Daytrip

 

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Every once in a while, usually when I’m feeling like the kind of person I’d like to hang out with, or sometimes when I’m blue, I indulge in a quiet Saturday afternoon date with myself and go alone to the movies. On this particular Saturday in Buenos Aires, I choose to venture out to the Arteplex cinema in Belgrano, far on the other side of the city. Because it is quite a journey and looking a bit like rain, instead of biking I decide to do a combination of city transit, taking the 141 bus to Plaza Italia and then the Subte out to Congreso, the last stop on the D-line.

 

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Clown boards bus bearing beat-up guitar. His attire is accurate but filthy: high-waisted, green plaid pants sag from suspenders above exposed, flip-flopped feet. Gnarled, cracked, crusty dirt-brown feet—too brown to match hands on guitar. White face-paint grayish with traffic grime suggests several days of wear. Circle around clown features reveals outer regions of naked face: high forehead, steel-wool hair awry, pushed back with headband sprouting sad, plastic flower which may or may not squirt tears. He lays his pitch on us, monotone and sad, as if way more skeptical than his audience.

Damas y caballeros, and especially all you kids (there were none on the bus), I’ve come to brighten your day. Hope you’re all having fun. Pardon the bother, I’ll just sing a ditty or two. Brought my whole band along (shows us his harmonica as he anchors it around his neck). Yes, we’re a one-man band. Again, please pardon the intrusion, hope you enjoy the show, then I’ll be right on my way, chicos.”

I kick myself for not bringing my iPod. Then again, he does seem to be taking his whole act very seriously with all the preparations and is entirely consistent with the sadness concept, I’ll give him that. And I also have to admit that blasting my headphones to drown out all nuisances around me in recent months is taking its toll on my hearing. Perhaps it’s best to give the man a chance.

Guitar rings true, rockabilly sound, voice channeling Elvis, deep, wide like an unpolluted river of pure sound. Disconcerting, real concert. Sounds like English, but not quite. More like that video of What English Sounds Like to Non-English Speakers—the one where the only decipherable word is “squirrel”. The phonetics are all right, the intonation, pauses in the natural places, only the words are not quite words. They are a melodious approximation. Then the harmonica jumps in: in and out chuffing blues, Memphis on a bus in Buenos Aires.

“Thank you very much (no longer Elvis). That was one from the archives. Traveling across the ocean back to my origins, now we’ll visit Italy.”

I have no idea what song he’s belting out in Italian, but at least he seems to be getting the language right on this one. It feels authentically 1950s Mediterranean, like something Marcelo sang to Sofia. On a Vespa. All pencil-thin pants, loafers no socks and cleavage. By the time I get to this image, I realize I’ve been hauled into the music, completely sold on it, but having a really hard time with the clown act. The 141 show takes a bow, passes his hat, I give him a fiver and almost tell him, “Lose the make-up, it’s distracting, have some self-respect. You are amazing.” Almost.

 

II

I exit the bus right after it turns off Scalabrini Ortiz and onto Santa Fe. I am at the gate of the Botanical Gardens, an abiding memory of the first time I ever came to Buenos Aires. I was a tourist then. I check my watch and decide I have time for a walk through. No longer a tourist, like people who live in cities with Eiffel towers or Empire State buildings, I have relegated these gardens to the category of places for visitors who stroll with their hands clasped behind their backs, gazing around with half-smiles and taking-it-all-in blank expressions on their faces. I have never understood the hands behind the back.

Like so many places in Buenos Aires, these gardens are a relic of the city’s glorious past, a lush piece of turn-of-the-20th-century landscaping and statuary—a reminder that this level of sophistication was once the norm. In a way it is a time capsule. But then again, I don’t come here often enough and perhaps things are not quite encapsulated. Today what I first see are fathers and little boys, enthusiastically pulling on hands to take them to see carnivorous plants. Couples on benches, legs stretched out, ankles crossed, intimately reading side by side. Venus rising out of a litter-free pond of lilies, so serene, I make a mental note to come back and sketch her. A path that pulls me along, leading me to ground-level vats teeming with strange, snaking aquatic plants. Down and around I come up behind the main building, see Saturnalia snapped in mid-action, preserved in bronze—a worthy welcome committee for visitors to the tiny, children’s green library on the back corner of the red-bricked Victorian visitor’s center. The library has a carpet of believable faux grass and I imagine the books on its shelves are filled with stories of plants, sustainable ways, garden fairies, forts made of fallen trees and discarded bits of this and that—a reason to come back another day, sit on the grassy rug reading children’s green lit and spend the whole afternoon exploring the silent wonder of these gardens. Today time is running short: I have a movie to catch.

