293/365

as a kid i believed in quicksand.
the terrifying notion that the earth
could swallow us whole kept me up at night.  
i imagined an alternate world beneath
the colloid of fine granular material;
or maybe there was silence, a sort of
timeless web of disenchantment beneath.

there was quicksand in my visions
of adventure, it was there in the places
i saw myself uncovering,
discovering, disappearing into:
at one with the yąnomamö or the bambuti.

places beyond space and time.
a (re)connection to true self-
misunderstood in the halls of davidson
middle school or the gap. it was the suction
of the earth into some unnameable space
that would help define what it meant
to be indigenous.

apparently it’s impossible
for quicksand to swallow
humans into the earth.

my people are not in a distant jungle
waiting for my return. they are you
dear reader, hunkered down in the dull glow
of a screen, perhaps gently stirred within
clicking (a) like into the void.

maybe there is quicksand after all.
it’s here in this cyber void,
sucking us all into its idle maw 

152/365

the sperry top-sider
is the show of
white supremacy.
particularly the
genuine handcrafted
chocolate moccasin
with turmeric coloured
rawhide laces,
luxurious materials and finishes
and rich lambskin linings.
with elevated craftsmanship
and premium materials
this was the footwear
of assimilation,
at least in nineteen eighty six
at division middle school
in marin county, california.

the sperry top-sider was
the shoe of
the cool kid.
the rich kid.
the accepted kid.
the white kid.
glenwood
peacock gap
country club
yatch clubs
and golf clubs
sailing clubs
and tennis clubs.

the sperry top-sider
was what you wore
to sit with the right group
at lunch with the expensive
sparkling juice:
passion fruit kola
not capri sun,
kudos bars and sushi
not whatever leftovers
the foreign kid,
they sometimes called
the sand nigger,
brought to school
in tupperware
that looked like diarrhoea
but was actually stew
made from walnuts and
pomamgrante syrup.
the kids who wore
the sperry top-sider
never brought rice to school.

the sperry top-sider was
the shoe of kids
with inheritances
and accumulated wealth,
parents who owned homes
and investment portfolios,
they saved in retirement accounts,
and took trips to tahoe,
they ate dinners at scoma’s
in sausalito and owned two cars.

the sperry top-sider
is the show of
white supremacy.
and in seventh grade
there was nothing
i wouldn’t do to get a pair.

Skate Or Die

Skateboarding was kind of a big deal in the late 1980’s in San Rafael CA. And as a seventh grader at Davidson Middle School, it quickly became apparent that my failed attempt at assimilation by wearing tan leather Sperry top-siders, would only be rectified if I did the following: Started wearing Jimmy’z shorts, $30+ Gotcha T-shirts, and Vans. It was also clear that I need a board. Trouble was I knew nothing about boards, so my foray into the world of skaters was a blind and pathetic one.

Even after I talked my parents into shelling out more money than they wanted or could afford for the shorts and the shirts, I was able to use a birthday to get my own $150 board, which at the time for us was a massive expenditure. I don’t remember the brand, and I just spent twenty minutes trying to find it online. Even though I thought the yellow color and the jester graphics, and yes the matching plastic side rails, were super cool, I realized quickly that it was not. I had somehow in my haste bought the wrong board. It was heavy and wide and apparently the trucks were lame and the wheels too _______. On the rare chance that I was even able to show my board to anyone that mattered, it became clear that I was what in the parlance of those times was called a poser. A wanna-be.

Yup. I wanted to be cool. I wanted to be good at something that people considered cool. I wanted to be accepted. I wanted to shred.

But I never did. I never was. I only wanted to be, until I out grew the clothes and left the board to rot in some corner of my room, with the echo of my mom’s voice everytime she saw it or when I asked for another expensive object, “Remember that skateboard. You only rode that thing once.” Which of course was not true, but she was right in that I never mastered it. Not even close. I rarely took it out. Because riding a skateboard by yourself on the sidewalk is no way to become a skater. I had no access to ramps or other skaters and their culture. I wasn't hungry. I didn't read Thrasher. For me it was about a false identity not for the love of a sport. I was a poser and didn’t know how to be anything else.

These were my thoughts this morning as I sat at the skatepark near our house watching Kaia at her first lesson. It never occurred to seventh grade me or my parents apparently, that just having the stuff did not make me skater. I needed access. I needed ramps. I needed a teacher or at least a chance to watch and practice and learn. This morning I was watching people of all ages doing ali’s and rail slides and dipping in and out of ramps. I felt the camaraderie that I yearned for. People of all ages, sweating in the sun, some helmeted and geared up, while other risked their bones going shirtless. Pockets of small posses chatted each other up, while others skated in silence- the only sound- the wheels like ocean waves carving up the cement inclines.

