The Redstar Perspective

For each of the anniversaries of 9/11, victims’ families and co-workers would gather at Ground Zero and read aloud the 2,700+ names of individuals killed in the terrorist attack on the World Trade Center.  On the Gulf Coast, the devastation of Hurricane Katrina - followed by Rita’s wrath one month later - killed over 1,800 people in Louisiana alone.  The physical and social tragedy and trauma of the 2005 hurricane season also needs to be comemorated and respected; but as one of my colleagues affirmed to room brimming with the energetic commitment of more than 40 organizations devoted to rebuilding their communities: here on the Gulf Coast, most of us are “not dead yet.” 

Not only has the city of New Orleans and the rest of the region not ceased to exist (contrary to the general tone of the anniversary press), but there is a tremendous surge of young leadership coming to the fore to direct long-term change in the region and the nation. On my latest project related to post-hurricane recovery, I have the pleasure and the honor of not only working beyond the boundaries of New Orleans, but with a group of emerging young, mostly African-American leaders from around the country dedicated to rebuilding the Gulf Coast.  From a personal perspective, it’s great working among a group of young thirtysomethings - my peers and a group I hope I’ll be working with and/or watching take the lead in effecting change in our country in the coming years.  From a professional standpoint, this is the group being groomed by the senior statesmen of the social movements of the 1960s and 70s, and the professionalized community development sector that’s grown up out of these movements. 

While our elders from the Civil Rights movement see the fight for equity and inclusion in the Gulf Coast as a resurrection of past struggles, younger leaders are grappling with transforming these past movements to deal with twenty-first century realities.  While the threat of racial and class antipathy and divisiveness is as real as ever, the black-white color line has blurred significantly to include more explicitly the mutual and competitive challenges of other ethnic groups in the U.S., such as the SE Asian immigrant communities that are a large population of the low-income seafood industries along the Gulf Coast in this post-Vietnam era, and the rapidly growing Latino groups around the Gulf Coast due to reconstruction opportunities. 

There is also the tension between movement activism and the professionalized nature of community development work in which many of us have cut our teeth.  To say that there is conflict between the fluid energy of block-by-block organizing and political protest and the need to put on a suit and prepare statements to lobby government leaders would be an understatement.  One of the disappointments of elder movement members is the perceived lack of activism in my generation.  The thirtysomething company I’m keeping would surely feel differently, but we are definitely sorting out how to harness the very leftist and global activism of events like the recent U.S. Social Forum with our advocacy successes such as the Gulf Coast Collaborative’s congressional policy forum held yesterday at Dillard University, an HBCU in New Orleans.

I’m sitting in a coffeeshop in New Orleans right now, with some of these colleagues waiting for the rain to pass so we can carry on with our work today, on the second anniversary of Katrina’s landfall.  Though this week’s media attention is ephemeral, our efforts towards equitable and inclusive economic, social and political development in the Gulf Coast and the nation will carry on for years.  I’ll keep you posted on our efforts, and look to C-Span, BET, and possibly, gasp!, even Oprah for coverage of work here this week.

I received my first birthday wishes from Astrology.com in my Hotmail junk folder this afternoon. 

(Actual date for those whom I have not yet drilled it into their heads: August 26)

From my personology book, re: Virgo I: August 26 - Sept 2, The Week of System Builders

“This period can be likened to the time in a person’s life when the instinct to consolidate and solidify existing structures, marriages or partnerships, businesses, etc. asserts itself…at this time, many individuals take part in service-oriented activities, whether in the family, professional or social life.  The desire to be helpful and to constructively influence the course of events manifests here.”

Some of my favorite excerpts:

“Structure is an important theme in the lives of Virgo I’s, a kind of insurance policy they inevitably fall back on in times of stress. 

Mental insistence and concentration are often their greatest strengths…

Although those born in the Week of System Builders seem to do well living and working with people who know how to cooperate and to share the burdens of everyday life,  it cannot be assumed that they want to be team players.  Virgo I’s need to spend a lot of time alone, and do best when their contributions to the well-being of a social or family group are made on their own terms.

