a tale of three rivers

Like the rest of the United States, the land on which Pittsburgh now sits was once inhabited by the indigenous people of North American prior to the invasion of the Europeans.  The land was then fought over by French and British explorers during the 1750s as it was a strategic site sitting at the confluence of the Allegheny and Monongehela Rivers which join forces to become the Ohio River.   Fort Pitt, served the British forces during the French and Indian War , and a remnant of it is the last remaining structure from this time period, sitting on the point of land where the rivers converge.  The fort was later used during the American War for Independance after which the village surrounding Fort Pitt began to grow.

The increase of manufacturing during the early 1800s helped Pittsburgh to grow into one of the largest cities in the Allegheny Mountains.  In 1875, the city started manufacturing steel, which would become the city’s best known industry and provide its economic wealth during the next century.  In fact, by 1911 the city of Pittsburgh was producing more than half of the United States’ steel.  However, in the 1970s, foreign competition caused much of the factories to close during the next two decades.  Nevertheless, today Pittsburgh has undergone a significant revitalization.  With a few hip, downtown neighborhoods, new apartments and condos, pendestrian-friendly riverfront, a very walkable downtown, and new business opportunities, I found myself delightfully surprised by the city.  And perhaps it is not particularly surprising then that The Economist ranked Pittsburgh 1st in the United States on a list of livable cities and 29th in the world.  However, like all things there are those that contest the categories used for ranking. http://www.post-gazette.com/pg/09161/976252-53.stm (On a side note, Geneva, Switzerland has made it in the top ten on a number of such world rankings of city liveability—no wonder I’d love to move back 🙂 )

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once upon a time

My cousin A____ might have my head for posting this picture, but I’ve decided to risk it given that I’m over a thousand miles away.  We’ve had more than one laugh over all the stuff from our childhoods still hanging out in our old bedrooms at our respective homes.  And during my stay at her parents’ house, I had the honor of sleeping in her old childhood haunt.

There are still a few books on the shelf, the bed sheets that were probably bought when she was ten, the pictures from high school and college, the bits of nostalgia here and there tucked into the edges of the mirror.  And while my own old bedroom is a bit more packed away, boxes and suitcases piled in a corner, in the closet, in the attic, they’re still there, waiting for me to figure out the next move.  And I find myself, even with thirty just a few months away, living in this liminal space between a childhood room and an adult home.

September 29, 2010

Grand Rapids, Michigan

mammy in the kitchen

They had died long before I was born, Mammy and Pappy.  Those are the only names I’ve ever heard given to my maternal grandmother’s parents.  However, I recently was sitting in the kitchen talking with my aunt M______ and learned a bit more about Mammy and the life she lived sitting in the kitchen waiting.  This is the story my Aunt M______ shared:

His name was Quentin and he was my grandmother’s older brother—the oldest of Mammy’s three children.  He was enlisted in the military during the Second World War.  He left his small, farming community in Lehigh County, Pennsylvania.  He left and he never came back.

At the end of the war, the military normally declares the missing men or women either dead or missing in action (MIA).  Perhaps it was due to some glitch, but Quentin was never officially declared either dead or MIA.  So Mammy waited.  And waited.  She sat in her kitchen staring out the window, waiting for Quentin to return home.

And while she waited, something happened.  Something, perhaps, broke inside her spirit and inside her mind.  She spent some time in a state hospital, but even after returning home was never quite the same.  Mammy touched things as she passed them—the table, the chair, the lampshade.  Her grandchildren knew—Mammy had her little quirks.  She ran her hand along the edge of the chair.  Maybe she could only believe in the things she could touch.  Maybe she had to feel everything, assure herself of the world around her.

What I do know is that Mammy’s daughter, my grandmother A_______ , would later lose her own oldest son.  Larry had enrolled in the military as well, but he never saw combat.  He died within days of contracting spinal meningitis at a base.  However, my grandmother A______ still had three young children at home.  And she had watched her mother disappear in a way.  So for these and other reasons, her grieving period was short.  She moved forward quickly; rarely did I hear Larry’s name mentioned in the family while growing up, and certainly not from either of my grandparents.  It was not until I was a college student that I started learning more about Larry from my mom and her sister, my aunt M_____.  Today, his face stares out of an old black and white picture, framed and sitting on an end table at my mom’s house.  These family men who I never knew but whose deaths shaped generations of women in my family.  Death and grief and life in a messy dance, weaving together the shadowy hues and vibrant colors of our lives.

September 29, 2010

Grand Rapids, Michigan

tango in Oakland

It almost invariably comes up when I’m at a new milonga: “So, how long have you been dancing?”  Sometimes I say, “Since forever.”  The truth is, my mom enrolled me in ballet classes when I was three, and while I don’t do very many plies or pas-de-bourres anymore, dancing has been one lifelong love affair.  It caputres my attention completely; it’s one of few activities in which I can be completely present and forget about everything else going on.  It’s a way to breathe, feel, create, explore…  So, of course, I jumped at the opportunity to go out dancing one night in Pittsburgh.

