west by northwest (by midwest)

becoming myself again

Last week, as I stood at a street corner just across from Liberty Park in downtown SLC, waiting for the walk signal, I felt for the first time in years like a Midwesterner again.  A blizzard of leaves - as silent as snow - fell from the park trees as the winds picked up. I had not seen anything like it since the last autumn I spent in Iowa City, when I stood in the pedestrian mall and wondered how anyone could ever live in a landscape without deciduous trees.  I knew at that moment that I would never quite love the Pacific Northwest - where I planned to move the following summer - the same way that I loved Iowa.

——

My husband and I wandered into a Halloween store, and we marveled at the selection of gruesome decorations - dead bodies (rubber sculptures, of course) crawling on the floor with guts trailing behind, fake human hands packaged like chicken breasts, labeled for sale “by the pound,” complete with blood leaking out through the Saran Wrap, and even wind-up mice munching on a human heart.  We never saw anything like this in Portland, and wondered why.  Portland, after all, is an alternative paradise teeming with Pagans and Pagan-wannabes.  Salt Lake City, supposedly so conservative, celebrates Halloween with guts and gore to the extreme.  Many houses around town even feature crime scene tape on the front door.  Did the rain in Portland prevent people from creating over-the-top decorations?  Maybe they feared the relentless drizzle would dissolve their holiday displays?  Maybe Salt Lake City is not as conservative as it seems?

——

“People here seem happier with less,” I say. My husband and I have been talking again about how people in Salt Lake City seem content in a way we rarely witnessed in Portland.

“In Portland,” he says, “You aren’t supposed to be happy.”

I laugh. “You are only supposed to be happy if you are doing something that shouldn’t make you happy.” Cheating the system, taking drugs, anything “immoral.” Portland has a dark streak that way, maybe because of the rain.

We both giggle.  “But I miss the rain,” I say.  “And the early dark.  That is autumn for me now: darkness.”  I loved that about Portland - nightfall in the late afternoon, days that never really seemed to dawn.

Later, we take a walk in the dark and revel in the orange and red leaves, brilliant under the streetlamps.  Never mind what I said, I think.  This - these deciduous trees, these streetlamps, the scent of burnt caramel and singed dust as the leaves crunch under my shoes - is fall.  Even if dusk takes a few hours longer to descend.  Even if it means I might fall in love with something in this landscape.

oxen oxen oxen

On one of my evening walks to Liberty Park, I noticed graffiti spray painted in bright blue on the sidewalk in front of Smith’s. The graffiti was neat, obviously a stencil, and it read: oxen, oxen, oxen.  Now, I notice it every time I walk past. For some reason, whenever I read it, I feel the impulse to stand up straighter.  Maybe it is because I become aware of whatever load I am carrying, or how my posture reflects loads from days past.  Or maybe it’s because the word “oxen” makes me feel a little guilty about whatever I might have purchased (usually nothing).  Something about it feels like an accusation - politically charged, an anti-consumerist message.

But what makes this so effective?  Is it the placement - right outside the driveway to the grocery store?  I don’t think so, because in some ways, I find the placement offensive.  If this indeed is an anti-consumerist message, why does it target pedestrians?  Why not target the parking lot?  (Or was that simply too risky in terms of getting caught — or getting hit by a car)?  Beyond that, a grocery store seems an odd target for an anti-consumerist message, unless the target is poor food choices — processed food, wasteful packaging, etc.  Maybe “oxen” just refers to the extra body fat so many carry, and in that case, the placement makes more sense.

It is the one time that Salt Lake City feels like Portland, that I get a sense of an underground here - an angry subculture that inserts itself into daily activities without invitation.

city of children no. 5

My husband and I love evening walks through Liberty Park, an 80-acre urban playground that offers everything from horseshoe pits, monkey bars, swings, a pond (complete with paddle boat rentals), fountains, a swimming pool, tennis courts, running paths, swings, a disability-accessible tree house, and even an aviary with a nearby folk museum. And that list surely leaves out a significant number of attractions.  Every time we stroll through the paths, we discover something new.

Last night, we took a slightly different path and stumbled upon a playground area teeming with children, even in the dark.  Parents gathered at the picnic tables to chat with neighbors and keep an eye out for the kids, while little ones screamed and giggled under dim lamps.  There was a little racing area with poles featuring, alternately, the tortoise and the hare, and encouraging words about engaging “mind, body, and spirit” to win the race.  Not far from the race path, there was even an Olympic awards stage (really, a fountain), with monuments commemorating the Paralympics.