They like to sit back and watch, preferring to observe carefully before acting; this quality of objectivity, and the evaluations that result from it, can make them extremely valuable to a company or family.  Writing reports, stating conclusions verbally, and chronicling in different media what they see around them are often some of their best-developed abilities. 

Virgo I’s tend to be fixed in their mental attitudes, and this is likely to arouse antagonism…

…their best relationships are often with those with whom they can just let go and have a good time. 

Those born in this week may need to free themselves from the constant demands of other people if they are to gain the space they need to develop their own expressive, creative and financially productive side.”

There you have it:  I’m a rigid, intense, antagonistic, reclusive tattling busybody! 

And that’s why You Love Me!

Happy Birthday to ME!

(well wishes accepted through 9/2/07)

(Because astrology is a science…just like Kiehl’s employees are chemists!)

A year ago, ten days before the first anniversary of Hurricane Katrina, I posted a teary, anguished 3 a.m. lament about working in the post-disaster Gulf Coast.  Despite my time in the post-9/11 Lower Manhattan trenches, I wrote:

Nothing yet has prepared me for working in New Orleans.   Were it not for the occasional journal entry, semi-regular blog posts, and long, heartfelt talks with the MAS, by now I’d probably be wandering around the vacant Union Passenger [rail] Terminal in New Orleans, talking to myself and in need of one of the mental health beds that no longer exist in the city or state.  I am grieving.  I am mourning a collective loss of livelihood that is tantamount to the death of a city I never even knew before the storm but have still somehow managed to fall in love with from the few glimpses of its old glory that persist.  I am appalled and reeling, from witnessing a power struggle over the ghosts of these lives – the buildings and other shreds of the neighborhoods that remain – as old and new power elites compete to redevelop a city of their own imagining.  And I am infuriated, and endlessly frustrated by the widespread failure of government and non-profits to channel this energy to where these lives actually endure – in the new cities and homes of the now permanently displaced New Orleanians. 

I’ll have to come back to displacement, and so many issues, later.  A similar post as the second anniversary approaches has been bumping around in my head for awhile.  Sick to my stomach right now on chocolate, cheese, and diet pepsi, I am in the final hour(s) of submitting a summary analysis of papers submitted by local organizations in AL, TX, LA and MS on the state of recovery to date: from affordable housing to mental health to civic engagement to principles of equity and inclusion.  I’ve been mining them since last Friday, and they inspired tears and a picked fight with the M.A.S. Saturday night about People magazine because I was so beat down by the long-road in front of us, and the disgusting injustices unleashed on the same coastal communities - usually of color or low-income means - over and over and over again.  My work has expanded far beyond New Orleans to bridge the common struggles of Gulf communities, and I am as thankful for and overwhelmed by the experience as I was last year when mired in my work in New Orleans.

I have to get back to my edits; this paper is long overdue and was disrupted by my Boston talk last night about the same issues, but I wanted to let you all know that I’m alive (if unshowered and exhausted), and the Gulf Coast is alive, and fighting. 

If you missed this on Friday, check it out, because it’s warm and fuzzy and earned me a much loved call from my cousin Friday night;

This should make you laugh as I stumble my way through a weekend of dog-sitting;

This shows you how life (and dog-sitting) is immeasurably easier with good friends helping you along;

and though it’s less about where you live than who you live with, it definitely helps to know what you like.

When Prof. Zero (you should really read her remarkable blog) posted a favorite cities meme, I thought she put too many parameters around the cities we could nominate.  I was particularly put off by the size requirements, as I’ve come to learn in school how varied cities are in size and scope, not least because the boundaries between cities and suburbs, and urban vs. sub-urban life is rarely as clear as we pretend.  And bigger does not necc. equal more urban.

In response to protests, including mine, she offered up what she called a “self-tagging town meme,” to which I finally responded the other night with a stream-of-consciousness thread of my favorite cities, that included a heavy dose of random memories and specific characteristics that matter to me in cities.