 

III

I step out of these imaginings and onto the subway platform at Plaza Italia. Just as the doors are closing, a young man struggles to get on with a keyboard and speaker on a cart. Top right forearm riddled with scars on scars, not accidental—intentional, random, mean razorblade hatch-marks. My brain cannot conjure the horror of their origin, so I look at his face instead: protruding front teeth, freshly scarred upper lip, maybe from a punch, or maybe just a skateboard accident. The braces on his teeth are somehow in disharmony with all his broken parts; braces mean fixing, future, caring. Then too, he is clean and neatly dressed, so someone cares.

He removes the keyboard from the trolley and places it on the subway floor. It is a mirror of himself: cracked, patched, duct-taped. And amplified. He plugs in and flops down on the floor, not on his knees: butt on the floor, legs splayed at odd angles to one side like a kid about to play with his Legos. He fully occupies the space in front of the doors, making it impossible for anyone to enter or exit and further highlighting his blatant, genuine lack of shame. He starts to play and everything else fades to black in that moment. Bach, Beethoven, flawless Rachmaninoff flying over the keys. On the floor, on a beat-up plastic Yamaha, brandishing scars on the D-line to Congreso. This is Buenos Aires.

I have to get off even though I’d rather continue. I give him a much bigger tip than the clown, not because he deserved more—half of it was my guilt for not giving the clown more, for not having openly congratulated either of them for their talent, for not thanking them for the music. But mostly for presuming they’d be too loud, too predictable, too hard to drown out, too in my face. Perhaps someone will make a movie about the countless characters like these on public transit in Buenos Aires. Because sometimes you set off on a quiet solo trip to the cinema not wanting to be disturbed only to discover that what happens along the way is a story worth telling.

 

 

 

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Big Fat F

imagesI remember the first one c. 1977. It was a 5th-grade social studies test. There was a bonus question: Who was Gary Gilmore? I shared my superior knowledge of current affairs and the dark return of capital punishment in the US with my classmate, Kelly Chaney, by a subtle shift of my test in her direction. From her angle, my answer of ‘He got executed’ must have looked more like ‘Head of the executive,’ because that’s what she wrote. Whether the teacher actually saw us cheating or just guessed from that preposterous answer, we were both rewarded with a big zero of a grade. These details stand out in my memory as a turning point on my previously flawless academic record, not to mention criminal history. But it was mainly the trauma of the failing grade and subsequent shock and awe treatment from my parents. None of us were prepared for failure.

I also remember the first and only year my own children went to a US public school in 2002. Things had changed. There were regular school awards ceremonies throughout the year, in which certificates the likes of Best Attendance, Best Teacher’s Helper, Most Considerate, Snappiest Dresser, Top Animal Lover, Cleanest Hands, etc. were conferred so as to leave no one out, everyone a winner at something even if they didn’t make honor roll. By the end of kindergarten, the overt praise started to feel a little like a sticky, drippy lollipop you just don’t want to hold anymore. If I had had a hard time dealing with a bad grade for cheating back in Mrs. Stanley’s class, what in the world would these kids be prepared for after 12 years of institutional ego waxing on top of the ramped-up academic expectations? Still, even though I can rattle on about how out of whack this all is with the real world, and in fact have left my country in search of a kinder, gentler –ok, messier—reality for my kids, of course I still expect them to get good grades.

Flash forward to the present: They barely manage to pass many of their school subjects and some not even. I have not so much come to terms with this as resigned myself to it kicking and screaming. Because, based on my experience, school is supposed to work as follows: You attend class, do the assignments, do your homework, study for tests in whatever way works for you (for me it was in Cyndi and Kristi Palmer’s closet atop a pile of clothes, smoking cigarettes with the door closed; for mine the pile of clothes remains, cigarettes replaced by 12 open chat windows, tweets, likes and the essential scanner for note sharing) and your grades should reasonably reflect these efforts, right? Only the very unfortunate few actually fail. There were no F’s (other than the one for cheating) in my social circle. So how can it be that my kids and any number of their friends fail subjects at the end of the year?

