As I was telling two friends recently, one of whom drove taxi in Chicago eons ago, taxi is a constant river flowing 24 hours day and night, passengers and situations a non-stop universal conversation ending up in your backseat, saying "How are you?" and "This is where I am going. Please take me there." This early Monday morning, after a slower than usual Sunday, a passenger from Georgia needed to go to airport at 1:30 AM all the way from the University Village Silver Cloud. Last Monday morning, after enduring a slow Sunday evening, I suddenly found myself zipping a customer round-trip from West Seattle to the 24 Hour Queen Anne Bartells where he was picking up a pain prescription for a friend dying from cancer. Directly after that, I got a 2:30 AM time-call to the airport, a now retired US Army vet who had done a total of 8 war-zone deployments. "My body still hurts! was his lament.
Yes, taxi a human river flowing into your cab, never knowing who or what is coming next, the only guarantee a quick and intimate immersion into a stranger's life, your cab not a car but a lifeboat navigating the river, huge boulders and dangerously swift rapids impeding your way! And once safely upon the shore, the passenger saying 'Thank you. Thanks for getting me here!"
DDS Update
At the moment, there isn't one as PSD awaits attorney review. When I know anything new, I will post it immediately.
New York City Uber Limits
NYC is going forward with a one-year moratorium upon new ride-share license issuance. Currently NYC has 100,000 ride-share operators. The taxi number is 13,500.
Seattle has over 50,000 ride-share drivers. We have just over 1000 cabs.
Next Weekend Blue Angel I-90 Closures
Remember that next Saturday and Sunday I-90 will be closed both east and west bound when the Blue Angels Navy Jet Acrobat Team will be flying over lake Washington. Listen to KOMO Radio 1000 for all the details.
A Certain Demographic is Trying Kill Everyone at the Gas Station
We cabbies spend a lot of time at gas stations filling up the cab, especially if your proud automotive steed is a big, old Ford Crowne Victoria, like my YC 1092 is. And the past few years I have been coming across a very disturbing behavior exhibited by mostly young African-American youth in their teens and early 20s who don't seem understand that you CAN NOT bring a lit cigarette anywhere near a gasoline pump. How can anyone not know that volatile fumes emanating from a pump can and will explode into a lethal ball of flames? Well, these dumbbell kids, already thoroughly alienated, don't seem to understand basic science, and totally resent being told that what they are doing is suicidal, not to say homicidal, potentially blowing all of us into smithereens.
Last night at the N. 105th & Aurora Avenue N. Arco, none of the young fools wanted to listen or heed my warning, instead shouting I am racist, etc. Yes, nutty and stupid and damn well irresponsible.
Do they care? No, they don't care, ready to kill you, me, themselves at a smoky moment. Welcome, to America, home of cultural illiteracy and behavior unacceptable to everyone expect youthful thugs angry at the world and existence in general. Fun stuff it ain't!
I Told Them, Only Once in Thirty Years....
Yes indeed that is what I said to the cops a block away from the 2 cars illegally parked in our posted Amtrak taxi zone, that only once have I seen the SPD ticket cars in our cab stands. And further, I told them that the reason why was simple, we are not a priority.
And then I walked away. Like the dumbbell kids, these cops didn't care for a moment anything about me and any other cabbie. "Screw you!" was their attitude, and hey! I heard you, I really did.
And thank you not very much!
Monday, July 30, 2018
Monday, July 23, 2018
$7.70----Are You Sure This Is The DT Sheraton? Plus DDS Update
The usual disorientation of the average passenger is galling, which is why the advice to follow their directions borders upon the ludicrous, knowing full well they don't know, and worse, don't want to. There is a Yellow dictate saying you must listen to the passenger, even if it means the lemming is telling you drive off the nearest cliff, you must do it, customer service, or is it disservice, our ultimate goal.
So when, like yesterday's "as-mundane-as-you-can-get fare" from the train station to the downtown Sheraton Hotel, the customer questions whether we are there, what can the poor cabbie do? While the options are perhaps many, what I chose was to reassure the dingbat we were there, not insulting her by saying "Hey lady, if you don't believe me, get out and ask the doorman where he is working?"
Turns out she thought she was going to the old Washington Plaza now Westin Hotel, somewhere I had my first drink in 1975 at a bar once called the Library Lounge with a woman I later married. The passenger in question said "she was looking for the hotel with the round towers ."
And no it ain't, that not the Sheraton, and please get out, and no tip, because it's too late, I've already authorized the $7.70. "Do you want a receipt? " Goodbye!