One of the things I love about the M.A.S. is that he and I both look at cities critically and value urban life deeply - mainly, we crave the density, walkability, accessibility and diversity that many cities offer (what is with suburbs and the absolute absence of sidewalks, for instance???).  I believe that if we go through life together, we will be able to live in a variety of places, because I trust our ability to knowledgeably evaluate and recognize if places have the characteristics that we seek at a much deeper level than a schools/taxes/property values equation (though all of that goes into the mix).

Though I hope you’ll read the professor’s posts and my comments, in short, I gave a shout out to:

1) Hartford and economically struggling but ethnically vibrant old NE/MW towns everwhere;

2) Boston, ‘cuz that’s my hood;

3) Krakow, ‘cuz its collegiate, historic and amiable personality - not to mention Krupnik honey liquer - nurtured me through the very dark hours of visiting Auschwitz and Birkenau;

4) New Orleans (though this is more of a love-hate relationship);

and

5) Memphis.

Seattle, Minneapolis, Houston, Bismarck, ND and Vegas (”Adult Disneyland”) got shout outs too.  L.A., London, NYC (public transportation “nirvana”) and Dar are in my big city category.

Cities I could live w/o:

- Chattanooga, though I did find its train-station-sized-airport charming;

- Ft. Worth;

- St. Louis;

- Philly (”somebody else’s Boston”);

- Atlanta.

Of course, there’s no place like home, or my couch, at this moment, for that matter.

What are your favorite cities?  Bonus points for your stories.

While I was sleeping (after a particularly nasty bout of insomnia last night), Weboy posted a lovely homage to my CT life, that is, my mom and stepfather’s waterfront home in Southeastern CT…oh shit, the dog has just thrown up…

(cleaning rug, calling mom for suggestions, wiping up bile off porch)

…Ahem, yes, please see Wesley’s post for the usual tranquility found here, in what I like to consider my mom’s third life, from her upbringing in Dorchester to her raising me in Braintree to this lush and decidedly affluent life along the L.I. Sound.  She’s come a long way, baby.

This weekend, it seems, is my turn to stretch and grow.  Is it feasible to say that baby-sitting two puppies is some sort of test drive for raising children?  Akin to training wheels on a bike?  I’d be less inclined to make the comparison were it only one dog.  Puppies may be a handful, but policing and playing and minding only one seems a lot simpler than two, who have the ability to quickly break off in different directions when trying to round them up out of the backyard, or follow one another’s lead in cachophonous barking at nothing in the driveway when you’re trying to have a work conference call, or zoom up the stairs on to your mother’s white bedspread with paw prints you hope are neither muddy nor wet since you turned the hose on them an hour ago, or steal one another’s bones so that the smaller one is left with none, although he triumphs when the food is set out by immediately gobbling up the hot dogs on top of the dry food before his low-appetite sister even wanders over towards the dish. 

How about trying to understand their noises and weepy glances as they dry heave and you try to get them in and out of the house in time if they might throw up, or trying to reel in their games of tag and wrestling that ricochet from one couch to another, or the chewing up of coasters, hiding of shoes, and tearing through your guest’s laundry while he is out for a run?  How about the fear that if you turn your back for a minute they will somehow vanish from the yard, even though you’ve seen the invisible fence work in the past?  It’s invisible after all, surely there must be a gap in its unseen links, where they can slide through and run up into the street and be immediately flattened by one of those teen drivers who find its curves perfect for driving at excessive speeds?  Perhaps they’ll just wiggle out of their collar and take off, as Weboy narrowly avoided with the littler one, Max, this morning?  How about worrying that the chunker Maggie will be sick again, now that the vet has closed for the afternoon, and is not taking her fluids that you’re trying to force on her and your mother thinks you are a bad parent because she has been through this and knows exactly how to respond?  (”Oh I wish you’d called me earlier…” At 5 am, when the occasional dry heaving began that at noon finally produced an eaten plant?  I had warned her the night before, “I fear I lack control over the domicile.”  Don’t say I didn’t warn you!) 