Over the past six years, tango has been the dance to caputre my heart.  While I learned to salsa, merengue, and bachata a bit (and rather enjoy a good night out with the latin dances) and loved taking advantage of the popular contra dances in the New England region last year, tango is the place to which I love to return.  These days, when I find myself at a milonga and hear some of the familiar tunes, I’m home.  It’s a language I know–the sounds, the whispers, the motifs.  And in this moment of life, where in many ways everything feels like it’s a bit upside down and unfamiliar, a night at a milonga put a little familiar back into my life.

In the heart of Oakland, Pittsburgh, a neighborhood overrun by Pitt college students, I made my way to Peter’s Pub.  Rather unsure if I was indeed at the right place, since it looked more like a sports bar than a tango venue, I inquired with the bouncer.  He nodded affirmatively, and I made my way up a narrow stairwell to a small, cozy second-floor bar and dance floor.

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Three hours flew by once I started dancing, and I enjoyed the opportunity to do lots of following.  Furthermore, there was another out-of-town dancer present that night.  A young man from New York City.  While I’m not sure that our paths ever crossed in New York, I immediately recognized him, and we figured out that we had danced once before together at the Yale Tango Festival.  Unlike me and my roadtrip travels, he, a marine biologist,  was in town to present at a conference on fish hatcheries.  (I swear I’ve never rubbed shoulders with so many scientists but in the world of tango!  In fact, that same night, I danced a milonga set with a man who I was certain was a scientist after the first song.  Sure enough, when the set was finished, I looked at him and said, “Scientist?”  He nodded and smiled.  “Physicist.”)  It’s remarkable how much we tell of ourselves in our dancing–the ways we think, the patterns we are attracted to, the stories of our lives.  And perhaps, this is also why I love the tango.  While in a good tango vals or milonga, you can dance joy and pleasure, flirtation and play, there’s also space for sadness and nostalgia—for the kaleidescope of our lives.

September 28, 2010

Grand Rapids, Michigan

a league of their own

Buildings housing bowling lanes are inherently windowless.  For some reason, I always have a strange sense of forboding when entering a cement block building, intentionally constructed to block out daylight.  They have an allure of delinquincy…how else could you explain buildings constructed to keep out the sun.  Perhaps there is real purpose to this.  Perhaps the glare of sunlight on the highly-polished wood could throw off a bowler–blind the competitor in the midst of his potential strike.  Perhaps the low lighting gives a sense of hourlessness…a way of conveniently losing track of how long you’ve been rolling a heavy ball down a narrow, wooden floor.

For the past year, every Tuesday night, my uncle L___ has participated in a local bowling league, having been recruited for years by his octogenarian neighbor J_____.  So when L____ asked me if I wanted to come along during my week in Pittsburgh, I decided to join the motley crew for a night of bowling–my first in years.

While the alley was relatively empty when we first arrived, it quicky filled up as people walked in the side door, pulling their wheeled bags behind them.  One by one they greeted each other with that familiarity that comes from weekly contact within the context of a common pasttime.  As I looked on in wonder, I gradually met many of the quirky personalities on my uncle’s bowling league, changed into a pair of rental shoes, and found an 11-pound ball that I thought would suit my purposes for the night.

While my uncle’s league is co-ed, the other leagues present that evening were notably male dominated.  There did seem to be something oddly familiar, watching those men roll–and sometimes throw–their bowling balls down the alley, willing the pins to crash.  It reminded me of boys who I’ve babysat who enjoy building towers out of blocks and then knocking them down.  This is not to say that I haven’t witnessed little girls do the same, but it I do remember it being more popular among the boys.  However, during the night I was struck by the music of the balls hitting the floor, the constant crashing of pins, the shouts of both exhaltation and frustration as they witnessed the force of the ball against the pins.

The roots of bowling date far back into human history, although like most ancient activities, there’s debate about where exactly it originated.  However, the game was apparently brought to the United States by the Dutch during the 17th century and actively practiced in New York City in an area of lower Manhattan called Bowling Green.  (In fact, there is still a metro stop on the green line with the same name.)  At that time, the game was with nine pins; today it consists of ten.  However, in 1841 Connecticut banned the nine pin game due to gambling with other states following suit.  (Perhaps my sense of delinquency at a bowling alley is well-earned 🙂  The game was regularized in 1895 in NYC by the newly formed American Bowling Congress (ABC).  And while women bowl freely today, the ABC formally banned women within its constitution during the early 20th century.  In fact, it wasn’t until 1993 that they removed the “male only” clause from its constitution.  So perhaps in light of history, the present day demographic comes as no surprise.  (For more information see: http://www.bowling2u.com/trivia/game/history_of_bowling.asp)

During my night with the league, I thought of my grandmother R_____, who used to have her own weekly night out with her bowling league.  I pictured her on her night out on the town with the girls–the comradery, the cigarettes, the drinks afterwards.  So while my skills is a bit lacking, I picked up the ball and bowled in her memory, or the memories of her I’ve made for myself through the stories.  And  despite the constant attention and advice of one of the men on the league, my score remained rather dismal throughout the night, but I had fun for what it was worth.  Let’s just say that I won’t be trading in my tango shoes for bowling ones anytime soon!

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