DDS System Update
Thursday we met once again with John Denenfeld, the DDS Senior Account Manager which was mostly a reiteration of what we had heard previously. While there might be a small price reduction, what we appear to be looking at is a cost of $799.00 per the new and forever permanent tablet. While rumor has it that Orange Cab paid only $600.00, the reality, as Mr. Denenfeld confirmed, was $1500.00 per cab. Pricey to say the least.
Expect a handout flyer, mostly composed by me, to be ready for your reading pleasure sometime later this week. It will be plain and simple and the ultimate truth. If you don't believe it, please make an appointment with the next available taxi psychiatrist. It might help. And please, don't see me in the morning!
Monday, July 16, 2018
Important Changes Concerning The South Dearborn Meter Testing Station & Is DDS Wireless Dispatching Coming To Yellow?---It Appears To Be True
Alarms last week alerted me to noise emanating from the City of Seattle's Regulatory Compliance and Consumer Protection office concerning the shifting of some regulatory duties from the longstanding South Dearborn Street Testing Station to something called the SeaPark Station located downtown on James Street between 5th and 6th Avenues in an underground (building interior) parking lot. That displeasure was voiced of course isn't uncommon anytime two or more people are placed together in a working or cooperative environment, setting the stage for conflict and disagreement and feelings of resentment, spotlighting the thought that the local taxi industry was being unjustly marginalized. Accustomed to rancor and histrionics I sought out answers to questions and found some reassurance. This is what I know and believe to be accurate and true.
The ultimate future of the South Dearborn City of Seattle testing and licensing complex is under discussion, currently in a kind of bureaucratic limbo, with mid-level management deciding which direction is financially beneficial to the city. Essentially they are in a what, how and why quandary, knowing decisions made today will dramatically affect the many future tomorrows. That perplexities exist is the government model which is why concern remains forefront to many involved.
Part of the objection to the SeaPark site is its unavoidable interior (and inferior) ambiance---artificial light and gaseous odor never quickly embraced by the human animal, naturally preferring less confining premises. I was told, at least when multiple taxi testing is required, someplace other than SeaPark would be utilized, including the possibly of a mobile testing unit that would travel to appropriate locations. I certainly endorse that kind of option, accommodating the busy cabbie who would rather not stop but keep on going and going. Another positive it seems for the City is that it is close to their offices, a short walk taking them there. Many like that idea.
What shocked me most about all this was not City employee grumbling but that the SeaPark changeover was well known to many local association representatives and lobbyists, who, during the past weeks, had met with City officials to discuss the matter. That none of them communicated to us, the single owner taxi community, is something I find egregious because we are the ones most affected by any and all changes. I did request, more than once, that please, in the future, would the City of Seattle please not rely solely upon the associations to tell us what we need to know? I did receive some reassurance that communication will improve.
As limiting meter testing to two solitary appointments per week at SeaPark is ultimately a good or bad idea I just don't know. I do know that a recent ventilation failure caused a facility evacuation, making a lasting impression upon many, prompting in part a shouting into the air which I of course heard. Thanks for yelling, always a good therapeutic choice, relieving the stress of opaque and unresponsive government. Also thanks for recognizing you have a friend in the taxi industry, forever loyal until deciding I just can't take it any more and begin hiking northward into the Paysaten Wilderness, searching for long lost sanity and that ever elusive creature, the voracious wolverine.
Potential PSD Dispatch System Changeover
Last week five of us (there was supposed to be nine), along with PSD general manager Amin, attended a dispatch system presentation by DDS Wireless Senior Account Manager John Denenfeld, telling us why we at Yellow might decide to embrace what could be a more stable system than currently in use. Some discussion highlights included the following:
---More than 30 years of DDS dispatching experience. They are contracted with one of the world's largest city transit systems, New York City. If they handle a city of 10 million, we shouldn't be much of a problem.
---They have 24/7 professional support in case of system issues. Currently I think we have to wake up George in the dead of night and say it is time to drink some coffee, we have problems that won't wait. Put on your pants but don't take the time necessary to brush your teeth.
---A tablet that never requires replacement.
---A professional company responsive to customer questions and issues.
---System Amazon Cloud-based.
---Alerting system tells dispatch when school run/HopeLink no-show occurs.
---System app allows driver to be out of the cab and accept calls on their smart phone, giving you 3 minutes to get to your cab and confirm.
---We would be considered a "premium" account, in other words, a high priority.