What struck us most, though, was how different this park is from any we had seen in Portland.  While downtown Portland certainly has its share of parks - ranging from one-block-radius water fountains like Jameson Square in the Pearl (known to locals as the “beach”) to giant urban forests with hiking trails - few of them seem designed for family outings on the scale of Liberty Park. I have never seen a park so packed with large families, so alive with laughter even after nightfall, and so well used. Maybe it is because the park offers a little bit of everything, so families with multiple children - very common in Utah - feel like every kid can find a niche.  Or maybe it is because the lighting, paths, and disability-accessible play areas signal that this area belongs to everyone.  It may just be the scale of the whole thing - an oasis just big enough to escape the city, but not so big that kids will wander into danger.  Or it might be that I notice every family has at least three children in tow.  I am not quite sure.  But something in the design of this park feels much more children oriented - much more big-family oriented - than anything in Portland, where playgrounds often feel cramped, silently limiting family sizes by design.

On the way home, walking through a neighborhood filled with eclectic architecture (German-style brick cottages, big-porched, Midwestern wood-framed farmhouses), I noticed how the yards all seem so much more used - toys scattered on the lawns, trinkets and decorations cluttering the porches - than the ones I saw in Portland. It got me thinking about the conception of space here in general. In Portland, I often felt as though lawns and porches were meant for display - museum artifacts reflecting the taste and culture of the inhabitants, off limits to tricycle tires, muddy Keds, water gun fights, or even just cutting corners.  Perhaps because of the urban renewal policies there, it always felt as though the city itself were the place to play; homes and parks represented retreat and privacy.  Here in Salt Lake City, the precise opposite is true: lawns and parks are made for screams and giggles, mud and messes.

So where does that leave the rest of Salt Lake City - sidewalks, cafes, streets, towers?  What would happen to the lawns and parks if the city itself became the playground?

More to come.

Samsara - video art by Natalie Rose LeBrecht + reflections on the economic crisis in SLC vs. Portland

Natalie Rose LeBrecht, a good friend of mine from the U of Iowa days, has always created profoundly original and strange (in a good way) music - the kind of music that you feel with your whole body, tingling even in your tooth caps and fillings. Lately, she has been sharing video art via YouTube.

Here, a girl (portrayed by Natalie herself) desires only the sweet burst of flavor from a new piece of gum, not the dull, rubbery taste of the one she already has.  She rejects the old gum and expects an instant replacement - instant gratification.  When she finds herself going without, she feels pain in the core of her being.

In a sense, it is the perfect metaphor for the fallout from the economic crisis in the United States. So many people who were used to having every desire fulfilled at the swipe of a credit card have suddenly found themselves going without, and it is not comfortable. I am not referring here to the (many) thousands of Americans who already lived on the poverty line before the crisis and face even worse prospects today; they already know what it is like to go without. Rather, I mean those who have become accustomed to splurges and indulgences - steak dinners, fancy cosmetics - who have suddenly had to cut back.

I cannot help but reflect, too, on the different reactions of Portland and Salt Lake City to the economic collapse.

When major banks started failing, my husband and I still lived in Portland, Oregon.  By the time the banks stopped collapsing one after the other, we lived in Salt Lake City, Utah.  The moods in these two cities during the economic crisis have seemed - at least from my somewhat outsider perspective here - completely different.  In part, this might be due to the vastly different economic climates in the two cities: Oregon’s unemployment rate hit 12 percent in April (with Portland’s rate not too far behind), while Salt Lake City has continued to enjoy relatively lower rates - just 5 percent. Predictably, people in Oregon feel the pain more acutely, since they have less hope for finding steady employment. One would expect a bleaker mood there.

But other differences bubble below the surface. In Portland, people tend to politicize every choice - right down to in-season, organic, local berries vs. out-of-season and/or conventional fruit shipped in from South America, but cheaper by $2. Choosing the former means supporting sustainable farming practices and keeping dollars local; choosing the latter is tantamount to contributing to environmental degradation - at least, that is how people tend to frame it, as an either-or fallacy with the power to induce severe guilt. These kinds of political commitments necessarily frustrate efforts to save money. After all, when we define our politics by our spending - voting with our dollars so to speak - it seems like nothing less than disenfranchisement when we are forced cut back and go for the non-local, conventional produce on sale for $3 cheaper per pound.

