Thursday, January 25, 2007
Sex, Drugs, and Facilitators
Sobering as the reality was, though, the overall experience was positive. The work we did in the reconstructed Buras YMCA was productive and rewarding, and the trip had more than its share of memorable moments. Many of those moments could be attributed to the fact that we lived in a hippie commune. A certifiable hippie commune.
If nothing else, my stay at the Y taught me the creative possibilities of a life without shampoo. Beth fashioned her hair as a thick, tight, multi-stranded piece of shrubbery. Rory designed his as a free-floating swirl of red. (It resembled cotton candy, but typically cotton candy does not contain dust, lint, and the faint aroma of wood chips). The most significant cosmetic achievement went to Liza, whose creation could be classified as "Caucasian dredlocks," but would more accurately be described as a "profusion of pipe cleaners" -- fuzzy black, white, and brown strands that held tightly together when moistened by bong water.
Another enjoyable hippie quirk was the use of the term "facilitator." Every morning, me, Evan, Tom, Pierre, Kyle, Texas, and the other members of the Tent City commune met for Morning Meeting. (That is, if the spirit moved us; if it did not, there was still peace and love). At the meeting, one of the facilitators (one of the people who had been in Emergency Communities the longest and could most ably lead the group) would ask who wanted to do what task that day. In theory, this description fits that of a "leader." The free thinkers at Emergency Communities recognized, however, that a leader can be described as a person who makes sure the most things get done in the most efficient, productive manner possible. And no reasonable person would endorse that kind of Fascism.
One day at morning meeting, Mauve, on of the "co"-facilitators, mentioned that she was upset that the previous day, Maria, an insensitive culinary facilitator, referred to the cooking area as "my" kitchen. Mauve reminded her that the area which was used almost exclusively by Maria every meal of the day was "our" kitchen, as community-owned as any other part of the facility. Maria reluctantly agreed to be more careful in the future, but I would imagine that there was a fairly lengthy session of Circle before bed -- Circle being the nightly meeting in which facilitators gather around and discuss the feelings evoked over the course of the day.
Two final memorable hippies were Lindsay and Patrick. Lindsay dropped out of school not because it was populated by dangerously productive "breeders," but because she did not agree with the idea that "anyone can define knowledge, that you can be told what and how to learn." Patrick's bold stance involved the auto industry. For three years he did not get his drivers license because cars use oil. This past year, Patrick sold out and got the license. I hold out some hope that he contacted Serbian nationals and his car is now running on first-rate plutonium, but most likely, Patrick did in fact sell out.
And finally, there was the sign next to the shower, the most amusing emblem of hippiedom in the whole place. "Be fair," the sign read, "please clean your hair." 'Cause people usually need the reminder . . .
Over the break, I spent a few days working in Buras, Louisiana, a community located about an hour outside of New Orleans. It was frustrating to see how little had changed in two years. Blown-out buildings appeared on both sides of the main road, debris covered numerous lawns, and "do not demolish" signs were spray painted on the front of every third house.
Sobering as the reality was, though, the overall experience was positive. The work we did in the reconstructed Buras YMCA was productive and rewarding, and the trip had more than its share of memorable moments. Many of those moments could be attributed to the fact that we lived in a hippie commune. A certifiable hippie commune.
The first certifiable hippie I met there was Beth. Beth's first question to me was whether or not I was in "the Jewish fraternity." Because, evidently, they always have "the best pot." Beth then explained that she dropped out of Miami University because the people there were all "selective breeders," the irredeemable sort of folk who set goals, raise children, and, well, wash their hair.
If nothing else, my stay at the Y taught me the creative possibilities of a life without shampoo. Beth fashioned her hair as a thick, tight, multi-stranded piece of shrubbery. Rory designed his as a free-floating swirl of red. (It resembled cotton candy, but typically cotton candy does not contain dust, lint, and the faint aroma of wood chips). The most significant cosmetic achievement went to Liza, whose creation could be classified as "Caucasian dredlocks," but would more accurately be described as a "profusion of pipe cleaners" -- fuzzy black, white, and brown strands that held tightly together when moistened by bong water.