If the decision to go ahead is made, the system will be up and running and functional before the new school season begins. Costs are currently being configured. And for my personal preference, I think it is time to return to the queuing system, meaning the first car in the area gets the fare, just like in the good, old voice dispatch days. Wouldn't that be nice?
The ultimate future of the South Dearborn City of Seattle testing and licensing complex is under discussion, currently in a kind of bureaucratic limbo, with mid-level management deciding which direction is financially beneficial to the city. Essentially they are in a what, how and why quandary, knowing decisions made today will dramatically affect the many future tomorrows. That perplexities exist is the government model which is why concern remains forefront to many involved.
Part of the objection to the SeaPark site is its unavoidable interior (and inferior) ambiance---artificial light and gaseous odor never quickly embraced by the human animal, naturally preferring less confining premises. I was told, at least when multiple taxi testing is required, someplace other than SeaPark would be utilized, including the possibly of a mobile testing unit that would travel to appropriate locations. I certainly endorse that kind of option, accommodating the busy cabbie who would rather not stop but keep on going and going. Another positive it seems for the City is that it is close to their offices, a short walk taking them there. Many like that idea.
What shocked me most about all this was not City employee grumbling but that the SeaPark changeover was well known to many local association representatives and lobbyists, who, during the past weeks, had met with City officials to discuss the matter. That none of them communicated to us, the single owner taxi community, is something I find egregious because we are the ones most affected by any and all changes. I did request, more than once, that please, in the future, would the City of Seattle please not rely solely upon the associations to tell us what we need to know? I did receive some reassurance that communication will improve.
As limiting meter testing to two solitary appointments per week at SeaPark is ultimately a good or bad idea I just don't know. I do know that a recent ventilation failure caused a facility evacuation, making a lasting impression upon many, prompting in part a shouting into the air which I of course heard. Thanks for yelling, always a good therapeutic choice, relieving the stress of opaque and unresponsive government. Also thanks for recognizing you have a friend in the taxi industry, forever loyal until deciding I just can't take it any more and begin hiking northward into the Paysaten Wilderness, searching for long lost sanity and that ever elusive creature, the voracious wolverine.
Potential PSD Dispatch System Changeover
Last week five of us (there was supposed to be nine), along with PSD general manager Amin, attended a dispatch system presentation by DDS Wireless Senior Account Manager John Denenfeld, telling us why we at Yellow might decide to embrace what could be a more stable system than currently in use. Some discussion highlights included the following:
---More than 30 years of DDS dispatching experience. They are contracted with one of the world's largest city transit systems, New York City. If they handle a city of 10 million, we shouldn't be much of a problem.
---They have 24/7 professional support in case of system issues. Currently I think we have to wake up George in the dead of night and say it is time to drink some coffee, we have problems that won't wait. Put on your pants but don't take the time necessary to brush your teeth.
---A tablet that never requires replacement.
---A professional company responsive to customer questions and issues.
---System Amazon Cloud-based.
---Alerting system tells dispatch when school run/HopeLink no-show occurs.
---System app allows driver to be out of the cab and accept calls on their smart phone, giving you 3 minutes to get to your cab and confirm.
---We would be considered a "premium" account, in other words, a high priority.
If the decision to go ahead is made, the system will be up and running and functional before the new school season begins. Costs are currently being configured. And for my personal preference, I think it is time to return to the queuing system, meaning the first car in the area gets the fare, just like in the good, old voice dispatch days. Wouldn't that be nice?
Monday, July 9, 2018
The Essential Utility Of the Shirt Breast Pocket
If there is anything close to a taxi uniform, it is clothing containing functional pockets because the modern cabbie is constantly putting stuff in and taking stuff out of both pants and shirt pockets. If, heaven forbid, there is a hole in my pants pocket I am forever picking up keys and change off the street. And just as important is that shirt pocket where I quickly stuff all those various one, five, ten and twenty dollar bills customers are paying me with, my shirt pocket a kind of quick safety deposit box which I attend to a little bit later when the rush is over and finding myself impatiently parked somewhere once again waiting for the next call.
But when it is sunny and my short sleeve shirt doesn't have a pocket, like the one I wore yesterday, I find myself stuffing all that cash either in the visor above my head or cramming it in my right side pants pocket, meaning I probably have to unbuckle the seat belt, or worse, stopping the cab and getting out and shoving all that money in, creating an uncomfortable bulge. Better of course to just have a breast pocket available, allowing instead focus upon the road and not where I am putting the money, otherwise easily losing track and later finding it loose upon the floorboard, just waiting to fly out of the cab into the street.