This space. This culture is what seventh grade me needed. I am sure there were parks and ramps in San Rafael, but I had no idea where they were and I wasn’t connected enough to sniff them out. I didn’t really want to be a skater. I just wanted to be. And that is why I never found the ramps to soak up the culture. I know that now, and part of me feels like it might be too late, but the other wiser part thinks screw it- it is not to late. I am not too old. I don’t need all the stuff. I am not looking to fit into any group, but as a forty-two year old, I want to learn the basics.

I don’t need to shred or doing anything dangerous, but I could gently skate the mellow ramps. I could learn some basic starter moves. I could be out there every weekend with Kaia chatting up the other old dudes who seem so calm and gentle and mellow and zen. Me, the scrawny, tanned, white-bearded old dude might finally be a skater. I wonder if we are finally able to become our true teen-age selves at forty two.

So I am on the hunt for a board. Doesn’t need to be cool, but it has to be the right board for me. I was chatting Chris up today at the park (He is a regular and although he doesn't know it my future mentor and skating teacher) and it is clear I need something between a ramp and a long board, a hybrid- with loose trucks and big soft wheels. I want to be able to cruise East Coast park and ride the ramps on the weekend with Kaia. If anyone out there has any suggestions please let me know. Also if you know the skate board I mentioned earlier- Yellow with a blue jester please let me know. Skate or die dude. Skate or die.

…

I have to be at school tomorrow at five-thirty. I am off to Tioman island off the coast of Malaysia for a week. As the head of grade six in waiting, it was decided that it might be a good idea for me to go on this trip and scope things out, so I have first hand experience when I need to organise the trip and comfort worried parents next year. It’s a tough job, but someone has to do it; I am just glad that person is me. I am looking forward to a few runs on the beach. Some time in the ocean and getting familiar with hanging out with six graders again, It has been a while and I am excited to reacquaint myself with that age group, before I do it full time next year.

Apparently there is wifi in my cabin, so I look forward to continuing to write every night while I am away.

Topsider

A series of pictures from Middle School have surfaced on Facebook that have forced me to start writing a few tales about those days. They will be in random order and very raw. I have categorized them as Davidson. If you are reading this and went to Davidson, I would love your comments and insight. I am sure I have built that time as much worse than it was, so it would be cool to have your help in flushing out that time in my life.

The first thing I remember about entering middle school was my best friend’s brother’s advice, “You must have Sperry Topsiders or don’t even think about showing up.” Up till then, growing up in what was called The Canal, I had never even thought that there could be some outside source that could dictate how I should or should not dress.

The Canal is an anomaly. A blot on the perfect face of the small Marin town, which calls itself San Rafael. Nestled at the foot of beautiful Mt. Tamalpais, San Rafael is a strange meld of leftover of hippiedom and upstart yuppie wealth. Priding itself as one of the richest counties in California, Marin is utopia of sorts. Except of course if you were unlucky enough to be one of the immigrant refugee families living in The Canal.

I am still not sure how Marin allows a large section of its water front property to be squatted upon by gangs of Mexicans, El Salvadorians, Vietnamese boat people, exiled Iranians, Haitians, and a slew of other non-desirable third world refugees who some how found themselves riding the bus alongside the Lexus SUVs and Mercedes Benzes.

Throughout my Elementary School days at Bahia Vista, I never knew I was different. Tucked away and secluded on the edge of town, San Francisco Bay wetlands, and the dump, I don’t remember hanging out with more than two or three white kids, I later learned they were all at Glenwood and Sun Valley. We were a motley crew at Bahia Vista. No one wore Sperry Topsiders and more importantly no one really noticed what anyone else wore, because we were all dressed in the most affordable clothes our parents could find.

I remember walking to Barney’s shoes on Sir Francis Drake Blvd to find the mandatory footwear for my new school, Davidson Middle School. We took Gonzalo’s brother’s word as gospel, for he was an eight grader. I had somehow convinced my parents that I was not allowed to start school with out a pair of Sperry Topsiders. Little did they know that for the next three years there would be a litany of must have items: Koala soda, New York Seltzer, Gotcha, Jimmy Z’s, and other over priced surf wear, Nike shoes, and Swatch watches were just a few of the things that poor kids from the Canal had a hard time acquiring while other kids at Davidson seemed to interchange at will. Pre-pubescent consumerism was pumping just as strong as our errant hormones at Davidson.

The Sperry Topsider was my first lesson in class awareness and conformity. Pablo had failed to mention that there were a few different colors to choose from. I figured that since he hadn’t mentioned it, than at least the need to fit in would allow for some wiggle room. I looked at all the shoes and was not impressed with the style or the fit, but if I had to have them than god damn it, I would not fail my first test. I chose the light beige ones hoping that I had made the right choice.


I had not. The style everyone seemed to be wearing was the brown ones.

There I was on day one looking at the gaggle of beautiful girls, all blond and soft, being picked up in their Mercedes wearing the wrong shoe. I didn’t realize that at that moment my life had become a John Hughes film. A film I would be unable to escape until my sophomore year in high school, when I would stop giving a shit and start being myself.

To be conintued…