And though I long to resist getting too nuclear family on you, Weboy and I make our own modern, urban version, two feminist (and one gay) singletons figuring out that I have to pin down the dogs while he turns the hose on their muddy feet after their playing in the rain.  Backing them into the corner of the porch with the threat of the hose on my own would surely have been a lot less effective. 

Everyone once in awhile at home I get these little flashes of domestic bliss, usually when I’ve loaded and run the dishwasher after the M.A.S. has cooked, and he’s moved into the living room while I wipe down the counters before joining him.  And I think to myself: a life of managing a house and family, how dreamy it could be.  I hear and watch my friends who are parents stretch and strain to work, save $$, raise children, spend time with their partners, keep their house in some semblance of soothing order, and enjoy their lives, and I know that my studious observations of their efforts will only minimally prepare me for the stage in my life when my own balancing act grows exponentially more difficult.

This weekend has been the closest glimpse of that yet, commuting long distances between working from home and on conference calls and managing organizational conflicts and quieting the dogs and not losing them and cleaning them and feeding them and making sure Wesley has what he needs and trying to pay attention to the M.A.S. when he calls to check in and returning phone calls and cleaning up after dinner (Weboy cooked) and walking the dogs and trying to go to sleep knowing another day is in store but reveling in the silent solitude in bed with a great book way too late in the night until I can’t sleep because I know the dogs are used to getting up at 5 am with my mom now only 2 hours away and reading and reading and walking the dogs and leaving Wesley a note that he’s on morning duty and finally going to sleep around 6am and getting back up at 11:30 am.  Nuts?  I agree.

And they are only puppies.  And my mom will be home in 2 hours.

…CBS’s reality show Kid Nation “draws a claim of possible child abuse.”

Some of my favorite excerpts from the NYT article:

CBS officials say they broke no laws. “We feel very comfortable that this was appropriate from a legal point of view,” Ghen Maynard, the executive vice president for alternative programming at CBS, said in an interview Friday.

Tom Forman, the executive producer of the show, told television writers last month…that New Mexico had been chosen because Bonanza Creek [Movie Ranch] offered a unique setting. New Mexico also had no specific regulations concerning the use of child actors in television and film production, which many states, including California and New York, do have.

[…] Though many states limit the number of hours children can work a day on television productions, Mr. Forman said the children set their own hours.

Mr. Anschell also said that state labor laws did not apply. “The children were not employed under the legal definition,” he said. “They were not receiving set wages for performing specific tasks or working specific hours.”

But the parents were told before the children left to go to the set that they would receive a $5,000 stipend for their participation. The children also had the opportunity to earn [up to] $20,000 […]. In addition, the children were assigned tasks and were paid for those with buffalo nickels, which they could then use to buy items at a dry-goods store or a candy shop or to buy drinks at a root beer saloon.

Nevertheless, Mr. Anschell said, “those were not wages and did not create an employee relationship.”

The children’s definition of work is somewhat different. “Everyone usually had a job,” said Mike, an 11-year-old from Bellevue, Wash., who participated in the show. Among them were cooking, cleaning, hauling water and running the stores […]

Never mind the kids’ bleach-drinking incident or one little girl’s grease burns from cooking.

Tune in this fall!!

According to BostonMaggie’s Levels of Boston Irishness, I’m mint green:

Mint Green: Moved out of the city as a kid. Either has a government job or knows someone who does, especially cops. Likes a pint, but around the age of 30 developed a taste for Jameson’s. MP3 player is full of Dropkick Murphys and The Saw Doctors. Drinks in suburban places with neon shamrocks in the window. Hopes to visit the Auld Sod someday,but is saving for Disney. Might know someone who can get you off jury duty.

I’d venture to say my mint green roots have grown substantially intertwined with the bright blue of Brandeis and the pinstriped New Yorkers I’ve met over the years. This would explain why Zero 7 and Jill Scott crowd out the modern Irish bands in the iPod.  (And let’s not overlook the reddish-yellow tint I’ve picked up from all the foreign spice consumption in my past!). 