Another enjoyable hippie quirk was the use of the term "facilitator." Every morning, me, Evan, Tom, Pierre, Kyle, Texas, and the other members of the Tent City commune met for Morning Meeting. (That is, if the spirit moved us; if it did not, there was still peace and love). At the meeting, one of the facilitators (one of the people who had been in Emergency Communities the longest and could most ably lead the group) would ask who wanted to do what task that day. In theory, this description fits that of a "leader." The free thinkers at Emergency Communities recognized, however, that a leader can be described as a person who makes sure the most things get done in the most efficient, productive manner possible. And no reasonable person would endorse that kind of Fascism.
One day at morning meeting, Mauve, on of the "co"-facilitators, mentioned that she was upset that the previous day, Maria, an insensitive culinary facilitator, referred to the cooking area as "my" kitchen. Mauve reminded her that the area which was used almost exclusively by Maria every meal of the day was "our" kitchen, as community-owned as any other part of the facility. Maria reluctantly agreed to be more careful in the future, but I would imagine that there was a fairly lengthy session of Circle before bed -- Circle being the nightly meeting in which facilitators gather around and discuss the feelings evoked over the course of the day.
Two final memorable hippies were Lindsay and Patrick. Lindsay dropped out of school not because it was populated by dangerously productive "breeders," but because she did not agree with the idea that "anyone can define knowledge, that you can be told what and how to learn." Patrick's bold stance involved the auto industry. For three years he did not get his drivers license because cars use oil. This past year, Patrick sold out and got the license. I hold out some hope that he contacted Serbian nationals and his car is now running on first-rate plutonium, but most likely, Patrick did in fact sell out.
And finally, there was the sign next to the shower, the most amusing emblem of hippiedom in the whole place. "Be fair," the sign read, "please clean your hair." 'Cause people usually need the reminder . . .
Monday, October 16, 2006
Tuesday, July 04, 2006
colinitoenoaxaca.blogspot.com
Monday, December 19, 2005
It'll be years before I open or send another Christmas card, but I am now back, permanently, from virus land.
Most interesting thing to occur in the interim:
Befriending a dehumidifier named Jeff.
That might not be completely clear at first, so let me explain. Queen Mary Maintenance Services are something the British like to call 'incompetent.' It's a colloquial term, ranking just below 'bullocks' and 'brilliant' in cultural significance. (Queen Mary Computer Services, for example, illustrate the term by providing whim-based internet access. And by denying there is any problem with that kind of internet access. And by answering any question related to a well-established problem with 'no, we don't keep logs.')
Before I encountered Maintenance Services and before I encountered Jeff, however, I woke up to a wet patch on my dorm room carpet. I considered how the patch had gotten there. I hadn't made it to the store on time the night before, so it couldn't be from my usual 3am milk and cookies. And I had had dinner out the night before, so it couldn't be from that either. I thought maybe it was from when I was in bed, but I hadn't had accidents like that in weeks, and even then, it didn't spray onto the carpet. It must have come from underneath the floor -- I needed outside help.
So, that afternoon I went to the Maintenance steward and reported the problem. When I arrived back at my room late that night after a long day of library research, I found that no one had come and that the patch had become a river. Tributaries trickled through the dry laundry, continuing through to the ends of my dry bedsheets. I was angry because I had been assured by the steward that someone would be 'sent out immediately,' but thus far, considering the time change, they weren't that far off. (Greenwich Mean Time stipulates that you subtract five hours from a British assurance and a British response).
Tiptoeing back through the door, I went back to the steward to emphasize the urgency of the problem. So sorry, she said, someone would be there first thing in the morning. That comforted me. I could just snuggle up in cottony mildew for one night and all would be right in the morning. No one came the next morning, but I wasn't too concerned -- you know, considering the time difference.
When I came home late that night after another day of library research, however, I was a bit more concerned. The river, you see, was now less a river and more an all-out LAKE. My impulse was to lash out at Maintenance Services -- two days and you still don't show up! -- but then I saw that they had come. Because there, in the back corner in the room, was Jeff.
Now, as dehumidifiers go, Jeff was an Adonis. His robust frame, his bronze gleam, his bulging nozzle -- all immediately grabbed the eye. And the sheer size as well: it was double the adjacent mini fridge, nearly as big as a regular one.
The question was what to do with Jeff. Dehumidify the air, clearly, but how, when there wasn't so much excess moisture as A LAKE. But that was all Maintenance Services had left me with, so, for now, it would have to do.