It isn’t all so political, though. Portlanders (many of them, anyway) also value the “hip factor,” which translates to worshiping good design at almost any cost: expensive jeans with fancy pocket designs, granite kitchen counters, bamboo flooring, and the list goes on. Sacrificing the “hip factor” can be profoundly painful for some.  Case in point: Individuals used to expressing their identity through well-designed clothes quite literally feel like they lose a little bit of themselves every time they choose, say, a  3-pack bag of cotton t-shirts at Target over the pricey (yet environmentally sustainable) tees offered up at boutiques in the downtown boutiques.  This again is the result of an either-or fallacy that divides “hip” and “cheap” into entirely separate categories.  Maybe, just maybe, there is a way to bring them together, but Portlanders did not yet seem ready to embrace this when I left.

By contrast, residents of SLC tend to think in practical terms: Where can I find the cheapest price on ______?  How can I combine sales, store coupons, and manufacturer coupons to save money?  Why would I pay $150 for jeans when I can get cheap ones at Wal-Mart or Target - or even better, used ones at a thrift shop? (Yes, there were “thrift shops” in Portland also, but they often charged outrageously high prices for used “vintage” pieces.) Frugality was a value in SLC long before the economic meltdown, so it doesn’t hurt as much to cut back even further now. Here, people tend to define their identities by how sensible and frugal their choices are - a form of sustainability that Portlanders tend to overlook.

I wonder, though, how much is lost - and gained - with either position, which is something I plan to explore in future posts.

But back to Natalie’s video. Watch it. It may be a metaphor for bleak times, but it is also quite funny.  Promise.

stranded

Sorry for the long space of time between postings.  It has been a busy week in my classroom, with many students catching up on assignments and needing assistance. From now until the end of the term, I will likely only post two-three times per week. This is always the hardest part of teaching - how it occupies most every “free” moment of my days.  But helping students to develop their writing is well worth all the effort, even if it means a little less blogging time for me.

Stranded

In Portland, my husband and I lived on the edge of the downtown Pearl District, just blocks from the college where he worked (and where I taught for a short time as well). He could walk there in under five minutes, which meant we could easily meet for picnic lunches or even a hot meal at home.

Here in Salt Lake City, living near his place of work would mean moving fifteen miles from the city center, far out in the suburbs that dot the landscape on either side of the interstate. Over the holiday weekend, my husband and I drove out to one of those suburbs to run some errands, and we found ourselves considering whether it would be feasible to live so far from downtown - and yet, so close to his work. Depending on the apartment building or house we rented, we could still walk to the grocery store (although not the same health food store we love now), drug store, and various restaurants.  In the long run, we would probably save money on car fuel (which we tend to use conservatively as it is) and rent. More importantly, we could meet for lunch again, since he could easily walk home for a quick sandwich.

But I could not shake the feeling I would be stranded out there, far away from everything I love: the library, health food stores, downtown towers, Asian grocers.  I would rarely be able to leave except on weekends, when my husband is home from work and could drive me out of there - like a ferry taking me off the island, back to civilization.

Even as I considered this, I realized I feel stranded downtown, too.  Sure, I enjoy pedestrian access to most things I need, but I always feel like I am locked into our neighborhood - trapped by the relentless parking lots and busy streets. The TRAX is prohibitively expensive for unnecessary trips, and I have never quite felt comfortable with the station platforms.  In truth, the downtown here is not compelling enough to make me want to stay; in many ways, it feels itself like a suburb, with its wide streets, bland fast food restaurants, and big-box stores.

And then there are the earthquakes to consider.

Ever since the news stations have started obsessing about earthquakes - for which Salt Lake City is apparently long overdue - my anxiety has cranked up almost daily.  Reporters warn that highways could crumble, and commuters might not be able to make it home.  Families, they say, must draft emergency meeting plans.  But what if one family member cannot drive?  What if the interstate crumbles, and my husband is left with no way home?  How would I find him?  At least if we lived out near his workplace, the earthquake could never separate us.