The fact is they are not some of those very unfortunate few; they are part of the unfortunate many who seem to almost take it in stride here. My best approach to rationalizing it is semantics. Because llevarse una materia doesn’t mean failure as much it does ‘not yet passing’ or schlepping the subject along with you until you manage to pass it. We no longer make vacation plans in Dec. because of the likelihood that they’ll have to take extra exams; and if they don’t manage to pass then, they get yet another chance in Feb. right before the next school year starts in the southern hemisphere, pretty much leaving the entire summer in limbo and impossible to plan. As if it weren’t still a major challenge for me to plan ‘summer’ in December as it is (I repeatedly refer to January as July). So I go about the business of searching for the relativity factor in all this, unraveling my previously stated view on the universal way of school, grades, etc., and try to understand it in context. After all, failure is a harsh, heavy word. Maybe it’s a hemispheric thing, maybe it’s the water. Or maybe it’s just me.

I have a problem with failure. It’s all wrapped up in competition. Although I get a sense of solidarity when talking to other local (and to wit, unfazed) parents about how many subjects their teenagers have to retake this summer, my sense of competition takes over when the subject comes up with my own parents or friends outside Argentina. Their kids are all busy overachieving, becoming honor students, taking AP classes, etc., while mine and many of their classmates can’t manage to pass math. The competitive thing gets in the way. I shut down, change the subject, can’t deal with the f-word.

But here’s the thing. There is very little coddling or micro-management of students at the school my little slackers attend. No tracking, no phone calls home from the teacher because they’ve slipped from an A to a B, no neatly quantifiable assessment of academic performance. They are expected to figure out how to study and process loads of content in 13 subjects, very few grades factor into their averages and no grade-curving. If they are lacking any single element teachers consider fundamental to their subject by the end of the year, they will likely not pass. Heavily subjective, but it is what it is. Sink or swim. Who the hell ever heard of failing art or music? Welcome to the schools of the UBA (University of Buenos Aires). Thank god they have multiple opportunities to finally pass. And who knows, maybe along the way, students learn something about falling into a pit and how to figure their way out. In my experience, this is what life serves up on a regular basis long after school is done.

I am presently in my own process of digging my way out of this confounded notion I have of what a bad grade means, and feeling like I’m getting a glimpse of light coming from above. I am pretty convinced that the time invested in academics, sports and other varieties of competition leaves scarce room for students in the US to fail but not be considered a failure. Argentina is a messy, frustrating and in some ways broken-down place, but Argentines do manage to scramble their way out of crisis after crisis. Crossing my fingers that my kid will reap copious benefits from having failed Latin and Math this year and spent a summer learning how to pass them. Tomorrow we’ll find out.

Set Your Alarm for 5am (Parents’ Guide to BA Teenagers)

After seeing way too many looks of horror on the faces of friends as I casually mention what my teenagers do on a typical weekend night out, I am reminded of the stages along the way to reaching my current state of zen. So for expat parents of kids who will soon be moving on to secondary school in Buenos Aires, here’s the lowdown on what to expect outside of school.

Year 1: Your still cherubic 13-yr-old will at some point this year ask to be allowed to go to a matinee. Strike down immediately any inclination to inquire as to whether it’s an afternoon film or play; it is not. Matinees are essentially kiddy night clubs that run from 8-12pm, don’t sell alcohol (supposedly), no one over 16 allowed in (ditto). There will likely be much online debate among members of your class parent list as to the potential evils of these places and you will get first glimmers of other parents’ true colors. Seize this opportunity to identify: the slackers, who always let their kids go out, no questions asked and never volunteer to drive; the clueless ones (most) waiting to go along with the group consensus; the detectives, who try to ascertain which kids are lying about the venue by comparing stories; and the die-hards who make grand statements smacking down the mere idea of discussing the subject in the first place: My daughter will not go to a matinee, a disco or around the corner to the kiosko until she’s 18! (Now you know who to avoid.) Whoever you are, face the fact that you will give in at some point and let them go. Find out which matinees have the best rep and take the hurdle, pool with the other cool parents for drop-offs and pick-up times. Welcome to high school.

