Outside of the obvious dichotomy of some people having jobs and other people NOT having them, lies another issue that is changing the mindset of Americans across the country. We are no longer able to count on paychecks coming in, and even dividends from investments may be reduced or completely removed from the annual income. Add to that a generation whose has seen their dreams of retirement go up in smoke. What does that do to the American psyche?
Retailers are noticing a bump in sales for the past 4 months over the course of the current recession, but this is mainly for “necessary” items—kids needing clothes they have outgrown, or people needing to look recent at work, or people buying clothes in hopes of finding new jobs. This is not the “discretionary spending” we’ve seen in the past. It may be the our consumer economy will be re-calibrated permanently, with more money going to personal debt reduction—or saving for retirement—or for cash outlays for things we previously put on credit. It will not be for that riotous spending we have done in the past—if we were lucky enough to engage in riotous spending.
So far, this has not resulted in widespread lower pricing, and certainly gas prices are not helping matters, with more money going to energy so that less can be spent on everything else. As a result, restaurants, entertainment, and tourism may be depressed for many years to come.
So where is the American economy going? Right now, it seems at a standstill, with movement apparently going in a retrograde motion to undo past mistakes. That is going to be a difficult prospect for many Americans. No more will there be automatic reliance on that next paycheck coming in as sure as the night follows the day. It is likely jobs will continue to be shaky as long as that retrograde action continues. And it may be true that America seems a kind of Lost Decade that Japan experienced a short time ago.
Until the corrections within the American economy are completed, we will all endure a kind of consumer “suspended animation.” Pent-up demand might take on a different character. Maybe it will make consumption more thoughtful in the future.
Maybe we’ll even become less materialistic—as we so often speak of, but so seldom actually do.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Saturday, January 9, 2010
People Who Love Chicago
I live in Florida, and have for the past ten years. It can be said I have not adapted well to the heat. This winter, like in many places around the country, my town has seen record cold temperatures.
Something happened one day—a Saturday, when I had time to notice—when the temperatures dipped into the thirties and forties. I ran out to the Target to pick up a few things. On the way back to my car, I noticed that a light, chilly rain was falling. I looked up into the sky. It was a low, overcast, pale-gray. The wind had a bite, and a cold rain began to chill me in a familiar way. I had bundled up in heavy socks and shoes and a toasty-warm fleece jacket--because that’s what Floridians do when the temperature dips down from its normal 80 degrees--so I was thoroughly prepared for the cold. Something about the feel of it all made my heart leap up in joy.
It was Chicago. Just like Chicago. In early November.
I recognized it immediately and instinctively. It was as if I were transported back to my old neighborhood on the near-South Side. In my mind, I was trekking down State Street, looking in the store windows. I was strolling down Lake Shore Drive gazing at the deep, cold, forbidding waters of Lake Michigan. I was waiting for a bus on a windy corner on Halstead Street.
I was there.
This cold, and chill, and rain made me feel incredibly alive. I had to get out and walk around in it. So I drove home, and leashed up my little Papillon, Markie, and started walking. We walked all around the neighborhood, even though there was a light, icy rain falling. No one else was walking, and in fact, I saw people in cars that went by, looking at me like I must be a little mad. “Yes, I’m a little mad—but I’m from Chicago,” I replied in my mind. As if that were an excuse they would understand perfectly. As if that explained everything about me. And in many ways, it does.
That’s the thing about Chicagoans, they are a strangely sentimental group. All that bad weather that scares other people off, horrifies them, in fact—that is the stuff we are made of. The grayness, and the biting, go-right-through-you, wind, and the icy rain, and the snow and the sleet and black ice—it’s all a backdrop to all our experiences, both good and bad. We have kissed lovers in the icy rain. We have slid across black ice on the way to holiday gatherings. We have stood at gravesites in drifting snow and below zero temperatures. It’s a part of us. We can’t separate it from us. It makes us passionately love the city and all that happens there.
As the cold temperature frosted my hips and thighs, it seemed to conform that I was not built for the heat of Florida, but I was perfectly adapted to the inhospitable chill of Chicago. I recognized that I could stay out in this weather for hours. I was almost tempted to find out how many hours, but I had my dog with me, and though he is well covered in fluffy, black-and-white fur, I’m not sure how his footpads will hold up on the cold cement. He was raised in Florida, and I’m not sure to what degree he’s adapted. So, I took him home.