While this might sound like making the simple complex it truly isn't because my cab is a tornado spinning down the road, complete control more theoretical than real or actual practice, all hell breaking loose everywhere: on the road, in the cab, and most especially, in my brain, needing that essential shirt pocket to ensure that suddenly I haven't become insane! Yes, Tammy tell me true, minus my shirt breast pocket I am certainly sad and blue!
And without this basic sartorial assistance, I just will never know what to do!
But when it is sunny and my short sleeve shirt doesn't have a pocket, like the one I wore yesterday, I find myself stuffing all that cash either in the visor above my head or cramming it in my right side pants pocket, meaning I probably have to unbuckle the seat belt, or worse, stopping the cab and getting out and shoving all that money in, creating an uncomfortable bulge. Better of course to just have a breast pocket available, allowing instead focus upon the road and not where I am putting the money, otherwise easily losing track and later finding it loose upon the floorboard, just waiting to fly out of the cab into the street.
While this might sound like making the simple complex it truly isn't because my cab is a tornado spinning down the road, complete control more theoretical than real or actual practice, all hell breaking loose everywhere: on the road, in the cab, and most especially, in my brain, needing that essential shirt pocket to ensure that suddenly I haven't become insane! Yes, Tammy tell me true, minus my shirt breast pocket I am certainly sad and blue!
And without this basic sartorial assistance, I just will never know what to do!
Monday, July 2, 2018
Privacy
Privacy. When it comes to cab driving, there is little to no protection when sitting in that bright, yellow car for all to see or to despise or hate as is too often the situation. Often seen as public property, the usual taxi driver is subjected to behavior better reserved for a tree: indiscriminate weather battering the external body, which is why those rare moments of privacy are all important---peaceful moments away from an intrusive human wind. When needing to use the toilet, I especially choose out-of-the-way restrooms where disturbance is rare, allowing me to take my time as if I were at home. One especial place is located in a First Hill hospital on a lower floor tucked away in an fairly inaccessible northwest corner at the end of a seldom used hallway.
Entering the building from the south I always take note of the three signed Mark Tobey prints on the left, this hospital passing for a first-rate museum and not just a sanctum for physical healing, forever wondering why such valuable artwork is allowed to be displayed unattended but since most folks wouldn't know the different between Jean-Baptiste-Camille Corot or Grandma Moses, I guess the Tobeys will remain safe from the unprofessional thief. Descending the stairs and then walking further north I am always surprised that once again I am alone. It is truly a relief to know I now have a few minutes respite from a meddling world.
Another hidden longtime lavatory favorite is one I have dubbed the "Paul Klee Memorial Restroom" due to its Klee-like stylistic floor tiling, a washroom located deep within the bowels of the University of Washington Medical Center. Back in 1982-84 I did a bunch of psychiatric shifts there and got to know the complex well, that and the fact that we cabbies were once blood specimen packhorses, delivering "stat" packages all over the greater Puget Sound region, including such faraway locales as Whidbey Island and Olympia, Washington, winding our way down maze-like hallways during all hours night and day, searching for that elusive laboratory to the left, or is that the next right turn?
Yes, thank the taxi gods for a few precious minutes of privacy until the next passenger asks, "Just who are you, Mister Cabdriver?" and depending upon my mood, providing a perfectly inappropriate response, thus alienating the customer assuring they will never again enter my life. And, yes, thanks very much for that, go away and stay away, God! I don't even care if you pay!
Entering the building from the south I always take note of the three signed Mark Tobey prints on the left, this hospital passing for a first-rate museum and not just a sanctum for physical healing, forever wondering why such valuable artwork is allowed to be displayed unattended but since most folks wouldn't know the different between Jean-Baptiste-Camille Corot or Grandma Moses, I guess the Tobeys will remain safe from the unprofessional thief. Descending the stairs and then walking further north I am always surprised that once again I am alone. It is truly a relief to know I now have a few minutes respite from a meddling world.
Another hidden longtime lavatory favorite is one I have dubbed the "Paul Klee Memorial Restroom" due to its Klee-like stylistic floor tiling, a washroom located deep within the bowels of the University of Washington Medical Center. Back in 1982-84 I did a bunch of psychiatric shifts there and got to know the complex well, that and the fact that we cabbies were once blood specimen packhorses, delivering "stat" packages all over the greater Puget Sound region, including such faraway locales as Whidbey Island and Olympia, Washington, winding our way down maze-like hallways during all hours night and day, searching for that elusive laboratory to the left, or is that the next right turn?