As for the drinking, hopefully the Irish bars of Brighton Center will have to suffice. 

Though I’m pretty sure I’m related by degrees to folks who can get you off jury duty.
Via.

Bostonist takes the chance to heckle MIT in celebrating Northeastern’s computer scientists that have managed to solve Rubik’s Cube in only 26 moves, a new record. 

Chalk one up for Northeastern, who’s been working overtime on climbing the coveted U.S. News and World Report ranks, incl. by firing faculty no longer considered prestigious enough for the university since they lack PhDs. 

Perhaps in this they could learn some sure-fire strategies on cleaning house from MIT: on June 30, 2007, we changed the locks on former BE Prof. James Sherley’s lab:

Peter C. Dedon, associate director of the BE Department, said that it was unfortunate Sherley had to be locked out of his laboratory but that it is “the way things are done.”

Brutal.  I’ve written in the past my views on the Sherley case, which remain unchanged despite the ruckus generated by disengenous behavior on both sides (though I’ve not been vociferous enough that the Institute has a major problem on its hands that its reputation lends itself perfectly to charges of bias and discrimination).  Indeed, the purpose of this post was hardly to chirp about institutional bias and politics.

Rather, the Rubik’s announcement followed a fun little debate I had at dinner last night with a visiting PhD from George Mason in VA and his brother, a PhD in CompSci from Northeastern.  Our GMU friend wanted us to rank Boston universities in order of reputation, which immediately devolved into whether Harvard or MIT had greater global recognition.  While it irks me to no end that visitors to Boston go out of their way to visit Harvard and Harvard Sq., my NU friend was on my side in pointing out that MIT enjoys its own global fan treks, especially large groups from E. Asia (though I did give directions to the dome to a little old lady from Russia who’d, upon arriving in Boston, made sure to set aside an afternoon to visit the infamous MIT).  We concluded that the countries in which technical degrees are highly esteemed - e.g., India, China, S. Korea, Russia - MIT is the nirvana of higher education. 

And given the chunk of the world’s population that comprises these nations, we concluded that MIT indeed might surpass that other Cambridge university’s clout. 

Translating that brand recognition into endowment $$, now that’s another story. 

Note: Robin Leach will return next week as the host of of Lifestyles of the Smart & Famous.

Because we’re “wired, well-educated, and obsessed with politics.” Bostonist counters that it’s our Sox obsession crowding out those other chatterbox cities. 

In honor of these latest accolades, some news from around the Hub:

• GOP pres. candidate and former Gov. Mitt Romney apparently owns stock in YES, the Yankees network in New York.  Though there’s no love lost between the former pol and Massholes over his depiction of our lovely state as an “old fling he had, that doesn’t really mean anything,” now, it’s official: he’s dead to us.

• The opening of at least the 5th Dunkin’ Donuts in Brighton (I’ve got to be way too low on this estimate; anyone know the actual #?) dwarfs them all with its giant inflatable coffee cup that’d put any Anheiser-Busch-South-Boston-St. Patrick’s Day-parade inflatable Bud Light can to shame.  Brighton Centered nominates the new DD the “ugliest new business in Brighton.”   

• The latest in Boston’s best kosher food is out;

• Belated news flash for the unwashed public: the state hates you and wants to take away your phat ride, I mean, the T.  Rising resentment over crappy, inadequate trolleys and buses brings new meaning to the term road rage in Boston.  At least we’re all in agreement: the T blows.

Finally,

• BC hates its neighbors.  The feeling’s mutual.

This one’s for Tergie, who just gave notice at his firm today. 

If we haven’t written about it, Amy and I have definitely discussed our love of pharmacy shopping, where a run in for tissues easily turns into a 45 minute aisle exploration for the latest toner, vitamin (Virgos), or shampoo.  On Monday, my colleague in the Gulf texted me about getting on a conf. call, and I sheepishly texted back, “I’m in Target right now!  How about in an hour?”  A minute later my phone rang, with her laughing on the other end about how Target was her secret shopping haven, where she could run in for some household stuff and pick up a cute $10 shirt on her way out.