Only Salt Lake City could make me even consider the suburbs.

commercials. solicitation

The most recent issue of Salt Lake City Weekly features an article about proposed changes to the panhandling ordinance in Salt Lake City.

One section of the Public Discussion Draft of the ordinance struck me as particularly interesting:

(4) False or misleading solicitation. It shall be unlawful for any person to knowingly make any false or misleading representation in the course of commercial solicitation. False or misleading representations include, but are not limited to, the following:

a. Stating that the solicitor is from out of town and stranded when such is not true;
b. Stating or suggesting falsely that the solicitor is either a current or former member of the armed services;
c. Wearing or displaying an indication of physical disability when the solicitor does not suffer the disability indicated;
d. Use of any makeup or device to simulate a deformity;
e. Stating that the solicitor is homeless, when he or she is not;
f. Stating that the donation is needed to meet a specific need, when the solicitor already has sufficient funds to meet the need and does not disclose that fact; or
g. Stating that the donation is needed to meet a need that does not exist.

I cannot help but think of all the other commercial solicitations I am exposed to every day: ads that feature heavily Photoshopped models designed to manipulate me into thinking my thighs are too lumpy, eyes too small, hair too thin, skin too wrinkly, or teeth not white enough. Just today, I saw a commercial for deodorant designed to smooth the skin in women’s armpits. Really? Is there an epidemic of scratchy armpits?

Why, I wonder, do panhandlers need to adhere to a higher “truth” standard than product advertisements? Perhaps it is because panhandlers, in essence, ask for donations, and charity should never be manipulated. Fooling unsuspecting pedestrians into paying for an imaginary “bus ticket home” is akin to a 501c3 organization funneling funds into a secret campaign. Or is it? After all, individual panhandlers do not have organizational charters.  They’re just people. If a panhandler lies, is it any different than when a kid saves up her school milk money in secret, so she can blow it all on 45 singles at the record store? (Yeah, I did that.  And yeah, I just gave away my age.) And is it really any different than an advertisement creating a “need” that doesn’t exist, so shoppers will whip out their credit cards? I do not mean to beg the question; I am honestly trying to understand the differences.

The biggest difference, at least so it seems from the political discussion, is where panhandling takes place -  public sidewalks, bus stops, and parks, mostly.  Citizens expect to enjoy public spaces without fear of being harassed.  But then again, other sections of the panhandling ordinance address these issues, with rules to prevent solicitation near outdoor cafe tables, ATM machines, and bus stops. The hope is that bank customers can use the ATM without fear of being robbed, and bus riders can count out their fare change without someone pestering them to spare a quarter. WIth those provisions in place, the “truth in panhandling” provisions make less sense. And let’s be honest: Commercials that lie to us about our bodies and what we “need” are plastered all over public spaces, too: billboards, posters, window signs, and even big-screen televisions in the windows of some of the downtown towers.

Even the sides of the TRAX trains feature a corporate “panhandler”: the Verizon guy telling me how much better off I will be on the 3G network.  Apparently, it is OK for this adverisement to disrupt my enjoyment of the city, but a panhandler cannot approach me at the bus stop.

To be fair, the Verizon guy can’t invade my personal space, touch my hand, ask me repeatedly for change, or follow me around the corner, as some panhandlers have done to to me in the past.  But the ad still changes my experience of the TRAX train; it still attempts to manipulate me into seeing a “need” where there is none.

On principle, I appreciate the “false or misleading solicitation” section of the ordinance. I do not think panhandlers should pretend to have a physical disability, or to be homeless, or a war veteran, in part because such false pretenses manipulate people into donating money.  More importantly, these tactics do an injustice to the people they are pretending to be - contributing to stereotypes and perhaps taking potential donations away from those causes.

But the more I think about it, the more questions I have, especially as I think back to similar debates in Portland, Oregon. I will write about this more in the future.

a tale of two developments no. 3

This is number three in a series of posts about two urban renewal projects that focus on train stations - one in Portland, Oregon, and one in Salt Lake City, Utah.

Yards at Union Station - Portland, Oregon

Living at the Yards at Union Station meant living between two of the most iconic bridges in downtown Portland.  If I walked one block northwest from my building, I took a path beneath the ramp for the Broadway Bridge, which to me always seemed more like a toy bridge than a real one, with its Lego-red paint job and decks that snapped open to let river traffic pass.  Whenever those decks broke apart, I braced for one of them to plunge into the river, even though I knew the counterweights made that next to impossible. I clenched my jaw, held my breath, waited.  I could not continue walking until the bridge became whole again. Sometimes, even after the decks rejoined, I stood under the bridge for ten or twenty minutes at a time, listening to car tires whistle through the grating above.