My hips and thighs stayed cold for hours and hours afterward—yet I didn’t mind it at all. I have the insulation of Chicago, it seems, reinforced by generations of Chicago ancestors, and even before that, people who were adapted to the cold Warsaw winters.
I realized one thing. Even though I now live in comfy place like Florida, I will return to the frozen North many times. I will have to—it’s in my blood.
Even in the dead of winter.
Something happened one day—a Saturday, when I had time to notice—when the temperatures dipped into the thirties and forties. I ran out to the Target to pick up a few things. On the way back to my car, I noticed that a light, chilly rain was falling. I looked up into the sky. It was a low, overcast, pale-gray. The wind had a bite, and a cold rain began to chill me in a familiar way. I had bundled up in heavy socks and shoes and a toasty-warm fleece jacket--because that’s what Floridians do when the temperature dips down from its normal 80 degrees--so I was thoroughly prepared for the cold. Something about the feel of it all made my heart leap up in joy.
It was Chicago. Just like Chicago. In early November.
I recognized it immediately and instinctively. It was as if I were transported back to my old neighborhood on the near-South Side. In my mind, I was trekking down State Street, looking in the store windows. I was strolling down Lake Shore Drive gazing at the deep, cold, forbidding waters of Lake Michigan. I was waiting for a bus on a windy corner on Halstead Street.
I was there.
This cold, and chill, and rain made me feel incredibly alive. I had to get out and walk around in it. So I drove home, and leashed up my little Papillon, Markie, and started walking. We walked all around the neighborhood, even though there was a light, icy rain falling. No one else was walking, and in fact, I saw people in cars that went by, looking at me like I must be a little mad. “Yes, I’m a little mad—but I’m from Chicago,” I replied in my mind. As if that were an excuse they would understand perfectly. As if that explained everything about me. And in many ways, it does.
That’s the thing about Chicagoans, they are a strangely sentimental group. All that bad weather that scares other people off, horrifies them, in fact—that is the stuff we are made of. The grayness, and the biting, go-right-through-you, wind, and the icy rain, and the snow and the sleet and black ice—it’s all a backdrop to all our experiences, both good and bad. We have kissed lovers in the icy rain. We have slid across black ice on the way to holiday gatherings. We have stood at gravesites in drifting snow and below zero temperatures. It’s a part of us. We can’t separate it from us. It makes us passionately love the city and all that happens there.
As the cold temperature frosted my hips and thighs, it seemed to conform that I was not built for the heat of Florida, but I was perfectly adapted to the inhospitable chill of Chicago. I recognized that I could stay out in this weather for hours. I was almost tempted to find out how many hours, but I had my dog with me, and though he is well covered in fluffy, black-and-white fur, I’m not sure how his footpads will hold up on the cold cement. He was raised in Florida, and I’m not sure to what degree he’s adapted. So, I took him home.
My hips and thighs stayed cold for hours and hours afterward—yet I didn’t mind it at all. I have the insulation of Chicago, it seems, reinforced by generations of Chicago ancestors, and even before that, people who were adapted to the cold Warsaw winters.
I realized one thing. Even though I now live in comfy place like Florida, I will return to the frozen North many times. I will have to—it’s in my blood.
Even in the dead of winter.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
On Belly Dancing
I came to belly dancing through my satellite service. Seriously. There’s a show on the fitness channel that teaches belly dancing. Coming from cable, I was first intrigued by the show and the moves it taught, then tried following along. Now, I’m hooked.
Let me tell you, this is a little late in life to become a belly dancer. However--it’s great exercise, uses a lot of the muscles that need using at this age, and makes you feel sensuous and flexible—which is great at any age.
What is the greatest thing about belly dancing is its mysterious history. Sure, the very name conjures up exotic lands and mysterious rituals, but the fact is, no one knows exactly where belly dancing came from. It’s connected with the Middle East and Northern Africa and, in truth, there are Egyptian styles and Turkish styles—each with their own signature moves and dress—and in one’s mind you seem to travel to these exotic s with their strange cultures when you are involved in the dance. It’s a great escape as well as a great exercise.