But, honestly, the place where I know before I even get there that I’ll be parting with my money is Marty’s Liquors in Newton.  Gourmet foods, most liquors known to tipplers worldwide, tastings (food, beer, wine), bands, parking, what more could any local diversity-oriented, T-loathing Irish lass want? 

With one of my girls in town this weekend from D.C., I headed over there around 3 this afternoon to pick up some vodka, knowing I should have a list in hand to at least try to avoid the luxurious aisle wandering for cheeses, wines, Krupnik (Polish honey liquer - and no, it’s STILL not in!), Dogfish Head 90 minute ale (or is it 60 minute, I wondered?  It’s 90 minute.), pomegranate juice, lemons, limes, truffles, proscuitto…the varied and sundried list goes on and on.  Seriously, when I was there last fall buying up the entire store for the M.A.S.’s birthday party, the check-out guy - after scanning my purchases - asked me if I was part of the OTHER New Orleans/Swedish themed party going on that weekend.  Two in one weekend in the Greater Metrowest Boston area!  And believe me, Marty’s has everything you need. 

Except, perhaps, designated drivers.

Have a good weekend everyone!

that in my next life I want to come back as a demographer?

(I’m going to need all 8 additional lives, because I’d like to also be an E/R doc, a travel agent, and at least 5 other things that escape me at the moment.)

In the interim, I’ll just have to covet William Frey’s job at Brookings.  His latest:

The new minority-majority counties in the United States:

nonwhites now make up a majority in almost one-third of the most-populous counties in the country and in nearly one in 10 of all 3,100 counties.  The shift reflects the growing dispersal of immigrants and the suburbanization of blacks and Hispanics pursuing jobs generated by whites moving to the fringes of metropolitan areas.

Of course, Hurricane Katrina warrants her own mention in our changing national demographics of the 21st century:

Black populations declined in metropolitan New Orleans, San Francisco, Los Angeles, San Diego and New York. The biggest numerical gains were in Atlanta (370,470), Houston (142,364), Dallas (130,367), Miami (126,819) and Washington (114,915).

The growth in Atlanta, Houston and Dallas was attributed in part to survivors of Hurricane Katrina moving to those cities. The highest growth rates among Asian populations were in metropolitan Napa, Calif., and Ocala, Naples, Cape Coral and Port St. Lucie, Fla. The greatest numerical increases were in New York (309,773), Los Angeles (216,987), Washington (105,390), San Francisco (103,073) and Chicago (93,237).

Metropolitan Phoenix; Atlanta; Dallas; Houston; Las Vegas; Austin, Tex.; Charlotte; Portland, Ore.; and Raleigh, N.C., each recorded gains in non-Hispanic whites of more than 100,000 since 2000. The largest losses were registered by metropolitan New York (248,422), Los Angeles (193,109), San Francisco (127,151) and New Orleans (111,162).

(my emphases)

In our fair, chilly region here, the metro area defined as “Boston-Cambridge-Quincy, MA/NH” (eh??) remains a majority white area, at 79% of the overall population.  Of course, once that is broken down into Boston as a central city vs. the suburbs, the picture is different.  Boston is roughly 50% non-hispanic white (as of the 2000 census, we were a minority-majority city, but it seems no longer), and the outerlying ‘burbs are 83% white.

I guess it’ll be some time before we pick up the coveted “Melting Pot” status, despite our African-American governor, gay marriage laws, and fact that immigration accounts for the majority of Boston et al.’s population growth (125K in the last five years, compared to 218K in residential out migration).   At least Mass. cracked the Top 10 in foreign-born residents.

Classification is fun!!

…and I’ll show you my grad school loans. 

While down in MS last week, the mainstream media and blogosphere were carrying on without me about new urban wage trends between women and men.  (The article offers shout outs to many popular NYC urbanists; wahoo “famous” academics!)