Year 2: The Fiestas de Quince. Having grown out of the matinees (so soon – no one over 14 ever goes!), not to worry, they don’t get to graduate to full-on after-hours clubs quite yet. You are saved this year by the endless chain of fiestas de quince, each so special yet essentially the same as the last one. I’ll spare you yet another description of these ubiquitous affairs, other than to say that even though they last all night long, at least the grandparents are present, not to mention the rest of the family. So not much to worry about in the middle of the night other than possible sugar coma from the mesa dulce that usually premieres sometime around 4am. Your parent taxi services are, however, still required this year, so get used to setting your Saturday alarm for 5am. Nearly every weekend. And sometimes twice. As with all ostentation, by the end of the year, the kids are mostly bored to distraction with the pomp and gluttony and feel no shame at going to sleep in the muck on the floor under a table. Good preparation for what is to come next year. (I should point out that it is allowable to break with tradition on the quinceañeras and do your own thing. We rented a music venue, put on a concert and sent everyone home by 2am. By all accounts, it was one of the most memorable parties of the year; they didn’t even complain about the cakes not having dulce de leche.)

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Year 3: Brace yourself. The fact is those all-night parties last year had an ulterior motive: to lay the foundations for the Argentine notion that all fun happens between midnight and 6am (only the extended family is no longer welcome). Having gone through my own high school years with a 12pm curfew, adapting to this schedule felt downright scandalous but with a curious element of transgression against one’s own aging parents… When it comes to your kids, if the late hours of the fiestas de quince were a stretch for you, third year fun and games require deep-breathing exercises and a huge dose of faith. The key shift is that, while they stuck with their classmates in previous years, they now socialize with the older students. Sex, drugs, rock ’n roll, baby. They start the year asking to go to previas (pre-parties) at relatively reasonable hours (10-2am), always at private homes but rarely with adult presence. This is the point at which you can start worrying about drinking, a happy stroll down your own seedy memory land. The good news is it takes them a couple of months to muster the courage to request the all-night pass and carry on at the real parties that kick in after the previas, so they actually come home by a reasonable 1 or 2am, meaning you might still be awake enough to hold their heads over the toilet.

However, they will not settle long for the mere pre-party, so onwards and upwards: after-hours bashes at rented venues, where the kids organize and serve bar and who knows what else. Interestingly, they also hire security and, in an effort to control ticket-sales and avoid over-crowding, do not allow anyone to re-enter once they’ve left the venue. And I am told that drug consumption is pretty limited, at least among the public school crowd, for a simple reason: no money. (This small fact was a light-bulb moment for me, given my very recent efforts at trying to procure summer work for my own kids so they’d learn the value of work/money, control their own expenses, blah blah blah, the standard US approach. Working while still in high school just to earn “spending” money is uncommon in Argentina; kids go to school, study, hang out, do what they do, but most don’t work for money unless they have to. Ergo, very limited buying power. Flip-side: One way to look at drug consumption among US teens.)

Once you’ve accepted this is their night life for the remainder of high school and decided to trust in the decency and good sense of Argentine youth, your next hurdle is how to deal with the comings and goings at insane hours of the madrugada. You will probably, like we did, succumb to your parental instinct to sacrifice your own sleep, texting throughout the night to track their movements and then stumbling out to your car in your slippers in the pre-dawn glow to pick them up from some warehouse on a street you’ve never heard of in Barracas or Chacarita or Parque Patricios… and it will all be fine. And you will soon realize it’s OK to let them just take the bus to the party because they always travel in herds, and find yourself a good remisero or reliable taxi service to bring them home. And you’ll wake up several times during the night the first few times, but then you won’t because you’ve reached nirvana and now trust them to make the right choices.

Which brings me back to kindergarten… A very wise kindergarten teacher once taught my kids the value of making good choices. I can still hear them repeating that line in their 5-yr-old voices to each other. Sounds simple, but it is actually the key to being a good parent and is not so simple. Because it means your kid is the one who has to learn to make those choices and the only way for them to do that is for you to shut up and let them. It requires a mountain of trust.

What I have come to know about Argentine teenagers: They genuinely look out for each other; they travel in large groups; they have a tradition of ripping up their uniforms and covering themselves in rainbows of paint on the last day of school; they are surprisingly organized when it comes to their own fun; they make their own music; the boys like to cook more than the girls; they have strict codes of honor; they care about politics; if they trash your house, they also clean it up with mops and brooms in the haze of dawn. What’s not to trust?

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(Sorry not to include years 4-5, but not there yet and even so, it wouldn’t matter. By this point, you will have either reached acceptance or decided to bail out and take them to some first world suburb where they have smartboards at school and everyone comes home by midnight.)