Yes, thank the taxi gods for a few precious minutes of privacy until the next passenger asks, "Just who are you, Mister Cabdriver?" and depending upon my mood, providing a perfectly inappropriate response, thus alienating the customer assuring they will never again enter my life. And, yes, thanks very much for that, go away and stay away, God! I don't even care if you pay!
Monday, June 25, 2018
"The Killer"
An old hitchhiking trick is having the girlfriend stand in clear view while the boyfriend hides in the bushes. When a driver stops to pick up what he/she thinks is a solitary woman seeking a ride, the boyfriend suddenly leaps out from his hiding place, jumping in with a big grin, implying Let's go!" While irritating, it is usually an effective strategy with getting the couple down the road.
Here too on a Friday night did I answer a call at a local University District hotel, pulling up to the waiting female passenger, only to have her call out to her boyfriend lurking on the other side of street concealed by darkness and local shrubbery. She said he was "only smoking a cigarette" but after a few minutes I doubted her story.
Perhaps instead he was "on the lam" and being extra careful to stay away from prying police eyes, never knowing when Seattle's finest might appear. But whatever the both of them ultimately were doing I don't care whatsoever other than I don't think it's the best idea to be threatening because you never know what kind of response you might elicit, especially since his words were "tossed knives" intended to cut and harm the receiver, in this case, innocent me.
It all started simply enough, with me asking what I have asked a least ten thousand times," Where are you going?" When told the "H ________ Motel, I responded I had picked up there earlier. This is when the young man, more or less 22 to 25 years old, asked very directly "which room, male or female, what time" which led me say "I can't tell you that."
With that interaction creating an immediate uncomfortable silence, I, intending to just be friendly during the next 7-10 minutes we had together, mentioned I had just come from Chinatown and my "meal-of-the-day," with the guy asking me where I went, along with a more general question about the "best dim sum." Telling them it was the "Honey Court," and during the day, having great dim sum, he starting aggressively asking me a bunch of rapid-fire questions which I first attempted to answer until realizing there was something odd going on, deciding to verbally slap him with a "I can't continue answering these lines of questions." which prompted his volleying retort of, "But you have!"
Suddenly I had the thought "How naive I had been!" way back in 1972, facing prison when it seemed I might have to refuse induction into the US Army, not comprehending who I would have been incarcerated with, dealing with people like this guy, obviously someone having spent many years "hardening behind bars," developing a survival strategy unequivocal its pugnacity, willing to kill anyone, me too if necessary. That I now had a "killer" in the cab was now very clear. Whether he had murdered someone, or would in the future, the potential was there, and I knew I was "nothing to him, nothing at all!" just another obstacle to kick out of his way.
Upon that understanding I shut up and got them to where they were going, not taking his "Thank you, brother." seriously as they left the cab. And when I know that the prevailing current attitude is that anyone at any time can do this kind of occupation---hauling complete strangers from point A to B--- I say 'how naive" because being with people isn't simple, and if you think so, you just might end up dead and that is just the way it is. For many, life is no joke, and the passenger I just described wasn't laughing.
"You want to die?! he says, "Why sure, I'll be glad to oblige you!"
Here too on a Friday night did I answer a call at a local University District hotel, pulling up to the waiting female passenger, only to have her call out to her boyfriend lurking on the other side of street concealed by darkness and local shrubbery. She said he was "only smoking a cigarette" but after a few minutes I doubted her story.
Perhaps instead he was "on the lam" and being extra careful to stay away from prying police eyes, never knowing when Seattle's finest might appear. But whatever the both of them ultimately were doing I don't care whatsoever other than I don't think it's the best idea to be threatening because you never know what kind of response you might elicit, especially since his words were "tossed knives" intended to cut and harm the receiver, in this case, innocent me.
It all started simply enough, with me asking what I have asked a least ten thousand times," Where are you going?" When told the "H ________ Motel, I responded I had picked up there earlier. This is when the young man, more or less 22 to 25 years old, asked very directly "which room, male or female, what time" which led me say "I can't tell you that."