Even the name ‘belly dancing’ is not its true name. It’s really ethnic dancing (in Arabic, raqs sharqi or raqs baladi) from that area of the world, and that came to the western world via the Chicago World’s Fair of 1893, where it caused a great sensation. And of course, it features the belly with great emphasis—scandalous at that time in history—hence, the ‘belly’ nomenclature. Since then, this native dance has been adopted by many western nations—America, Canada, Australia—and these countries have added moves with their own cultural interpretation.
The spouse was curiously eager to tell people I’ve been learning to belly dance. I don’t know what this is about, as I don’t go about dancing FOR him, so much as he catches me in the middle of televised class—or I break in a move spontaneously to practice a hip-isolation move or master a tricky step. I would have to say he likes the whole idea.
The down side of learning to belly dance is that you can’t properly do it anywhere outside a classroom. You would certainly get some odd looks—and possibly some interesting propositions—if you were to start belly dancing in the middle of a bar or club. Nonetheless, the urge to belly dance strikes at odd moments. You can hear a suitable beat in the overhead music of a supermarket and find yourself longing to break into a hip pop in the checkout line. You don’t, of course—but the urge is strong and unremitting.
All in all, belly dancing has added many fun dimensions to life—which is probably why it became so popular in the first place.
Let me tell you, this is a little late in life to become a belly dancer. However--it’s great exercise, uses a lot of the muscles that need using at this age, and makes you feel sensuous and flexible—which is great at any age.
What is the greatest thing about belly dancing is its mysterious history. Sure, the very name conjures up exotic lands and mysterious rituals, but the fact is, no one knows exactly where belly dancing came from. It’s connected with the Middle East and Northern Africa and, in truth, there are Egyptian styles and Turkish styles—each with their own signature moves and dress—and in one’s mind you seem to travel to these exotic s with their strange cultures when you are involved in the dance. It’s a great escape as well as a great exercise.
Even the name ‘belly dancing’ is not its true name. It’s really ethnic dancing (in Arabic, raqs sharqi or raqs baladi) from that area of the world, and that came to the western world via the Chicago World’s Fair of 1893, where it caused a great sensation. And of course, it features the belly with great emphasis—scandalous at that time in history—hence, the ‘belly’ nomenclature. Since then, this native dance has been adopted by many western nations—America, Canada, Australia—and these countries have added moves with their own cultural interpretation.
The spouse was curiously eager to tell people I’ve been learning to belly dance. I don’t know what this is about, as I don’t go about dancing FOR him, so much as he catches me in the middle of televised class—or I break in a move spontaneously to practice a hip-isolation move or master a tricky step. I would have to say he likes the whole idea.
The down side of learning to belly dance is that you can’t properly do it anywhere outside a classroom. You would certainly get some odd looks—and possibly some interesting propositions—if you were to start belly dancing in the middle of a bar or club. Nonetheless, the urge to belly dance strikes at odd moments. You can hear a suitable beat in the overhead music of a supermarket and find yourself longing to break into a hip pop in the checkout line. You don’t, of course—but the urge is strong and unremitting.
All in all, belly dancing has added many fun dimensions to life—which is probably why it became so popular in the first place.
Monday, December 14, 2009
On Tiger
This was one that got under my skin, for some reason. Maybe it’s because I’ve been married for a long time, and have invested a great deal of time and attention to this relationship. Maybe it’s because my little grandson admired Tiger Woods since he was old enough to watch TV and hold a golf club at the miniature golf course. But I found myself deeply disappointed in Tiger’s behavior. Also, disappointed in having been duped by his PR people into thinking Tiger was all things good and hard-working and focused and disciplined—when the very opposite was the case.
The uproar about Tiger is now reaching almost operatic proportions. Internet games are turning up, in which Elin Woods chases Tiger in his car. Youtube has enactments of the Tiger Woods family drama. And I expect soon someone will put the whole thing to music, in a kind of rock-opera form, with maybe a few hip-hop elements.