If I walked a few blocks the opposite direction, I passed under the ramp to the upper deck of the Steel Bridge, which in contrast to the Broadway Bridge always seemed somber and serious, secretive even. It felt simultaneously heavy and insubstantial: a charcoal drawing of a bridge rather than a real one, smudgy and dusty, as if it would leave a thick black coating on my fingers when I touched it.  In certain light, it looked like a Franz Kline painting, or maybe a Motherwell, but not quite that precise. I loved to watch the lower deck rise up, telescoping into the upper one, so boats could pass beneath.  In the springtime, I always thought the bridge was up to something naughty when it raised the lower deck: lifting its skirt so boat passengers could peek up inside.  In the fall and winter, with Portland’s moody rain pelting down, it seemed more intimate, as if the bridge was revealing a secret.

These two bridges marked the borders of the neighborhood and made it feel snug, intimate, secret.  More than that, they articulated two distinct poles of psychogeographic feeling: a desire to hide, to remain closed; and a sense that the place is not quite real, a Lego playland of sorts, the ultimate toy train station for adults.  Even the apartment buildings, painted in contrasting hues of red, blue, yellow, and green, seemed designed with a toy train station in mind. At times, I would stand in the courtyard and try to convince myself the place was real; that the people were real; that the trains really did screech into the station. I never could win that argument with myself.

At the Gateway district in Salt Lake City, I feel a sense of unreality, too, but it is different.  The mall there, with its heated outdoor walking paths and pale yellow brick, feels like something out of Disney Land or Los Angeles, completely out of place.  Even the main street name - Rio Grande - seems designed to create a feeling of displacement. This feels natural to a shopping mall, which after all, thrives on spectacle.  Without that disconnection from reality, shoppers are far less willing to whip out a credit card. But I wonder about the apartments there, and whether the residents feel like the mall marks a boundary for them, a line across which all reality slips away. Or, since they are otherwise isolated from the rest of the city, if the Gateway Mall actually functions like a Gateway into reality - into the bustling heart of downtown.

In a sense, it is impossible to know for sure.  As an outsider, I cannot experience the feeling of arriving and leaving home at Gateway (or, to be precie, the Northgate Apartments). Nor would I have reason to cross the boundary every day, as I did in the Yards at Union Station.  But I plan to craft some psychogeography experiments to at least get a glimpse of what this area really means.

sidelined

I am nursing a wrist injury, and typing is painful at the moment.  Since I have so much typing to do as a teacher - grading, responding to emails, sending off paperwork, etc. - I may not post here for a couple of days. I need to give my wrist all the breaks (very bad pun) that I can.  Hopefully, the pain and swelling will subside soon so I can resume regular postings.

a tale of two developments no. 2

In an earlier post, I started a series about two urban renewal projects that focuses on train stations, one in Portland and one in Salt Lake City. This post continues the series.

When my husband and I lived at the Yards at Union Station in Portland, Oregon, I walked every morning down NW 5th Avenue, all the way to Burnside, where I crossed into the downtown.  From there, NW 5th became SW 5th, and I could finally relax my shoulders, stand taller, catch my breath, stop clenching my fists inside my coat pockets.  As soon as I reached the US Bank Tower, the city opened up for me. I found myself looking up into skyscraper windows as I walked, watching tiny people shuffle paperwork or answer phones; or peering down alleys to enjoy the patterns of sunlight on piles of leaves or crumbling brick walls.  It was always - always - a relief to have made it that far.

The walk between Union Station and Burnside took me through a sector of the city known as Old Town/China Town, an area known for drug deals, assaults, and theft.  The crime, though, was not the main reason I clenched my fists.  Crime could happen anywhere; a quick glance at online crime maps made that clear.  But in Old Town, I felt an undercurrent of tension - of rage, even - that threatened to yank me under with every step.

Old Town provided homes to several social service agencies, halfway houses, and free or low-cost medical clinics, which meant that any given moment, some of the most impoverished and vulnerable citizens of the city streamed into or out of the area.  This alone created a certain tension between transients and residents, but when gentrification was factored in, tension quickly flared into something akin to a turf war.

