand here turning back the pages thinking, oh, how far I have come!

Instead, I stand back, afraid to see what had been printed on those pages all year long.

I played too much Scrabble.

I’m playing too much Scrabble.

I while away the time, dreaming of great things, doing pathetic ones instead.

I am screwed up. I am an addict.

I don’t deserve many things. The curses and cripples, they come with my full knowledge, with my full anticipation.

Blessings, they come in disguise, they come unplanned. Fresh and true, life bringing.

Death, life, death, life. At the end of the days, I chose death over life. God knows why.

Death is so much easier. Copping out is so much easier. Saying is so much easier than writing. Brooding. Dreaming.

I am an addict. I need help.

I am a perfectionist. I fall short. Way short.

I am a faker, showing who I am not. I am a loser, not changing who I am.

All that said, it has been an amazing year.

Yet, I need change more. The catch is that I cannot do it–not by myself.

I need to be changed. I need to be rebooted. I need to be unarranged.

Unarrange me, God. Put me in order for the New Year’s, and all that it holds for me and us all.

A Wet November

I was caught with my pants down today, like the bulk of Angelenos, by the rain.

I used to camp out on weather.com a lot back east, trying to prepare for that heavy snow day. Or that impudent drop in temperature. Or the next CNN/Youtube presidential debate.

But now in sunny LA, I find that I need meteorologists as much as I need a vasectomy. Unless I live in the exclusive embrace of tinder-dry hills, as we have seen from the evidence in the past two months in places like Malibu. God, I hope that those victims can piece back their lives and rise up from the ashes of their homes.

It seems so far away in this mega city, all these fires, devastation. People living in the dense streets devoid of hills and surf have their own worries, like the leaking gas pipes, the broken car window, the voodoo woman on the floor below, etc.

The smattering of rain is the least of my worries lately. Things I find a little more annoying/troublesome include my Macbook. My laptop has been out of commission of late, no thanks to 1) a damaged power cable, and 2) a battery hell bent on not recharging.

After a year or so of wear, the cable finally said “Alright” and torched itself. It burn and smoked through near the base of the adapter, which meant eelek power to feed my increasingly lengthy Scrabulous obligations on Facebook. Which meant some good times on the Applecare hotline in the next few days.

To top it all off, I drained the battery in my valiant attempt to fashion a bingo word out against a friend from Pittsburgh–so there’s a chance that a battery replacement might follow the adapter. Who knows. Till power is restored, I’m laying low; hard to blog anywhere else other than on a Macbook keyboard.

Balancing Bread

I’ve been struggling lately to go about each day and sleep each night with the posture of a person who actually lives in this place. Let me explain.

Too often I find myself going through my days as though I’m on a three day/two night tour to Europe: there’s so little time, and too much of everything to do. I don’t sleep until I’m really, really exhausted. I want to milk all I can out of the daylight hours. I want to do task after task as if tomorrow will never come.

And if things don’t go my way or don’t get done, I get grumpy. Grumpy enough for Amy to play track 4 of a certain Guang Liang album so that I prune up and whimper silently into repentance.

I’ve always thought myself a selamba, laid-back kind of person, able to take and go with whatever comes my way. Obviously not. Obviously what an old friend said about me once still rings true: I’m a stickler for rules. I’m a stickler for schedules. I’m a stickler for perfection.

Look at what college’s done to me–2 a.m. and I’m still trying to post a blog entry.

I’m taking small steps to learn as opportunities come. Today a couple of female colleagues asked me if I’d like to get lunch with them. I had originally planned to hole up in the Central Library during the lunch hour, but what the hey, I’ll get a cup of soup at the organic store with them and chit-chat with them over food. We talked mostly about movies and TV and Tivo, until I pulled the stopper: I confessed that I don’t own a TV.

Mary’s jaw dropped.

“Are you for real? How long you’ve been without one?”

She looked genuinely concerned. It was as if we were talking about my car insurance.

“Let’s see, um, about two months thereabouts.”

I slunk out of the lunch room early when it got too quiet after that.

Tonight was also another lesson in itself. We had gone to Alhambra with the intent of hanging out at a cool coffeeshop, a niche with nice walls, cozy lights, good music, free wireless, and double shots for Amy as she wades through her research papers.

It didn’t happen. I had wanted the wireless so badly, to hide away in that yuppie niche all Friday night writing entries and designing websites, but it didn’t happen. We went to a wrong one, couldn’t find another one, and it just didn’t happen. I took it hard, ridiculously hard, as though coffeeshops and wireless vendors the world over owed me something.

Instead, at Amy’s behest, we made a foray into a Chinese superdupermarket and had some beef noodles and homemade dumplings at a Taiwanese hole-in-the-wall. There is no doubt that Amy’s patience exceeds mine manifold; her sheer delight at waltzing into the produce section of 168 Market and slurping down a bowl of comfort food was hard to repress. I was smiling again after a while (okay, a good long while), learning again how to let things go, slow down, and not rue plans that go awry. I need to stop and slurp the beef soup, so to speak.

Ah, the delight at things that remind us of our days of innocence. Just the other week, Amy and I heard a familiar series of honks right outside my window.

“Is that…” I looked at her.

“No, it can’t be,” she looked back.

“Maybe?”

We both dashed to the big window and peered through the faux wood blinds. Only one thing was on our mind.

Is it a bird? A Harley? Or just another attempt at the Malaysian Book of Records?

(http://theimperfectmom.com)

No–it’s the Roti Man!

Ah, the quintessential bakery on wheels. Where would I (and half the Malaysian population) be if it wasn’t for you? Likely licking peanut butter and kaya by the spoon. You comb the streets of our neighborhoods on your Boon Siew Honda motorcycles, relentless as the sundown, your warm horn ever tooting to announce your coming and going. How I miss thy balancing act and thy steadfast wares, white Gardenia bread with the latest expiry date please. How those bags of carbohydrates cling on with all the potholes you navigate, I don’t know. But you have served, and continues to serve us well.

Alas, traffic and smog are probably where similarities between KL and LA ends. The impetuous honks outside came not from our lusted-after rotiman, but a snow cone vendor instead.

As the infamous Malaysian first grade story mechanism goes: Kemudian saya bangun. Semuanya hanya sebuah mimpi. (And then I woke up. It was just a dream.)

Ah, enough nostalgia, enough staying up. Let Anthony Bourdain take you further into the rabbit hole of Malaysia and its food. Watch out for the torpedo soup and the rotiman. Okay, there isn’t any rotiman there, but you can find him here.

(More parts of this video here)