Mostly, I’m upset at Tiger—and at all cheating men, really—because of what they bring home. And I’m talking about STD’s, though that’s a possibility that can’t be overlooked, as well. What they bring home is utter disruption. They bring home suspicion—and distrust—and a complete lack of faith in the marriage/family institution. They bring home destruction and despair, and for that, they can’t be forgiven. These breaches leave wounds that children in that home will carry with them for the rest of their lives, regardless of whether the marriage is patched or not. Regardless of whether the children are consciously aware of what has occurred. That’s how large the transgression is—that’s how huge the repercussions.
I hope men remember that when they carry on in very adolescent ways outside of their marriage vows. It’s not just about YOU anymore. It’s not even just about your wife. It’s about the concepts and feelings you bring home for your children to experience and carry with them all their lives. They have no choice in this.
Nothing ever happens in a vacuum. Not if there are children nearby to bear the cost.
The uproar about Tiger is now reaching almost operatic proportions. Internet games are turning up, in which Elin Woods chases Tiger in his car. Youtube has enactments of the Tiger Woods family drama. And I expect soon someone will put the whole thing to music, in a kind of rock-opera form, with maybe a few hip-hop elements.
Mostly, I’m upset at Tiger—and at all cheating men, really—because of what they bring home. And I’m talking about STD’s, though that’s a possibility that can’t be overlooked, as well. What they bring home is utter disruption. They bring home suspicion—and distrust—and a complete lack of faith in the marriage/family institution. They bring home destruction and despair, and for that, they can’t be forgiven. These breaches leave wounds that children in that home will carry with them for the rest of their lives, regardless of whether the marriage is patched or not. Regardless of whether the children are consciously aware of what has occurred. That’s how large the transgression is—that’s how huge the repercussions.
I hope men remember that when they carry on in very adolescent ways outside of their marriage vows. It’s not just about YOU anymore. It’s not even just about your wife. It’s about the concepts and feelings you bring home for your children to experience and carry with them all their lives. They have no choice in this.
Nothing ever happens in a vacuum. Not if there are children nearby to bear the cost.
Friday, October 16, 2009
Family Relations
I recently attended a family funeral of someone in my family who was dear to me, and as I gazed over this mass of cousins, children of cousins, relations through marriage, and old family friends, I was amazed again at how complex the human animal is.
I’ve tried to figure out family relationships since I was a tiny girl, and still don’t understand them. This is a personal failing, I know, because some people seem to know and understand these relationships without even giving them a bit of thought. It’s as if their tribal instinct is much stronger than mine, as it if they have a part of their brain that automatically makes and stores these calculations, and the very fact that these people are ‘blood’ or connected by marriage makes it crystal clear to them what degree of intimacy or social interaction is required. The process eludes me.
Me, I thrash around trying to remember names and connections, and if anyone asks me what relationship I am to anyone else, I need a chart, birth documents, marriage certificates, and still photographs. I really am not good at this. I suspect everyone in my family knows this and treats me with the kind of gentle tolerance you would give someone who is a bit slow. They are very kind, very nice and respectable people and I am humbled and gratified to be a part of their group. I still don’t understand their connection to me, however.
The person whose passing called together this renewal of tribal ties was my aunt. People tell me I resemble her. She was also my godmother, so there were a lot of solid, tangible ‘connections’ I could hang on to when interacting with her. She also made a point a of staying in contact with me throughout the years, and that often endeared her to me, because I’m a slippery character often wandering off into the horizon without looking backward. She passed and I’m poorer for her passing, and that much I understand. What I do not understand is that my connection with her, and even her passing, has brought me closer to this pack of relations and family friends that collected around her and because of her.
This is the mystery of tribal ties. This is the magic of human relationships. I shall have to ponder it more because it is forever beyond my natural understanding. But what a wonder it is to me.
Thanks, Aunt Midge. Love you much. Carry on. See you soon.
I’ve tried to figure out family relationships since I was a tiny girl, and still don’t understand them. This is a personal failing, I know, because some people seem to know and understand these relationships without even giving them a bit of thought. It’s as if their tribal instinct is much stronger than mine, as it if they have a part of their brain that automatically makes and stores these calculations, and the very fact that these people are ‘blood’ or connected by marriage makes it crystal clear to them what degree of intimacy or social interaction is required. The process eludes me.