If you missed this: the median wages of women ages 21-30 exceed those of men in several large cities in the U.S., incl. Dallas, NYC, and Boston.  Factors in why this is the case incl.:

- the higher number of women graduating from college than men;

- the higher percentage of women in urban areas than men;

- the single, childless status of many of these young women (see here, here and around this blog for more on the motherhood penalty);

- women choosing and building careers earlier than men in response to the lurking biological clock;

- and women’s contemporary freedom to choose their careers and locations vs. subordinating these decisions to their husband’s. 

What’s also remarkable about the stats in this article is how men’s real wages have sharply declined in the last 35 years, while women’s have held or grown (modestly) in the same period.  (The comparative wages in NYC over the three decades also point to the city’s rising affluence overall.)

The full study is here.  Unsurprisingly, it’s not yet cause for those long-anticipated visits to male strip clubs where we can tuck all our newly earned excess wages into their g-strings. 

Turns out that college educated women’s median wages are still only 89% of men’s in NYC, and 82% nationwide.  Also, the jobs cited in NY where men continue to outearn women are both a) feminine-gendered professions (e.g., nurse, teacher, bank teller), and b) within greater reach in terms of education (namely, cost and access) for the general population than many of the professions in which women have surpassed men, such as doctor, architect, economist, and lawyer.  In sum, women are still earning less than men even though they tend to outnumber them dramatically in the sector, and, more importantly, it’s women’s achievement in particular advanced degree programs and career paths that have pushed their median earnings past men.  Indeed, though we’ve been attending college in higher numbers than men since 1980, the wage gap between college-educated women and men has shrunk by only 6% in the last 25 years.  The study also points out the now common trend of rising income inequality according to educational status.

Less than 30% of U.S. workers have a college degree.  If MIT is any indication, and I believe it is, tuition is rising about 5% per year.  While I’m totally jazzed that young women in the city are raking it in, gender and class parity in earnings, opportunity and life chances remains disappointingly bleak and moving in the wrong direction. 

I’d call up my own rock star female friends in NY for a celebratory drink on their behalf, and a strategy session on how to reverse the broader trend towards inequality, but we’re all past 30, they’re moms now, and definitely nursing some battle scars in the on-going fight for gender equity  (Manhattan is the only borough where men’s median earnings are higher than women’s).

When I was growing up, my mom and I lived in a 2 family house, downstairs from my aunt and uncle and, occasionally, my cousins.  My uncle was born in 1954, which is right around when I think I should have born (I’ve long maintained I was born 20 years too late; my penchant for disco is only one of many indicators).  He and I take mutual pleasure in doing a whole lot of nothin’ (pw) whenever we can, and enjoy a much easier affection for one another now than we did when I was a teenager and he was into instructing my boyfriend to take his hat off inside and trying to compel me to shovel the driveway when it snowed. 

Of the many, many hippie record albums my uncle had at home was at least one by the band Ten Years After.  The name flashed back to me last week when my cousin Jane called me to shriek that she was moving to New York City and officially assuming my role as the family urbanista. 

Ten years ago this month, I moved into my first “adult” apartment on the Upper East Side.  Beginning next month, Jane and her entourage (she may call them friends) take hold of a converted 4BR duplex about 10 blocks from there. 

The maturity implied in the use of the word “adult” is contrasted by the vision I have of my then college boyfriend and I driving my stuff into Manhattan from my mom’s house in CT.  In exchange for his help, he got to drive my stepfather’s Mercedes into the city while I chugged down the highway in the U-Haul.  I can still see him zooming past me on the Bruckner towards the tolls and FDR and Manhattan beyond, his seat reclined low and his hat pulled down over his eyes as he flew by.  I remember nagging him to ensure that the U-Haul was locked up tight when we finally parked it for the night on the street two blocks over, only to discover that in failing to double check the Mercedes, we’d left it unlocked overnight.  (Of course, this was mid-way through Guiliani’s “clean up” of the city, and the UES to boot).  My apartment echoed in those first days, barely filled with my pompasan chair and futon, though I still managed to make comfortable the 15 or so of us who celebrated my 22nd birthday there a few nights later.