With that interaction creating an immediate uncomfortable silence, I, intending to just be friendly during the next 7-10 minutes we had together, mentioned I had just come from Chinatown and my "meal-of-the-day," with the guy asking me where I went, along with a more general question about the "best dim sum." Telling them it was the "Honey Court," and during the day, having great dim sum, he starting aggressively asking me a bunch of rapid-fire questions which I first attempted to answer until realizing there was something odd going on, deciding to verbally slap him with a "I can't continue answering these lines of questions." which prompted his volleying retort of, "But you have!"
Suddenly I had the thought "How naive I had been!" way back in 1972, facing prison when it seemed I might have to refuse induction into the US Army, not comprehending who I would have been incarcerated with, dealing with people like this guy, obviously someone having spent many years "hardening behind bars," developing a survival strategy unequivocal its pugnacity, willing to kill anyone, me too if necessary. That I now had a "killer" in the cab was now very clear. Whether he had murdered someone, or would in the future, the potential was there, and I knew I was "nothing to him, nothing at all!" just another obstacle to kick out of his way.
Upon that understanding I shut up and got them to where they were going, not taking his "Thank you, brother." seriously as they left the cab. And when I know that the prevailing current attitude is that anyone at any time can do this kind of occupation---hauling complete strangers from point A to B--- I say 'how naive" because being with people isn't simple, and if you think so, you just might end up dead and that is just the way it is. For many, life is no joke, and the passenger I just described wasn't laughing.
"You want to die?! he says, "Why sure, I'll be glad to oblige you!"
Wednesday, June 20, 2018
Four Essays---"When And Where I Learned About Racial Disparity" & 2 Portraits Of Poverty---"Georgia And Zorro" & "Can't Find My Hat" & How People Victimize And Profile Others: "Targeting"
Many recent interactions with both drivers and customers have gotten me to thinking thematically, thinking just what it means to be racially profiled and the often related consequences. Oddly, I learned much of what I know today upon the subject way back in the years between 1957 and 1959 when our father moved us into a Toledo, Ohio housing project. Though only age 3 when we arrived, I quickly received unforgettable lessons concerning racial tension and how it affects individual behavior. In my book in progress, "To Age 13," I delve deeply into that period so this essay is designed only to be the briefest introduction to racial hatred becoming violent and dangerous. To this moment I see myself chased across the field pursued by an adult swinging a baseball bat, trying mightily for a momentous home run, my head his baseball.
When and Where I Learned About Racial Disparity
Logic was not my father's focus, instead decision making his personal game of darts, randomly hitting the target and following it, and of course taking us, his family, along. In deciding to return to his birthplace, Toledo, Ohio, he chose as our new home in 1957 that teeming cauldron of angry, displaced blacks known as the Ravine Park Village housing project, and amidst that roiling sea placing on us the solitary Caucasian street, the project's version of a DMZ zone, theoretically immune from the prevailing poison.
As that wasn't true I soon found out, my parent's setting me loose at age 3 upon the projects, not thinking through what they were doing to me as I wandered the streets learning about life and the world around me. Why I was soon targeted I can't tell you, other than I was white, and the animosity around was a different color, even resenting a little boy incapable of doing them any harm.
One day my tricycle was destroyed. Another time I was threatened for approaching a sizzling barbecue. Then, upon an errand for my mother, a towering black man chased and swung his baseball bat at me. But the crowning event, and perhaps my death save my neighbor's intervention, was being chased down by black teenagers and tied to a pole tighter and snug. To this moment I see him, our artist neighbor running down the slope screaming as the teenagers fled, leaving me to thank my rescuer, taking me back to his place.
Yes, this is how I was taught beyond all doubt about America's race relations and how angry everyone was, somehow not taking it personally, instead remaining curious of what did it have to do with me, a little boy trying to stay alive, holding no ill will toward those who wanted to kill me.
Concerning my father it was entirely another story, disliking the man who I knew to be a fool, not fun discovering at age five your own father a dunce. But being a little boy what could I do about it? Nothing was the answer, there being nothing I could do except ignore both him and my mother which I did the best I could until I left at age 15, age 16, age 17, and finally, 18.
I needed parents but truly mine didn't exist. Some children pretend. I wasn't pretending, Ravine Park Village a very real place, for me and my assorted assailants, a home not a home, a hell very far from any version of an imagined heaven floating upon our unconscious minds, all of us wanting to leave.
And we left! not sorry to leave!
________________________________________________________________________________
The next two essays are about two kinds of poverty, one total, the other "working yourself to death" poverty. Neither is a pretty story but the reality facing them and others sharing their situation: a grinding down to the bone.