Me, I thrash around trying to remember names and connections, and if anyone asks me what relationship I am to anyone else, I need a chart, birth documents, marriage certificates, and still photographs. I really am not good at this. I suspect everyone in my family knows this and treats me with the kind of gentle tolerance you would give someone who is a bit slow. They are very kind, very nice and respectable people and I am humbled and gratified to be a part of their group. I still don’t understand their connection to me, however.
The person whose passing called together this renewal of tribal ties was my aunt. People tell me I resemble her. She was also my godmother, so there were a lot of solid, tangible ‘connections’ I could hang on to when interacting with her. She also made a point a of staying in contact with me throughout the years, and that often endeared her to me, because I’m a slippery character often wandering off into the horizon without looking backward. She passed and I’m poorer for her passing, and that much I understand. What I do not understand is that my connection with her, and even her passing, has brought me closer to this pack of relations and family friends that collected around her and because of her.
This is the mystery of tribal ties. This is the magic of human relationships. I shall have to ponder it more because it is forever beyond my natural understanding. But what a wonder it is to me.
Thanks, Aunt Midge. Love you much. Carry on. See you soon.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Why Americans Hate Recessions
I’ve lived through a number of recessions now. This current one is a little worse because it seems to have effects that may stretch out into the future, and that influences our feelings of Hope for the Future. And that is very bad for Americans. \Americans are very into the Future and all the promise that it implies.
Things may be bad now, but there’s always the future. The future can bring unforeseen ‘opportunities’ that can change our lives radically and beneficially. Hence, the ‘future’ is something that is inherently Americans’ friend. Regardless of what has come before, the future beckons.
Mostly, I think, Americans hate the limitations that recessions bring. Spending must be curtailed, and that always makes Americans antsy. Shopping is a hobby for many in America, and many a middle class family spends their Sunday at the mall picking up a few things to make their week sunny and bright. Recessions slow this activity down. Life looks duller and grayer during recessions—and you’ve pretty much seen the clothes your co-worker or school chum has worn before. How depressing.
Americans also hate recessions because it cuts down on travel, and we are a big country with lots to see, and relatives who have landed at various points around the nation that need to be visited to renew old tribal ties. Recessions make this travel more burdensome, either by making it too expensive, or by slowing it down by car instead of by plane. I’m a travel junkie so, believe me, I take the inconveniences created by the recession very personally and I hold George W. Bush and the Republican Party wholly responsible for my staying home more this summer and spending waaay more hours on the internet looking for good travel deals.
The Recession also changed a lot of educational plans for Americans. Many college-bound kids had to ratchet back to community colleges in order to afford tuition. Many adults who lost jobs had to retrain for other ones, or they had to put off classes they might have taken for personal improvement in order to do more job-oriented training. Americans love to learn new things, from Thai cooking to belly-dancing.
All in all, this recession put the U.S. on hold, and America really hates to feel itself spinning its wheels in place. This is a country with places to go to and things to do. Its entire psyche is wrapped up in forward movement, from its history of wagontraining across mountains, to its invention of an entire auto industry, to its flights to the Moon, to its communication around the planet with the internet. This country is all about movement—and it will not rest easy until the money starts flowing again, and with it, the movement of goods and ideas and energy.
Till then, let’s hope Americans get their act together. So we can all move forward to reap the benefits this nation so generously provides. All of us—together.
Things may be bad now, but there’s always the future. The future can bring unforeseen ‘opportunities’ that can change our lives radically and beneficially. Hence, the ‘future’ is something that is inherently Americans’ friend. Regardless of what has come before, the future beckons.
Mostly, I think, Americans hate the limitations that recessions bring. Spending must be curtailed, and that always makes Americans antsy. Shopping is a hobby for many in America, and many a middle class family spends their Sunday at the mall picking up a few things to make their week sunny and bright. Recessions slow this activity down. Life looks duller and grayer during recessions—and you’ve pretty much seen the clothes your co-worker or school chum has worn before. How depressing.