I Am, therefore I Do

DSCN2346Just the other day I got a kiss and congratulations on an arguably un-momentous occasion: the purchase of a new car. The kudos came from the guy who keeps watch in our parking garage. He came out of his booth, gave me a big smile and warm felicitaciones. It was a genuine sentiment and made my day, not because I thought congrats were in order, but because he did. That is just the kind of person he is—the “to be” kind rather than the “to do” kind. He’s Paraguayan. A few years ago he shaved his prematurely thinning hair and actually looks much better as a bald guy. He wears nice clothes and is always in a good mood. What he does (sit in a booth in a dingy parking garage) in no way defines who he is.

My first exposure to life in a “to be” culture was in Spain. After moving there, the more people I met, the more it became apparent that nobody was asking the standard ‘What do you do?’ question. Ever. They asked about how I liked the food (Spaniards loooove to talk about food), why we had decided to move there, how the kids were adapting, if I had tried the gambas yet, but never ‘What do you do?’ Spaniards place you immediately in their own social context. Which, by the way, revolves around food. The experience of being around Argentines has been similar. Even more so than in Spain, Argentines want to know how you feel, if you miss home, your family, your friends, etc. And they are particularly keen to know your where your fútbol loyalties lie. Because for them, what team you’re on is key; for Argentines, interpersonal relationships and a sense of community are a big part of who they are. I would even venture to say that people in both these countries might consider it rude to ask about a person’s profession right away in the sense that it would be seen as a cold and impersonal question. At the very least, it feels awkward to me now to ask this question.

Googling around for interesting research on “to be” vs. “to do” cultures, I surprisingly didn’t come up with much. There’s this, which I think gives a pretty limited view of both, making “to be” cultures seem primitive and sounding straight out of an Intro to Anthropology textbook. It does at least highlight the relationship element of “to be” cultures. There are an interesting number of takes on the subject from the corporate world, tirelessly stretching its tentacles into all fields. None of this, however, speaks about the “to dos” and “to bes” in everyday terms, how living in a society that is one or the other shapes how people interact. And act. Personally, I think it is more on the micro-level that being and doing become more relevant and meaningful in different cultures. After all, most people in Argentina and Spain are certainly career-minded and can speak at length about their professions in certain contexts; however, they don’t generally refer to what they do (i.e., their jobs) when introducing themselves. In fact, I kind of take issue altogether with the English usage of ‘what do you do?,’ which really means ‘what is your job?,’ on the grounds that we all do many things in our lives. It just doesn’t translate well.

I recently heard someone say, “What you do defines who you are.” I would argue that it is who we are that defines what we do, and furthermore that one should be careful in uttering cultural maxims as if they were universal truths. The cultural relativity of what exactly makes us who we are is the only true universal here. For example, here are some lower-case “to dos” from my southern upbringing, which supposedly shaped my character: Saying yes ma’am = respectful of one’s elders. (I really wasn’t.) I can’t tell you how annoying it is every time I now visit Virginia and get yes ma’amed all the time from people of all ages. It makes me feel like I’m 80; it also evokes a visit to the parrot cage at the zoo. Writing thank-you notes = sufficiently grateful. I always thought the genuinely uttered words were sufficient. It was assumed that forming these habits would bestow these qualities upon us. Honestly? All it really bestowed was perfunctory, meaningless behavior that, if not acquired, was basic grounds for judgment being passed on your character. Not that I have anything against thank you notes when one is just overflowing with gratitude for that $20 bill in the greeting card, but guess what? Nobody does that in the other places I’ve lived. So are they therefore all scandalously ungrateful for their birthday presents?

Actually Argentines give enormous importance to birthdays, especially the party aspect. The presence of their closest friends and family is the most important thing. There are gifts of course, but they are very secondary to the social gathering and often opened after everyone leaves, so there’s no way of even knowing who gave you what. Ergo, no thank-yous; the material part of it is an afterthought. There is however something that people do that is always surprising to me. Friends and family members who cannot be present call to personally wish happy birthday and ask how your day is going. Especially amongst family, if this phone call is overlooked, the birthday person will get offended. It’s kind of like the thank-you note requirement, except the outcome is not a judgment on anyone’s character. People are just genuinely hurt that you didn’t remember, that you forgot to be there for them. It’s the being there emotionally that matters, not just the lip-service.