And now, I e-mail my college girls-turned-moms living in the city and we laugh at our memories of the UES and our twenty-something lives as Jane and her friends gear up for their own. 

Meanwhile, down the street from me now lives a gentleman I like to refer to as “Uncle Neighbor,” perhaps better known to you all as the M.A.S.  That’s right, the M.A.S. has moved to Brighton (the M.A.S. became an uncle right around the time he found the apartment nearby; sometimes I like to add “Dirty” before “Uncle Neighbor,” but that’s probably better left out of the blogosphere.)  Though Brighton enraptures us with its own urban appeal, I noticed tonight how far past my younger, wetter, whirlwind NYC days I now am, as I heard myself calling out to the M.A.S. whether we wanted a salad too when ordering a pizza for pick-up to our little (multi-unit) domestic haven.  Earlier, I’d been disappointed to realize I forgot batteries today at Target and thus couldn’t immediately program the universal remote I bought for his apartment.  (I have time, given his couch doesn’t arrive until Friday.)

Later this week another cherished friend I’ve known for the last 12 years arrives for a visit, husband and toddler in tow.  Though I just saw her in DC, our last real catch up was on the phone when I was last in New Orleans, lamenting my weight gain while shopping for sunscreen.  She gently yet correctly confirmed that yes, it probably was my happy relationship that was making me fat, and we both sighed at the harsh, domesticated reality of aging (of course, she also has the pregnancy to blame!).

Fortunately, I can now live vicariously through Jane, which, no doubt, makes the accompanying twenty-something heartaches and hangovers a lot easier to bear.

Apparently, if you google “the shittiest year of your life”, my first blog post about Jamaica pops up third.

Awesome.

Given he takes issue with South Asians living together as roommates in suburban New Jersey: 

“You buy a house and you’re a family, you expect families to live around you,” explained John E. McCormac, the mayor of Woodbridge, a central New Jersey township of nearly 100,000 residents. “We’re a community of single-family residential streets. We should stay that way.”

No doubt if he’d once worn the proud maroon and gold and screamed his drunken head off cavorting around Brighton after 2 a.m., he might have a little more empathy for these alleged “rooming houses.” 

Meanwhile, municipalities watch New Haven issue city id’s in an effort to incorporate illegal immigrants into society.  A little more lovin’, a little less hatin’, now that’s what I like to see. (In the ‘burbs outside New Haven, folks continue to bitch.)

My neighbors.

Where I am languishing now, at Gate D26 in the ATL airport, where I arrived with the lofty hope of boarding my Delta flight to Gulfport on time and without incident.  I even booked myself a 2 hour layover - as compared to my minimizing my transfer times in my down-to-a-science Boston-New Orleans trips - to account for any delays out of Logan.  Since I’ve been here, I’ve read two chapters of The Truly Disadvantaged, had some lunch, walked around, bought a ginger ale, checked my email, talked to the M.A.S., and now, finally, am blogging.  But still, no boarding, no flight, no arrival, no Gulfport. 

Over at NYC Weboy (ignore his posturing in the comments to the post below this one), I’ve expounded at length on avoiding the Philly airport, where timetables go to die.  Atlanta is no better, in fact, may be far worse.   In my few trips through here, it is typically complete chaos.  But I rarely connect through this place in my New England/Gulf Coast commuting life, whereas US Airways is constantly trying to throw Philly into the mix of the airports I regularly fly through.  One of the benefits of a freelance/student life is that I can structure my travel to avoid the busiest hours, and flying midday avoids both the crowds and provides me some internet-free solitude when I actually get some academic reading and writing done.  I knew my 1130 am flight out of Boston would likely happen without incident, and I was hoping a little ole flight to Gulfport might sneak through usual melee of overbooked flights and gates. 

Silly, silly me. 

I’m delayed an hour and counting, and fortunately have 100 pages to go in my book, and another one on standby (ha!) in my bag, along with an in-case-of-emergencies Elle magazine. 

There’s a toddler across the aisle from me, and he’s just starting to whimper now.  Awesome.