Americans also hate recessions because it cuts down on travel, and we are a big country with lots to see, and relatives who have landed at various points around the nation that need to be visited to renew old tribal ties. Recessions make this travel more burdensome, either by making it too expensive, or by slowing it down by car instead of by plane. I’m a travel junkie so, believe me, I take the inconveniences created by the recession very personally and I hold George W. Bush and the Republican Party wholly responsible for my staying home more this summer and spending waaay more hours on the internet looking for good travel deals.
The Recession also changed a lot of educational plans for Americans. Many college-bound kids had to ratchet back to community colleges in order to afford tuition. Many adults who lost jobs had to retrain for other ones, or they had to put off classes they might have taken for personal improvement in order to do more job-oriented training. Americans love to learn new things, from Thai cooking to belly-dancing.
All in all, this recession put the U.S. on hold, and America really hates to feel itself spinning its wheels in place. This is a country with places to go to and things to do. Its entire psyche is wrapped up in forward movement, from its history of wagontraining across mountains, to its invention of an entire auto industry, to its flights to the Moon, to its communication around the planet with the internet. This country is all about movement—and it will not rest easy until the money starts flowing again, and with it, the movement of goods and ideas and energy.
Till then, let’s hope Americans get their act together. So we can all move forward to reap the benefits this nation so generously provides. All of us—together.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Dinner With Dieters - Redux
Okay, I can’t seem to leave this subject alone. Again, I spent a weekend with some friends, and it was very clear that the female side of this couple was constantly making food choices of a dietary nature. There was a concentration and calculation evident that was unnerving to me. Every morsel had to be mentally weighed and evaluated for substantive nutritional value and caloric consequence.
It was both fascinating and horrifying to me, as hostess to this person. I had the feeling that whatever I had chosen to serve these people was wrong—even though I clearly chose foods that were high in nutrition and had made healthy ‘choices’ possible, I felt I hadn’t done enough. Worse, I felt that even serving food at all had sabotaged this person’s efforts.
Woe is me.
It reinforced my sense that we are fast losing our ability to enjoy food. The food that we all centered our family and societal rituals around was now the enemy—not to be trusted, and never to be given into. It really made me feel uncomfortable to be around. I longed for a nice smiling, chubby dinner guest who complimented my efforts effusively.
I wonder how many other people are out there making preparations for dinner guests and weekend guest and are absolutely agonizing over what to serve and how much of it should be available. Too little looks skimpy and cheap—too much looks reckless and even hostile. It becomes a hostess’s nightmare, and there is no winning situation here. If you serve great food, a certain number of your guests will be inclined to turn their nose up at it, even BECAUSE it is so good and tempting. And no one wants to serve bad food, or food that doesn’t please both visually and gastronomically.
So I will entertain my guests as usual, and I’ll watch them turn away. I’ll watch the fevered calculation and the fear and self-loathing they experience when placing something delicious on their plate. I’ll watch their doubt and their regret.
These people sure have taken the pleasure out of entertaining. Much of life is no fun anymore.
It was both fascinating and horrifying to me, as hostess to this person. I had the feeling that whatever I had chosen to serve these people was wrong—even though I clearly chose foods that were high in nutrition and had made healthy ‘choices’ possible, I felt I hadn’t done enough. Worse, I felt that even serving food at all had sabotaged this person’s efforts.
Woe is me.
It reinforced my sense that we are fast losing our ability to enjoy food. The food that we all centered our family and societal rituals around was now the enemy—not to be trusted, and never to be given into. It really made me feel uncomfortable to be around. I longed for a nice smiling, chubby dinner guest who complimented my efforts effusively.
I wonder how many other people are out there making preparations for dinner guests and weekend guest and are absolutely agonizing over what to serve and how much of it should be available. Too little looks skimpy and cheap—too much looks reckless and even hostile. It becomes a hostess’s nightmare, and there is no winning situation here. If you serve great food, a certain number of your guests will be inclined to turn their nose up at it, even BECAUSE it is so good and tempting. And no one wants to serve bad food, or food that doesn’t please both visually and gastronomically.
So I will entertain my guests as usual, and I’ll watch them turn away. I’ll watch the fevered calculation and the fear and self-loathing they experience when placing something delicious on their plate. I’ll watch their doubt and their regret.
These people sure have taken the pleasure out of entertaining. Much of life is no fun anymore.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