The reduced number of little “dos and don’ts” in these cultures of course makes for less polite, more unruly, louder and unrestrained interactions among people on an everyday basis. (I invite you to watch fights among taxi drivers at rush hour here.) However, I don’t notice the bitingly judgmental nature of “to do” societies in people here. Furthermore, not being constantly asked what you do for a living is liberating in that you are free to describe yourself in any terms and not limited to the label of your profession or lack thereof. I paint, I write, I travel, I raise my children, I work. (I have a friend who refuses to be labeled professionally; when he has to fill in official documents, he writes Worker in the blank by Profession even though he holds a Ph.D.) Not having to adhere to the constraints of certain “dos and don’ts” means you are free to act based on who you are and what you believe. If I am a generous person, I will give to others naturally; if I am not, dumping my old clothes at Caritas or Good Will does not make me generous. However, even if I am not a generous person, perhaps I am a good listener or a great teacher or even a hero. So don’t judge me based on the small things I don’t do.

My garage attendant’s name is Christian. In addition to being a nice guy, he is also a huge fan of Uruguayan author Eduardo Galeano and can talk at length about his books on Latin American history. He’s always reading something. Imagine if I had met Christian at a dinner party and started our conversation with ‘What do you do?’

Getting There

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I grew up in a small town, so a sense of independence came at a very early age, pretty much as soon as I could ride a bike. Back then, bikes were just for kids. There were no mountain bikes, no trendy, foldable urban bikes; there were just banana seats and high handle-bars. And we all had playing cards clipped to our wheel-spokes. In a place of such relative silence, we were like small swarms of bees. And those bikes really were our wings in the sense that we relied on no one else to get us where we wanted to go, and they also gave our parents freedom from having to taxi us around. Funny how none of us ever gave all that a second thought when we turned sixteen, got our  licenses and presumably gained limitless independence behind the wheel of a car. Because where I come from, driving is considered a major milestone on the road to self-reliance. I’ve been getting around that way ever since. Until recently.

Now I live in the vast urban landscape of Buenos Aires. Despite the magnitude and efficiency of the public transportation system here, I have to admit that my car habit has been hard to break. Even knowing that it takes longer to drive, that parking is a hassle, that all of this stresses me out, puts me in a foul mood and reduces my quality of life, even after having made “I will drive no more in the city of Buenos Aires” my New Year’s resolution several years running, I have truly been like a junkie who simply cannot kick the habit. My husband gave me a bike for Christmas two years ago. It sat in the garage for most of that time. Not that I’m physically unable, or that I haven’t been applauding the new bike-lanes in the city all along; I just couldn’t shake my car monkey.

The only other excuse was the danger factor, but in all fairness, I was never afraid to drive a car here. So I suppose there is some sweet irony in the fact that it took a minor car accident to finally get me on a bike for good. Between the pace of Argentine insurance companies and mechanics we have been carless for several weeks now. The transition to biking (and walking!) turned out to be painless once I didn’t have the choice to drive, combined with the fact that the Subte A is indefinitely closed for renovation, making bus travel from my neighborhood look something like an episode of The Walking Dead.

They say it takes three weeks to form a habit. In this time I have not been stressed a single time due to an inability to move forward; or to someone cutting in front of me by turning left from the right-hand lane; or to pointless horn-blowing and cursing; or to watching some girl teeter along in 5-inch heels at a brisker pace than me in my car. In fact, I have not been in a crappy mood even once since I started biking. I listen to great music to drown out the honking and cursing as I cruise by traffic jams, early fall breeze in my face. It makes me smile. It makes me feel in control. It makes me feel like part of a community of like-minded people. Not to mention healthier, more in harmony with the environment and one car less on these crowded streets. Mainly, it makes me feel less dependent on my car.

Which brings me to the cycle of life thing. My kids will both turn 16 this year. But they have grown up in a very different kind of place. Their independence didn’t come on a banana seat; it came on the 26 and the 42 and the Subte. And now even the 151 that takes them all the way to Saavedra, distances that in most US cities could only be traversed by car.  Getting a driver’s license is not even a topic of conversation among teenagers here; they are already independent in terms of moving around the city. As my friends in the States one after one announce the big day when their kids turn 16 and start driving, I get a brief flash of “oh, another cultural milestone of childhood foregone.” Until I realize the freedom sought therein… Oh, we already have that! And it came with a number of other perks. Unlike me – who cannot deal with long bus lines and the subsequent sardine-can effect due to my North American impatience derived no doubt from getting everywhere on my own terms in the hermetic silence and bastion of freedom inside my own car – they will hopefully reach adulthood with a larger store of patience and tolerance for inconvenience. Not to mention the adventures awaiting them on the buses of Buenos Aires.

