"Hey--wow--can I see your tattoo?" African-american male, 30's vestibule of public library, who very kindly held the door for me.
"Ok," (roll up sleeve--this is the first day since I've been back from SF that's been warm enough to just wear a a t-shirt)
"Wow...what's that?" (points to figure on upper arm)
"It's from a comic book."
"Which one? Who is it?"
"Morpheus from Sandman."
"Oh. Morpheus. Like the guy in the Matrix?"
"Not quite. Same name, similar archetype..."(proceed to explain difference between two Morpheuses).
"Wow, that's really neat." (leans in to examine closely, almost touching, but not quite.) "I wanna get something like that--hey, can I take your picture?"
"I'd actually prefer if you didn't. I hope you understand."
"Oh. ok." (slightly dejected.)
"Why not? Why won't you let him take your picture?!" Middle eastern man, 40's walking by and overhearing.
"Because this is very personal to me, and I wouldn't feel comfortable if he did."
(Middle eastern man) "Who did that?"
"A friend of mine did most of it."
(African-ameircan man) "How much did it cost?"
"Since my friend did it, it was free, but it would've been several thousand dollars."
(Middle eastern man, walking around the other man to get a view of my other side) "What'd you say? Fifteen thousand dollars?"
"Several thousand."
(African-american man) "I really wanna get something like that. Some tropical colors, like."
(Middle eastern man) "It wouldn't work for you; you're too dark." (exits library)
African-american man. "Can I ask you one more question?"
"Ok, but then I have a few more errands to run."
"What're those things in the circles?" (touching my arm to point to one)
"Those're hobo symbols."
"What?"
(Proceed to explain meaning of hobo code)
"So are any of them bad?"
"No. They're all good signs. It doesn't make sense to me to mark a body with anything bad; it'll stay with you forever."
"Right on--that's art!" (walks away).
The whole thing was pretty intense...
Yeah. So I'm bundled up to the eyes half the year, interrogated and chastized for not letting strangers take my picture the other half. If I wasn't loving school and some of the people I've met out here, and my rent wasn't so cheap this would probably be the point where I said "Fuck it" and started packing my hobo ass.
Friday, September 4, 2009
9/2/09-2 interactions
"Are those jade?" Caucasian female, early 20's, beside me in health food store, referring to ear plugs.
"No, I don't know what they are. They're probably plastic for what I paid for them."
"How big are they?"
"Three-quarters."
"Oh, mine are an inch and a half." (pulls back knit cap to reveal stretched lobes) "I'm not wearing jewelry because I'm trying to shrink them to look for a job."
"Well, good luck finding a job, but honestly they might not shrink that much from an inch and a half."
"Yeah, I know, but I gotta try."
"I understand, good luck."
"What size are your ears?" Caucasian female, late teens, elevator at work.
"3/4"
"Really cool, I like your plugs."
"Thanks."
"No, I don't know what they are. They're probably plastic for what I paid for them."
"How big are they?"
"Three-quarters."
"Oh, mine are an inch and a half." (pulls back knit cap to reveal stretched lobes) "I'm not wearing jewelry because I'm trying to shrink them to look for a job."
"Well, good luck finding a job, but honestly they might not shrink that much from an inch and a half."
"Yeah, I know, but I gotta try."
"I understand, good luck."
"What size are your ears?" Caucasian female, late teens, elevator at work.
"3/4"
"Really cool, I like your plugs."
"Thanks."
Monday, August 31, 2009
8/25-29/09 Interlude in the Land of Fruits and Nuts (2 interactions)
Before I left for San Francisco, I asked my ex-husband if I should continue the experiment on the Left Coast as sort of a ‘control’ city (yeah, this is the first time I’ve ever thought of San Francisco as ‘controlled’) or just take a few days off and have a vacation from everything. He suggested the continuing, which was what I was leaning towards. It made packing easy. Black jeans, black t-shirts, black pullovers, a sweatshirt and denim jacket. Black boots. Done.
For the eight years I lived in SF, I mostly wore the unisex uniform above, which is a simple way of adapting to microclimates in a relatively temperate region. When I moved back down to New Orleans last year, I took a large back pack, abandoning most of my clothes on the back porch of my last apartment. It quickly grew too warm for the ‘uniform’ and I realized skirts and tank tops breathed easily, and I could bike in them. My superpower of ‘Find cool shit on the street’ was turned up to 11, and I’d often discover unexpected vintage treasures on yard sale excursions with my favorite transvestite. An 80 year-old fortune teller gave me some flamenco skirts and crimson lipstick. I quickly amassed a surreal, eclectic wardrobe, which I viewed as reflective of my environment. I truly felt like I was part of the landscape, and was just beginning to learn to live like I was art, every day was theater, and the city was my stage, when I got the letter that brought me to Chicago. I wasn’t ready. When I returned to SF to retrieve my remaining belongings, I left a whiny message with my transvestite southern belle: “My glittery girl drag doesn’t work anymore!” But I was determined to hang on to some of that vibrancy, that freedom I’d tapped into, and came to Chicago in the midst of a heat wave with a wardrobe cobbled together from two different worlds, neither of them working in a world where winter is cold and comes early, where lawns and nails are neatly manicured, and very few houses are purple.