Once, a man covered in open, oozing sores limped toward me, stretched out his hand, and tried to grab my shoulder before I ducked away.  “Hey, white girl,” he mumbled. His friends sitting on a nearby bench laughed. “Surely you got …”  He jerked his head toward the Yards, indicating he saw me walk over the pedestrian bridge from the apartments. “Change for the bus?”

The truth was, I didn’t. “Sorry,” I said, and continued on my way.

“Bullshit,” he screamed after me. “These fuckers move in here …”

That was all I heard before a bus rushed past and blocked his voice.

Many of the residents at the Yards struggled to make ends meet, too. But that hardly mattered. As one of the Portland Development Commission’s urban renewal projects, the Yards had become a symbol of creeping gentrification - of a city policy that defined livability almost exclusively in terms of middle and upper-class needs.  Sure, many renewal projects included “affordable” housing, but that did not mean affordable food, energy, entertainment, health care, or anything else. Where developments like the Yards sprang up, chi-chi boutiques usually followed (although not near the Yards, which remained a dead zone on the edge of the city). More importantly, long-time residents (or in the case of Old Town, long-time loiterers) ofen felt forced out.

That gesture - nodding toward the Yards - became common, almost like sign language, or maybe even a reflex, when strangers asked for money.  I interpreted it as a subtle reminder of who really owned these city blocks.  After all, Old Town had long stood as one of the few places where the impoverished, homeless, paroled, and probationed were actually welcomed - if not with open arms, at least with open rooms in a halfway house or free clinic.  In all of Portland, it was the one sector this population could claim as their own. We - the residents of the Yards - were the real thieves, stealing city blocks right out from under their rightful owners.

I haven’t felt a similar feeling in the Gateway District in Salt Lake City, but since I do not live there, I wonder if I am too far on the outside the sense it.  In Portland, people often thought my reaction to Old Town seemed unbalanced - over the top, even - but none of those people actually lived there or walked regularly through the streets. This leads me to think an experiment might be in order: walking every day through the Gateway area for at least two weeks, to get a sense of how it feels when people recognize me.

Trailer: Hope Edelman's The Possibility of Everything

I am taking a few days off from blogging while I help out students who have make-up work to complete before midterm grades post.  That, and I just need to recharge. In the meantime, check out the trailer for Hope Edelman’s latest book, The Possibility of Everything.  Hope was one of my mentors at Antioch, and I am forever indebted to her for helping me to grow as a writer.  I can hardly wait to read her new book.  Enjoy the trailer.

Trailer: The Possibility of Everything by Hope Edelman

city of children no. 4

On my way to the grocery store yesterday, I noticed a cluster of toddlers on the sidewalk up ahead, waddling along in slow motion, clinging to a rope held at either end by a daycare employee. The cluster was headed straight for me, and I dreaded the inevitable: children pooling up like a puddle as they circled around my feet. If I were not already halfway to the store, I would have turned around and walked back to the intersection so I could cross to the other side of the street. Instead, I fled to the grass, where I could continue walking and avoid the kids by a margin of at least two feet.

I encountered clusters like this in Portland, too, although not usually in my own neighborhood, and not very often. Every time it happened, I charged ahead as fast as I possibly could, counting on sheer speed to spare me from getting stuck in a clog of sticky fingers and faces. Most of the time, it worked. Kids backed out of the way, and I hurried past, while the daycare staff warned them against speaking to “stranger danger.”

Yesterday, though, as I stepped onto the grass, one of the children looked up at me and and sang out hello as she let go of the rope and opened her arms wide.  On the surface, this seemed simple enough, but I wasn’t quite sure how to react. Was it even appropriate to talk to a strange kid?  Would the daycare staff panic?  As I considered this, several other pedestrians walked by and nodded at the kids, saying good morning in sing-song tones. The daycare staff smiled back, encouraging the kids to respond to every person.

At that moment, I realized my policy of disengagement was not going to work here in Salt Lake City. Just as the downtown forces me to confront the compass, it also forces me to engage with children - two-foot margin or not.

city of children no. 3

Parents in Portland always seemed to be apologizing. I would round a corner in the grocery store, only to collide kneecap-to-forehead with a toddler who had waddled off to snatch a secret treat, and a humiliated mom or dad would scoop up the child while mouthing, “I am so sorry.” Never mind that I was equally to blame for not noticing the little one underfoot, or that the parent shared no blame at all. For these reasons and more, something about the ritual suggested more than mere apology.  It felt closer to shame.

