There's something rotten in Boston (Day 10)

I've mentioned here many times that Newbury Street, famous in the region for it's shopping, has been missing storefronts for over fifteen years, enough that I stopped counting with my kids after a few blocks because we hit over twenty. But the truth is that Downtown Crossing, previously famous for its shopping as well as easy access to the financial and political centers, has suffered longer. Before Barnes & Noble went on a closing spree, they closed their location downtown. Well, things change, but nothing replaced that location for over a decade. 

The problem may have started in earnest when Filene's and its even more famous Filene's Basement went out of business and it took years to replace them (with a store my British friend tells me is known for using sweatshops, but who among us isn't?). As of 2010, the city of Boston seems to have ceded control of the area to the Downtown Boston Business Improvement District. Color me unimpressed with their efforts to improve foot traffic.

Yes, there are a lot of street people there now. There always have been, but it's taken on a more chilling aspect since the rise of the opioid epidemic, which became a public health crisis very quickly. Honestly, what the hell? We have all of these unhoused people--now including people desperately trying to get in through Mexico, regardless of where they've come from--and we've got people sleeping at Logan Airport. Why don't we repurpose the empty buildings downtown to house some of them? And while we're at it, how about some of those empty buildings on Newbury Street? The state of Massachusetts and city of Boston do not historically have a problem using eminent domain for other projects.

But yesterday I realized that the problem isn't confined. It has now spread to the North End--THE NORTH END--and I'm starting to think of this as something that is spreading, if not like a tumor, then like rot.

The corner of Cross and Hanover

Cross Street

I want to be clear that I'm not suggesting that the North End should remain Boston's version of Little Italy if there is an organic movement afoot for transformation. On Tuesdays I park myself at a cafe that is decidedly neither Italian nor Italian-American. It is also (*gasp*) part of a local chain. I don't think it's a terrible development that such a space exists. And while I mourn the loss of the best pastry shop in that part of town--Maria's on Cross Street did not have the bells and whistles of Mike's or Modern, but what it did do, it did perfectly--there is something now in that space, so I don't include it in my list of losses. The problem is when there is nothing.

There are other examples in the area, but this is the most glaring (those two famous pastry shops are on Hanover Street, and when you come on foot to the North End from the major streets of Tremont or Washington, Cross Street is what you see). Of course, the activity outweighs the emptiness, but when seen while holding the visuals of what the rest of Boston is starting to look like, it's disturbing.

I do not know why this is the case, but my first guess is high rents, necessitated by the high mortgages. Honestly, this has never made sense to me; I can't believe it is more profitable to let a property in a "good" neighborhood lie fallow than it is to take a temporary break on the rents. It makes me think that greed and/or very bad math is also part of the explanation.

The North End does not yet suffer from the Potemkin Buildings--residential and otherwise--that plague many neighborhoods in Boston, and I hope it does not. (It would make me laugh that so many developers are building housing and office space for rich millenials who don't seem to favor Boston if it weren't for 1) the need for housing for other people who aren't in that target demographic and 2) that you can practically smell the foreclosures and abandonment coming our way. Maybe we contrive tales of unicorns to distract from true stories of wolves.) 

I hope the North End is bursting once again at the seams with businesses, a mix of old neighborhood favorites and newer places that everyone wants to visit. And I hope Boston itself stops feeling like something that might be dying.

Deb in the City

An Alternative to Performance Anxiety (Day 9)

I've talked about Performance before, and hope I made clear it wasn't my original thinking but something I think about a lot. I've lately seen people talk more about Impostor Syndrome. I have suffered from it myself, but I am now starting to think of it more as a flavor of Performance Anxiety. Really, the wonder is that there are people who don't suffer from it.

When European civilizations were dominated by a religious paradigm, the ideal performance was Goodness, because that was how we got into heaven. (The Calvinists and Puritans of New England had thoughts on the matter as well.) Protestants also laid special emphasis on Productivity, which is something that never really went away. As of The Enlightenment, the preferred performance was Happiness, which was seen as a guarantor of Success. And since the 20th century, there has been a growing clamor for the performance of Intelligence, in no small part because it is linked to personal and national Productivity. 