Georgia and Zorro
Georgia is a Flathead Indian living in Kent, Washington but not for long, down two months rent and no ability to pay the $2,600. She has been sharing the cost with her sister but when the sister failed to receive a Social Security Review notice she was dropped like a "welfare hot potato," fating the both of them, along with Georgia's service dog Zorro and two cats, onto the streets. And since their total combined monthly Social Security equals just over $1,500, it means they have almost nothing left over after paying the rent.
Where is their free choice? Instead, prisoners of an unfeeling culture they have no alternative but to remain enslaved to a situation not of their making.
Despite her age, Georgia is childlike, someone, like so many North American aboriginals, not belonging to the modern world, adrift upon a rushing river quickly taking them over a sheer and deadly cataract. Zorro too has given up, grief his mood, depression his immediate reality.
Together they tell a story no one cares to read. Soon, too soon, they will be dead, and no one will remember, dust strewn upon the wind. They will be dead, that's all.
"Can't Find My Hat!"
The most important fact of this true "life-as-it-really-is" tale is the figure of $165,101,172.00; or to make it plainer, the Seattle Mariner's total 2018 payroll is One-hundred & sixty-five million, One hundred & one thousand, & One-hundred & seventy-two dollars and no cents. I mention this because the middle-aged woman living way out south in Normandy Park was on her way to the Angle Lake Light-rail Link station so she could serve hungry baseball fans at SafeCo Field.
Having almost cleared her apartment complex, I had to turn around as she realized she had forgotten part of her uniform, her hat. Watching the meter tick I became concerned that she was having trouble locating it, and sure enough, she came back in a panic, "They are going to fine me!"
As I sped forward, she talked to herself aloud, wondering just where that hat could be. By the time we arrived, she sounded resigned to whatever fate awaited her. She even tipped me a dollar. And this is someone making the local minimum wage.
Want to guess how much "the King" Felix Hernandez is making this year? Just over twenty-six million dollars. And shall we estimate what she made during the game? Just about $110.00 or so, minus the fine of course. Now we know why Hernandez is Royalty and she is what, just what is she during these baseball games? Does anyone want to guess?
_______________________________________________________________________________
This final essay is all about profiling, about how people just won't let other people be, letting them walk down the street minus all opinion. Always, always, members of our species continually comment, silent or not, about others good and bad. Can people just stop themselves and shut up? No, the answer is no, they can't, it being far too much fun making someone else your personal business!
Targeting
She stood on the street in front of the Victoria Clipper ferry pier extremely conscious she once again, as always, was on display for every one's long nose sticking itself into her private sphere, not wanting anything else but to walk on her way just like anyone else, just as it is her right to do. But no, as she knew too well, everyone wanted to look at her, the men for obvious reasons, and their wives too, for motivations slightly more nuanced.
Escape? No one escapes from the staring and judgmental eyes. If you are brown or black, you are potential trouble. If you're fat, you are disgusting. If you are rail-thin, you're distasteful and culturally unacceptable. If you are young teenagers laughing, you are boorish and immature. And if you are a hippie, you stink, everyone knowing you require a quick bath.
And if you think it isn't so, just ask a passing cop. They'll tell you all about it, they really will!
And if you're grabbed by the collar and pushed into a wall, you can thank that great liberal GOP Bloomberg, the once mayor of NYC reminding everyone who is young and black and proud that it wasn't a good idea six years ago and it still isn't, you being what you are and you damn well better not forget it!
When and Where I Learned About Racial Disparity
Logic was not my father's focus, instead decision making his personal game of darts, randomly hitting the target and following it, and of course taking us, his family, along. In deciding to return to his birthplace, Toledo, Ohio, he chose as our new home in 1957 that teeming cauldron of angry, displaced blacks known as the Ravine Park Village housing project, and amidst that roiling sea placing on us the solitary Caucasian street, the project's version of a DMZ zone, theoretically immune from the prevailing poison.
As that wasn't true I soon found out, my parent's setting me loose at age 3 upon the projects, not thinking through what they were doing to me as I wandered the streets learning about life and the world around me. Why I was soon targeted I can't tell you, other than I was white, and the animosity around was a different color, even resenting a little boy incapable of doing them any harm.
One day my tricycle was destroyed. Another time I was threatened for approaching a sizzling barbecue. Then, upon an errand for my mother, a towering black man chased and swung his baseball bat at me. But the crowning event, and perhaps my death save my neighbor's intervention, was being chased down by black teenagers and tied to a pole tighter and snug. To this moment I see him, our artist neighbor running down the slope screaming as the teenagers fled, leaving me to thank my rescuer, taking me back to his place.
