Wednesday, August 3, 2011

The Indian in the Bathroom


When I was a child it was obvious that my mother idealized and idolized her only and older brother.   He had chosen to have a childless marriage that would allow him to design and build homes in comparatively glamorous places—ocean cliffs or hillsides overlooking Los Angeles; one poised under the HOLLYWOOD sign and just a block or two up from Aldous Huxley’s home.  He and his wife were free to travel to parts foreign, rub shoulders with Jawaharlal Nehru and know what the words “obi, “sake” and  “arigato” meant far earlier than most Americans.  This was the fifties.

My mom was stuck in Silverlake with two young girls and a loving husband, but her summers were spent driving up and down the west coast.  Though those summers were wonderful for my sister and me, I’m sure they paled in comparison to the trips my uncle and aunt were taking.

My uncle and aunt took tramp freighters and posed for stiff photos with Japanese hosts.  When they returned from their trips my sister and I would be given things we had never seen before:  purses with little metal mirrors reflecting all the Silverlake light being an example.

Although Silverlake was a diverse neighborhood and my sister and I had been exposed to many different cultures; tempura lunches with our mother in Nisei town, Janice Hing’s wedding reception in Chinatown, my father flaunting his three words of Spanish at Mexican restaurants, we were not too familiar with Indians.  I mean people from India. Of course my mother had introduced us to chicken curry, but I was later to learn that it was nothing like the real thing except for the color of turmeric.

My mother worked hard at everything she did.  She could have been the prototype for Martha Stewart—had Martha been a music teacher in Burbank with two small daughters, a salesman husband and a house in Silverlake.  She enjoyed entertaining and chafing dishes with purple flamed cans of sterno and sherry infused recipes.

I remember, on the eve of a dinner party that I would eventually be sent to bed before it ended, being given what, at that point in my life, was ALMOST the worst thing I had ever tasted.   I sat on the two steps that separated our dining room from our living room and tried to eat cream cheese.  It was only slightly less disgusting than my mother’s zucchini squash with tomatoes and Italian spices.  Of course, today I like cream cheese, but even in adulthood zucchini is not something I choose to eat.

One evening my mother and father had a small party and my uncle and aunt were invited.  They brought with them two tall Indian men who stood around the fireplace shyly.  After awhile one of the men needed to use the restroom.  I do not know whether he was directed to the room or just went off on his own to search for it.  It wouldn’t have been a long, or a difficult hunt as we only had one bathroom.  The door was closed and he walked in and went directly up to the sink.  Maybe he just wanted to look into the mirror, or perhaps wash his hands after eating a messy appetizer. Thank goodness he didn’t need the toilet.  In any case he did not notice that my little sister was sitting on the pink toilet-- that matched the pink shower-- with her wide 1950’s skirt covering the porcelain.  She was absolutely mortified and quite traumatized.  I think he finally saw her and made a soundless exit back to the fireplace.  It was a memorable evening at Angus Street.



Tuesday, August 2, 2011

Bobbie Pins With a Message


Most of my life my mother wore her hair up.  Then, in the 1970’s, perhaps inspired by Nancy Reagan, but who’s to say, my mother went “short.”    This hairdo lasted briefly and began to grow into a length that could once again be “put up.”  During this period there were “falls” and fake hair to add to the zest of the style.

My mother became an aficionado of what my sister and I called THE HELMET.  Hair spray and regular appointments with a Hispanic hairdresser ensured that her hair would not move, look a bit like Margaret Thatcher and remain fairly carefree if one slept in a special net.  Bobby pins were always somewhere in the nest that was my mom’s hair.

When my mother passed away, she left me an article that she had once read.  It was about death and memory.  It said that I should think of my mother whenever I saw a particular bird.  I have done that with the white fairy terns that fly around Hawaii.  When there are two I think of both my parents.

There is something else that resonates deeper.  I have found bobbie pins around the world.  In Japan, China, Britain, and the U.S.  I always seem to find a bobbie pin when I travel.  It’s a pretty random thing to look down at a sidewalk and see one.   But I find them with regularity…Kyoto, Beijing, Auckland, Sydney, Melbourne and recently, in the place where I will eventually live, I found four.  One was on top of Lava Butte and another on Pilot Butte.  Two more were found on the streets of Bend, Oregon. 

It may be that “Oregonads” (as my husband calls them) use more bobbie pins than the average world population.  But I choose to believe that they are a message saying that I’ve made a good choice for the future.