Aside from discovering the beauty of biking to get where I’m going, I must admit that not having a car has forced us all to reflect on how dependent we are on the car, especially at night or when we need to carry anything large. We’ve ended up going out a lot less these past weeks. On the one hand, that’s good because we’ve spent less money; but on the other, it’s given me new appreciation for all our friends who don’t have cars but manage to make the trek all the way over to our house in Caballito for dinner, pick their kids up at all hours of the night from parties and somehow get their sundry amps, drum-sets and heavy bass guitars across town anyway. So once we do get the car back, I will think twice about driving unless absolutely necessary. Otherwise, I am finally sticking to my New Year’s resolution. I might even get an ace of hearts and clip it to my wheel.

Toilets and Pink Hair II: What it was really about

I think I have more to say on this topic after reading the feedback on the previous post, so thanks to all for bringing the clarity to me. Perhaps I was stretching it a bit in trying to bring too many topics under one umbrella. So now I’m just going to talk about women and girls and their objectification. While it is true that women do enjoy broad professional and political equality in Argentina, which is to be applauded, they continue to be objectified, their femininity given disproportionate importance, placing them forever on the pink team since the only other option is blue. But what about purple or green or yellow? (Not talking about hair here anymore, folks, so keep up.) Cristina said it herself: “I am not a feminist; I am feminine.” She’s also pumped full of botox and likes to flip her bangs like a teenager while addressing the nation. She embodies exactly what I’m talking about. Professional woman, Barbie worshipper.

For anyone who doesn’t have kids, it’s important to understand where my concerns are rooted when it comes to raising mine here. As adults, we are at liberty to choose the people we socialize with, the ways we go about it, the social norms we will and will not adhere to. If I don’t care to participate in football madness and deal with the barras bravas, I don’t have to; if I’d rather not kiss all 40 people at the birthday party when I arrive, I just don’t. And I can choose to take a positive attitude and focus on the fact that women have successful careers here and try not to look at the massive billboard images of vedettes plastered all along Corrientes. Or that pole-dancing is the most popular thing on TV, viewed by entire families including little girls and abuelitas.

But on the playground, the rules are not like this. Kids don’t get to make those choices; they have to learn the codes and adapt. And my concern is the message being put out there about what is feminine and what is not. And how this message seems to be embraced across society by women as well as men. Ergo, short hair is not feminine. (I suppose pink is, but only in a secondary sort of way once it’s chopped off. The pink hair story wasn’t really about that anyway.) Playing soccer is not feminine, ditto for basketball, etc.; only volleyball and field hockey qualify as school sports sufficiently feminine for girls to play. Go figure. These are subtle, insidious expressions of societal views that are put forward by teachers, classmates and family members of both genders.

The objectification of women is a global issue, not unique to Argentina. However, what I see as women’s complicity in perpetuating the image of extreme femininity here perplexes me. Which brings me back to the toilet issue. In this case a broad dismissal (again, across genders) of women’s “feminine” needs. And yes, while hovering over the toilet is standard practice in public bathrooms, it’s not possible for little girls or old ladies. They have to sit. And their needs are being ignored. By other women.

Toilet Seats and Pink Hair: Raising a Girl in Argentina

I’ve mentioned my German friends before, I believe? Well, I will now take another example from that endless well of material they provide for the perfect contrast with life as I see it in Argentina. While I’ve never lived in Germany and therefore can’t generalize on the observation I’m about to make, the fact that I know of several cases leads me to believe it may be common practice, at least among university-educated engineers and architect types: German men pee sitting down. That’s right, ladies, never a toilet seat left up, bowl gaping for you to fall straight into in the middle of the night. And no dribble trail. It seems these guys are trained thusly. In deference to us, the toilet-seat down crowd. And proudly acknowledge it to be so, I might add.

In the opening scene of the Big Lebowski, Jeff Bridges gets his head dunked repeatedly in his own toilet bowl. In his blasé, very Coen brothers effort to convince the intruders he’s not who they think he is, he asserts his bachelorhood by pointing out that the toilet seat was up, and therefore he couldn’t possibly be the married guy they were looking for. Meaning American men, when left to their devices, leave the seat up; however, they at least give lip service to the assumption that it should ordinarily be placed back down after use if there are women around (which is not to say that they always do. This I can offer lifetime testimony on.)