Yes, this is how I was taught beyond all doubt about America's race relations and how angry everyone was, somehow not taking it personally, instead remaining curious of what did it have to do with me, a little boy trying to stay alive, holding no ill will toward those who wanted to kill me.
Concerning my father it was entirely another story, disliking the man who I knew to be a fool, not fun discovering at age five your own father a dunce. But being a little boy what could I do about it? Nothing was the answer, there being nothing I could do except ignore both him and my mother which I did the best I could until I left at age 15, age 16, age 17, and finally, 18.
I needed parents but truly mine didn't exist. Some children pretend. I wasn't pretending, Ravine Park Village a very real place, for me and my assorted assailants, a home not a home, a hell very far from any version of an imagined heaven floating upon our unconscious minds, all of us wanting to leave.
And we left! not sorry to leave!
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The next two essays are about two kinds of poverty, one total, the other "working yourself to death" poverty. Neither is a pretty story but the reality facing them and others sharing their situation: a grinding down to the bone.
Georgia and Zorro
Georgia is a Flathead Indian living in Kent, Washington but not for long, down two months rent and no ability to pay the $2,600. She has been sharing the cost with her sister but when the sister failed to receive a Social Security Review notice she was dropped like a "welfare hot potato," fating the both of them, along with Georgia's service dog Zorro and two cats, onto the streets. And since their total combined monthly Social Security equals just over $1,500, it means they have almost nothing left over after paying the rent.
Where is their free choice? Instead, prisoners of an unfeeling culture they have no alternative but to remain enslaved to a situation not of their making.
Despite her age, Georgia is childlike, someone, like so many North American aboriginals, not belonging to the modern world, adrift upon a rushing river quickly taking them over a sheer and deadly cataract. Zorro too has given up, grief his mood, depression his immediate reality.
Together they tell a story no one cares to read. Soon, too soon, they will be dead, and no one will remember, dust strewn upon the wind. They will be dead, that's all.
"Can't Find My Hat!"
The most important fact of this true "life-as-it-really-is" tale is the figure of $165,101,172.00; or to make it plainer, the Seattle Mariner's total 2018 payroll is One-hundred & sixty-five million, One hundred & one thousand, & One-hundred & seventy-two dollars and no cents. I mention this because the middle-aged woman living way out south in Normandy Park was on her way to the Angle Lake Light-rail Link station so she could serve hungry baseball fans at SafeCo Field.
Having almost cleared her apartment complex, I had to turn around as she realized she had forgotten part of her uniform, her hat. Watching the meter tick I became concerned that she was having trouble locating it, and sure enough, she came back in a panic, "They are going to fine me!"
As I sped forward, she talked to herself aloud, wondering just where that hat could be. By the time we arrived, she sounded resigned to whatever fate awaited her. She even tipped me a dollar. And this is someone making the local minimum wage.
Want to guess how much "the King" Felix Hernandez is making this year? Just over twenty-six million dollars. And shall we estimate what she made during the game? Just about $110.00 or so, minus the fine of course. Now we know why Hernandez is Royalty and she is what, just what is she during these baseball games? Does anyone want to guess?
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This final essay is all about profiling, about how people just won't let other people be, letting them walk down the street minus all opinion. Always, always, members of our species continually comment, silent or not, about others good and bad. Can people just stop themselves and shut up? No, the answer is no, they can't, it being far too much fun making someone else your personal business!
Targeting
She stood on the street in front of the Victoria Clipper ferry pier extremely conscious she once again, as always, was on display for every one's long nose sticking itself into her private sphere, not wanting anything else but to walk on her way just like anyone else, just as it is her right to do. But no, as she knew too well, everyone wanted to look at her, the men for obvious reasons, and their wives too, for motivations slightly more nuanced.
Escape? No one escapes from the staring and judgmental eyes. If you are brown or black, you are potential trouble. If you're fat, you are disgusting. If you are rail-thin, you're distasteful and culturally unacceptable. If you are young teenagers laughing, you are boorish and immature. And if you are a hippie, you stink, everyone knowing you require a quick bath.
And if you think it isn't so, just ask a passing cop. They'll tell you all about it, they really will!
And if you're grabbed by the collar and pushed into a wall, you can thank that great liberal GOP Bloomberg, the once mayor of NYC reminding everyone who is young and black and proud that it wasn't a good idea six years ago and it still isn't, you being what you are and you damn well better not forget it!
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