That's a lot right there, but of course that's never been all of it. Many of us also need to perform Beauty and/or Being Sexy, and not just women. All of us up until very recently were also firmly limited in how we performed Gender: you'd better pick a lane, and you'd better stay in it. This is to say nothing of requirements based on (perceived) heritage, and it seems deviating from those brings with it the most damnation [see: White Trash and the Uppity Black Person (I don't want to write or say the alternative words)].

Imagine having to do all those things at the same time--oh, throw in your career, region, family, and religion--without even the alleged respite of code-switching. Impostor Syndrome/Performance Anxiety seems like the outcome to hope for, because otherwise it sounds like something that can lead to madness. (I mean, you try being Happy while doing all of that required reading for Intelligence and stumbling upon horrific facts and phenomenon.)

I never feel like I fit in anywhere--even among fellow outcasts (they can be really snobby sometimes). How could I? How could anyone?

But I can feel moments without the anxiety of having to look over my shoulder that someone is judging me for Doing It Right, and it's not just with my family. It is when I am able to embrace my true, full identity.

I. Am. A. Dork. Once I realized that, once I remind myself of it, the world is a much fuller place.

What is my version of a Dork? Really, you have to think of the venerable Chrissy Snow from Three's Company. I felt like I was looking in a mirror when I watched her: she always missed the mark (after the first season, at least), was the butt of half the jokes, but was perfectly content in her own little world. Same.

Yep, the blonde

I am uncoordinated and was the last one picked for dodge ball, but I am a great dancer because I know how to move my shoulders and hips without bringing everything else with me. I am so awkward in social situations--sometimes even one-on-one--but I try really hard not to torture the other person with uncomfortable silences. My musical tastes change all the time. I'm a dreamy idealist unless I'm a bitter cynic. I'm skeptical of what people say unless it's one of those times where I can trust their intent. I'm impatient, except when I can sit with something or someone for hours at a time. I try my best to do the right thing but screw up enough times that I never can forget my mistakes. 

This is a Dork. It may also be the definition of a Human Being who's not on stage, but if there's no difference, I'll stick with Dork.

Deb in the City 

Drop off day (Day 8)

Today was the day that my youngest (no, he really is, by 13 minutes) left to go to the big state school two hours away from Boston. After spending the last week thinking through what he needed to pack--it's funny how much he thought was going to be supplied for him--we finally closed up the big suitcase this morning and loaded it into the backseat. His older brother--by 13 minutes--was going to come but decided the two hour ride would be too much, so it was just me, my husband, and our youngest.

My husband and I did not cry or get emotional, but it was probably clear that we were sad. Which was maybe part of why my son did not even want our help bringing his stuff into his new dorm. We did get a hug, though, so there's something.

We drove to a nearby restaurant to eat lunch (vegan and gluten-free, yay, but ridiculously over-priced, but why should they be different from every other restaurant?), then shivered in the car as we started looking for a charging station. (Fun fact: when you drive an electric car, you will lose mileage if you run the heat for too long. Not-so-fun fact: there are not enough chargers in Massachusetts.) Miraculously, we found one at a gas station rest stop (you know, the kind with the McDonald's) and sighed about the third child to fly the coop as we waited to get a respectable charge.

We are home now, enjoying the sounds of the final child at home. I swear to you, it seems like just yesterday that I brought two little bundles home to the hospital to meet their sisters. Now those sisters are gone, one nearby, the other a little bit further and engaged to be married in May. The one still at home is taking his very last class at community college this semester. He will most likely be home with us when he transfers for his Bachelor's, but it's only a matter of time before he's gone, too. 

I know, everything changes, and I appreciate that it would be horrible if they didn't. But I'm reminded today that sometimes it's useful to take a moment to appreciate things as they are, even if they are not perfect. And it doesn't hurt to be grateful when things are actually good.

Deb in the City

It looks different at night (Day 7)

Yesterday, I did something I don't do often: I had a cup of tea and later a (vegan, gluten-free) cookie. Thus, at 4:30 PM, after working out at home, I was still really energetic, and decided that I wanted--needed--a walk outside.