In Argentina, the toilet seat is always up. It is the standard position. It’s up in photos of bathrooms in homes for sale; it’s even up in public women’s restrooms. After 20 years of living with an Argentine man, I have given up the battle of the bowl, and merely resort to slamming it down every time I go in there. And our teenage son makes it two of them, so there’s no winning. In all honesty, neither of them are remotely machista. But the toilet seat down does not figure, either passively or actively, in their mental scaffolding of ‘rules one should follow.’ (Even Jeff Lebowski acknowledges this.) For all I know, my daughter probably lifts the seat “back into position” after she’s done her business. Which leads me to wonder, if women have a passive role in the whole toilet-seat thing, what does that imply on a larger scale when it comes to women’s role in gender-related notions here?

I worry about these things raising a girl in a Latin country. What kind of subtle messages are finding their way into her psyche? Especially when Argentine women themselves are seeming accomplices to the seatless toilet, the myth that long hair looks better on every woman, the tireless marching on of pinks and blues in baby stores, and the oil-and-vinegar effect at all social gatherings (boys on one side, girls on the other). Please, what are we, in middle school? Oh, and let’s not forget the No-thank you-I-don’t-drink-and-I’ll-just-have-that-piece-of-lettuce-for-dinner contingent. (Not to be misconstrued as my condonement of teenage drinking.) And what if an entire adolescence of examples like these are somehow larger than the 50% of her genetic make-up that came from her mom, who was one of those groundbreaking 10-year-old girls who played Little League baseball back in 1970s? Will she find her way to self-discovery, be loud when she needs to be, try on many different hats until she finds just the right one, eventually realize that it’s not all just about the boy and that it’s OK—no, it’s brilliant—to be different and to be excellent and to be exactly who she is and not what someone else thinks she should be? And that she can wear her hair any damn way she pleases?

My daughter’s hair is pink again. The first time, it was a fashion statement that ended in a bad color job, followed by tears and a very short haircut. Which, if you live in Argentina, you know that the short hair is equally—if not more of–a flagrant statement than any day-glo color. The short hair turned out to be the surprise that taught her how to embrace and celebrate her individuality. It has also unleashed her moxy. The decision to love her short, curly hair, even as she’s surrounded by the cadre of long, flat-ironed heads of her classmates, has turned her into a scrappy defender of the right to self-expression.

The other day she dyed her ends pink again, only this time it was an act of protest against her school’s recent ban on ‘certain’ hair colors. The school-wide protest—Facebook organized, of course—started en masse but dwindled to around 10% when it came down to actually doing the deed (either for fear of sanctions or parental prohibition I presume). My girl not only adhered, she spoke up to defend their position after the whole group was summoned to the director’s office. She proudly told me later that she had lost her fear of the director in the face of the conviction that she and her classmates had good grounds for argument: That while school regulations clearly state the prohibition on things like tattoos and piercings, there is nothing in the rulebook prohibiting hair color. So when the director chose to make the point that dying one’s hair blond or brown was fine because it doesn’t attract attention, while bright colors cause others to do a double-take (bad), Fiona said, “And what’s wrong with that? We’re exploring our identities, and teenagers need to do that outwardly.” And right she is. The way we look is an outward expression of some facet of ourselves. Dying one’s hair blond and ironing out the curls is preceded by a motive (I look prettier like this; I look more like everyone else; I feel more like Barbie.) These reasons are attached to certain personality types. The motive behind pink or green hair is probably more about rebellion or non-conformity or an adventurous nature, but aren’t there just as many of these equally deserving personalities in the world?

As I’ve said before, as a trade-off for more rigorous academics we chose the school despite the fact that it was old-fashioned and strict. So the director is certainly entitled to claim a school ethos that must be upheld and that does not allow for outward displays of rebelliousness. It is part of their policy to make no exceptions in an effort to preserve high standards. I get that. In fact, it even occurred to me that the severity of the school climate is actually an opportunity for students to raise conscientious objections like this one, so all the better. However, it was a bit disappointing that the director couldn’t at least give them credit for waging a well-founded battle against what they perceived as injustice; instead, she opted for ‘blond hair is fine, pink is not and you shouldn’t allow yourselves to be influenced by other students in this kind of thing.’ 1. Double-standard on the color issue in favor of the ‘pretty’ color. 2. Underestimation of protesting students’ ability to think for themselves. I mean, we want our kids to stand up for their rights, and encourage them when they go about it in a civil, conscientious way that promotes self-awareness, right?

It all just made me proud of my girl. She looks fantastic in short, pink hair and knows she has a voice. And it’s a relief to know that she is probably not going to be one of those girls putting the toilet seat back up for the guys.