What I hadn't counted on was Jeff's raw power, his ability to suck longer and harder than any dehumidifier in recent memory. By the time I dove into bed that night, a substantial portion of the lake was gone. (Note: The dive into bed was literal: there was a small patch of dry carpet on the opposite end of my room. If I positioned myself and lept just right I could make it onto the mattress, socks unscathed).
By the next afternoon, the carpet was almost entirely dry. Yet Maintenance Services was still nowhere to be found. No call, no note, nothing. And this continued for three days. During this time, though, Jeff and I bonded. A spark here, a vvvroom of the engine there; it was nice. Not homoerotic by any means, just nice. On the fourth day, sadly, I came back and he was gone. I was glad to have a dry room and have the whole thing over with, but in a small, significant way, I was saddened. Silly as it sounds, I had grown attached to the guy -- bulging nozzle and all. At least now, every time I sense a little less moisture in the air, I'll be able to think of the day I stood ankle deep in stagnant water, and met . . . Jeff.
Most interesting thing to occur in the interim:
Befriending a dehumidifier named Jeff.
That might not be completely clear at first, so let me explain. Queen Mary Maintenance Services are something the British like to call 'incompetent.' It's a colloquial term, ranking just below 'bullocks' and 'brilliant' in cultural significance. (Queen Mary Computer Services, for example, illustrate the term by providing whim-based internet access. And by denying there is any problem with that kind of internet access. And by answering any question related to a well-established problem with 'no, we don't keep logs.')
Before I encountered Maintenance Services and before I encountered Jeff, however, I woke up to a wet patch on my dorm room carpet. I considered how the patch had gotten there. I hadn't made it to the store on time the night before, so it couldn't be from my usual 3am milk and cookies. And I had had dinner out the night before, so it couldn't be from that either. I thought maybe it was from when I was in bed, but I hadn't had accidents like that in weeks, and even then, it didn't spray onto the carpet. It must have come from underneath the floor -- I needed outside help.
So, that afternoon I went to the Maintenance steward and reported the problem. When I arrived back at my room late that night after a long day of library research, I found that no one had come and that the patch had become a river. Tributaries trickled through the dry laundry, continuing through to the ends of my dry bedsheets. I was angry because I had been assured by the steward that someone would be 'sent out immediately,' but thus far, considering the time change, they weren't that far off. (Greenwich Mean Time stipulates that you subtract five hours from a British assurance and a British response).
Tiptoeing back through the door, I went back to the steward to emphasize the urgency of the problem. So sorry, she said, someone would be there first thing in the morning. That comforted me. I could just snuggle up in cottony mildew for one night and all would be right in the morning. No one came the next morning, but I wasn't too concerned -- you know, considering the time difference.
When I came home late that night after another day of library research, however, I was a bit more concerned. The river, you see, was now less a river and more an all-out LAKE. My impulse was to lash out at Maintenance Services -- two days and you still don't show up! -- but then I saw that they had come. Because there, in the back corner in the room, was Jeff.
Now, as dehumidifiers go, Jeff was an Adonis. His robust frame, his bronze gleam, his bulging nozzle -- all immediately grabbed the eye. And the sheer size as well: it was double the adjacent mini fridge, nearly as big as a regular one.
The question was what to do with Jeff. Dehumidify the air, clearly, but how, when there wasn't so much excess moisture as A LAKE. But that was all Maintenance Services had left me with, so, for now, it would have to do.
What I hadn't counted on was Jeff's raw power, his ability to suck longer and harder than any dehumidifier in recent memory. By the time I dove into bed that night, a substantial portion of the lake was gone. (Note: The dive into bed was literal: there was a small patch of dry carpet on the opposite end of my room. If I positioned myself and lept just right I could make it onto the mattress, socks unscathed).
By the next afternoon, the carpet was almost entirely dry. Yet Maintenance Services was still nowhere to be found. No call, no note, nothing. And this continued for three days. During this time, though, Jeff and I bonded. A spark here, a vvvroom of the engine there; it was nice. Not homoerotic by any means, just nice. On the fourth day, sadly, I came back and he was gone. I was glad to have a dry room and have the whole thing over with, but in a small, significant way, I was saddened. Silly as it sounds, I had grown attached to the guy -- bulging nozzle and all. At least now, every time I sense a little less moisture in the air, I'll be able to think of the day I stood ankle deep in stagnant water, and met . . . Jeff.