This is a side effect of an urban design culture that tends to exclude children and families - everything from two-seat restaurant tables to signs in yoga-studio cafes that warn “no dogs or children past this point.”  A friend of mine visiting with her husband and two kids (probably the sweetest kids in human history, by the way) noticed this exact sign and elbowed me gently while we looked over a menu of raw vegan entrees.  Just as I felt her nudging me, a cluster of sweaty yoga students exited the adjoining studio, and we watched them file past, all of them silent, their postures stern. Several glared at my friend’s kids, who sat scanning the menu, leaning in so their temples touched. They looked like living, breathing putti. Who could be offended by them?

“Nice,” my friend said.  “The bathroom is on the other side of that sign.  What if my kids have to pee?”

Salt Lake City is the precise opposite.  Restaurants post advertisements for family discounts or free kid meals.  Stores offer kiddie shopping carts and “product sampling” days with invitations to “bring the kids.” I have yet to see a sign forbidding children anywhere - well, except the obvious sorts of places.

In fact, my husband and I are the ones on the outside now, with no children and no plans to have them.  A few of his co-workers have hinted that we should start a family, and complete strangers suggest that our VW Beetle (his, really, since I do not drive) is just a “pre kid” kind of car.  “You’ll need a new one,” they say.  “When you have kids.”

Not “if” you have kids, but “when.”

city of children no. 2

Yesterday, a woman pushed a stroller into the gym and parked it beside the weight stack for the cable machine.  A toddler followed closely, occasionally standing up on tip toe to peer over the handle of the carriage and make faces at his baby brother or sister.  I never was very good at working up the “right” kinds of coos and smiles, so I drew an imaginary perimeter around the baby and refused to cross the line, even though I really wanted to use the cable machine.

This never would have happened in Portland, where the city keeps children - and parents - “in their place” by design (and I do mean “in their place” as critique, not praise).  I do not mean to suggest that Portland dislikes children. There are plenty of kid-oriented parks, boutiques, toy stores, and even social groups.  But Portland is not exactly a kid city, either.  You notice it right away: very few kids at the restaurants, not many children in the downtown, lots of young designers and artists with no strollers in tow.  You are more likely to spot a doggy daycare in some areas than one for actual, human children.

Just look a the layout of most Portland restaurants: small tables, two chairs pushed neatly across from one another, candle or floral centerpieces, no room for a high chair, no children’s menu on display, no play area.  I remember it made local headlines when a cafe in the Pearl created a play space - think McDonald’s playground, minus the grubby tubes - for kids.  Within a few short weeks, the place became a hub for parents who longed to reclaim their spaces in the cafe culture.  When it flooded due to a pipe leak, parents waited anxiously for the space to reopen. They felt left out, cut off again from the mainstream.

Even the kid boutiques in Portland feel like they are designed for adults, with $100 jeans and $50 t-shirts, stuffed animals too expensive to imagine even one drop of drool staining the plush fur, and assorted “intellectual” toys that appeal to all those young designer couples as a way to show off their smart kids and “anti-family” aesthetic. I could never imagine a toddler behaving in these boutiques as I once did in the local K-Mart: hiding under clothing racks, knocking over displays and end-caps as I raced after my sister, pestering adults, and stamping my germy prints all over formerly pristine glass.  In Portland, kids seemed outrageously well behaved inside those fancy downtown stores, little lords and ladies in designer pants and eco-conscious diapers.

Part of me loves that this Salt Lake City mother felt comfortable bringing her kids to the gym; after all, how else would she be able to squeeze in a workout?  No shelling out money for a babysitter.  No rearranging her schedule.

Another part of me feels squirmy and uncomfortable imagining another encounter.  I have never been comfortable with kids, and much to the horror of my in-laws, do not want my own.  But this is something else, something deeper - less about my discomfort with kids and more about my discomfort with the lack of compartmentalization here, the lack of clear boundaries between spaces.  Here in Salt Lake City, there are no lines in the sand when it comes to children, and after nine years in Portland, it is hard to adjust.   I plan to explore this further in future posts.