Black jeans and t-shirts feel like a costume in Chicago. I like the simplicity and consistency, but when I wear it, I know it’s for this project. When I left S.F. it was after a financially and emotionally draining year and a half, and I was convinced the city and I got all we could from each other. So I was surprised at how easily I slipped back into the uniform, how quickly I reassimilated to San Francisco, how...natural it felt. The weather was sunny and warm the entire time I was there (even in the Haight!), and in four days of walking around in just jeans and a t-shirt, I only got two comments, both by cashiers (one Caucasian female, early 20’s and one Middle Eastern male, mid/late 20’s, both who just said “Nice tattoo.”) I got cruised by a mohawked babydyke and a couple of aging hipsters, but for the most part, I was anonymous, which I wasn’t in New Orleans and aren’t in Chicago. I realized that anonymity is one of many things I took for granted about San Francisco; along with the prevalence of extreme body mods to the openness and visibility of various communities. In San Francisco, I can identify as a gender-neutral, polyamorous, queer and be surrounded by people who understand and accept what that means (as well as the fluidity of those designations). Conversely, I’m recognizing that permissiveness can be restrictive. In San Francisco, I was free to just be; I never had to examine what being meant socially, politically, or interpersonally, or how those identifiers function outside insular communities. Now, you bet your ass I am.
There's more I've been thinking of on these topics, but I gotta clock out and meet my old roommate for coffee.
For the eight years I lived in SF, I mostly wore the unisex uniform above, which is a simple way of adapting to microclimates in a relatively temperate region. When I moved back down to New Orleans last year, I took a large back pack, abandoning most of my clothes on the back porch of my last apartment. It quickly grew too warm for the ‘uniform’ and I realized skirts and tank tops breathed easily, and I could bike in them. My superpower of ‘Find cool shit on the street’ was turned up to 11, and I’d often discover unexpected vintage treasures on yard sale excursions with my favorite transvestite. An 80 year-old fortune teller gave me some flamenco skirts and crimson lipstick. I quickly amassed a surreal, eclectic wardrobe, which I viewed as reflective of my environment. I truly felt like I was part of the landscape, and was just beginning to learn to live like I was art, every day was theater, and the city was my stage, when I got the letter that brought me to Chicago. I wasn’t ready. When I returned to SF to retrieve my remaining belongings, I left a whiny message with my transvestite southern belle: “My glittery girl drag doesn’t work anymore!” But I was determined to hang on to some of that vibrancy, that freedom I’d tapped into, and came to Chicago in the midst of a heat wave with a wardrobe cobbled together from two different worlds, neither of them working in a world where winter is cold and comes early, where lawns and nails are neatly manicured, and very few houses are purple.
Black jeans and t-shirts feel like a costume in Chicago. I like the simplicity and consistency, but when I wear it, I know it’s for this project. When I left S.F. it was after a financially and emotionally draining year and a half, and I was convinced the city and I got all we could from each other. So I was surprised at how easily I slipped back into the uniform, how quickly I reassimilated to San Francisco, how...natural it felt. The weather was sunny and warm the entire time I was there (even in the Haight!), and in four days of walking around in just jeans and a t-shirt, I only got two comments, both by cashiers (one Caucasian female, early 20’s and one Middle Eastern male, mid/late 20’s, both who just said “Nice tattoo.”) I got cruised by a mohawked babydyke and a couple of aging hipsters, but for the most part, I was anonymous, which I wasn’t in New Orleans and aren’t in Chicago. I realized that anonymity is one of many things I took for granted about San Francisco; along with the prevalence of extreme body mods to the openness and visibility of various communities. In San Francisco, I can identify as a gender-neutral, polyamorous, queer and be surrounded by people who understand and accept what that means (as well as the fluidity of those designations). Conversely, I’m recognizing that permissiveness can be restrictive. In San Francisco, I was free to just be; I never had to examine what being meant socially, politically, or interpersonally, or how those identifiers function outside insular communities. Now, you bet your ass I am.
There's more I've been thinking of on these topics, but I gotta clock out and meet my old roommate for coffee.
Monday, August 24, 2009
8/22-23 0 interactions:
It might've just been a slow weekend, or due to the weather being unseasonably cool I wore a pullover much of the time I was out...I notice even why the tattoos/scarifications aren't visible, I don't get many questions about my ears.
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