(I take that back: on Tuesday I had the same cookie as well as some matcha, but I also had a very long walk that day as well. There is a pattern!)

I didn't have a plan when I started except that I needed to be in my favorite bit of Boston's greenspace while I still had the light. But after I passed through it, my body just wanted to keep going. And so I did for the next 90 minutes, as I lost all the light. Eventually, I got tired, but I kept powering through until I got to a train station (amazingly, the Orange Line of the MBTA still works, though not every line in the system can make that claim).

I grew up in a bunch of places, particularly Cambridge, but I spent a lot of my time before, during, and after college on Huntington Avenue. It's always bittersweet traveling down that street, no matter how often I do it, taking note of what has changed and what has stayed the same. Some changes I approve of, some I mourn (and others I anticipate). 

I consider myself fortunate to have been able to have contemplated them last night on a heady walk, and then fortunate that I had a home in the present to go back to. My relative good fortune was driven home when I got to the train and someone asked to get in on my ticket. I didn't have a chance to say yes--which I was going to--before one of the MBTA attendants came out of their booth to scold the person who had asked me that they should have asked her instead. She let him and two other people who couldn't afford $2.40 for the privilege of riding a decrepit "public" transportation system. (Imagine not wanting to ask someone like that for help.) Maybe those people had a warm home with people who were happy to see them when they arrived, and maybe they also enjoyed a hot drink there as well, but home should shelter us from the elements, not the callousness of other people.

Deb in the City

Things that shouldn't happen in a rich state (Day 6)

On this date, we have families in desperate need of shelter sleeping in the baggage area of Logan Airport. If you had told me thirty, forty years ago that I would be writing this in 2024, I wouldn't have believed you. But here we are.

A few weeks ago, I participated in a rally at the statehouse to protest budget cuts to cash assistance for those experiencing the deepest poverty. In case you didn't know, those generally include children, the elderly, and the disabled. Or as I like to think of them, the most vulnerable among us.

The backdrop to this includes a tax relief plan that this administration passed--after the Fair Share referendum was voted in. The campaign to get the referendum on the ballot took almost a decade, and supporters barely had time to catch their breaths before the tax relief end run was announced. 

Did I mention that the governor in power now is a Democrat? Perhaps I should also remind you that I am writing from the allegedly Deep Blue state of Massachusetts. 

It doesn't matter.

It's hard not to contemplate parents freezing with their young children at Logan and other parents struggling to buy diapers for their children, while holding the reality of what a voter referendum is really good for, and not remind myself what the definition of insanity is. 

As I read Revolutionary Spring: Europe Aflame and the Fight for a New World, 1848-49 by Christopher Clark, it's difficult not to see the parallels between that time and now. I don't know what will spark a modern clash--and at this point I believe it can be avoided--but if those in power continue to be callous, it won't take much.

Deb in the City

Sometimes the remedy is company (Day 5)

Yesterday I was out of sorts. My husband and I finally finished a book that was due back at the library. I enjoyed the story, but by the time we were done..."oh, look at the time." I didn't have any appointments that day, but I did have things to do, and even though it wasn't ten in the morning, I felt like the day had slipped away. I was also not feeling well, a combination of something I ate and cramps.

The logical thing to do--the productive thing to do--would have been to have squirreled away to the library or a cafe and squeezed out a little work. But I did something else--I went for a walk with my sons. Though, sadly, it didn't do much for my physical symptoms, I did feel better.

When they were younger, I was desperate for time to myself to get done all of those things I wanted to get done. Well, when they were younger, I did get them done, but I have wished more than once that I had spent more time with them less focused on what I wasn't doing and more interested in being with them. But that changed; at some point I went from feeling like a glorified babysitter and teacher to someone who counted her good fortune.

Several years ago--the Before Times--my husband had a school reunion to go to. There was some confusion about whether or not he should take me (he wasn't sure if his friends were bringing their wives, he wanted a last hurrah with his high school friends, whatever). By the time he came around to deciding that, no, I should come, I had already made alternate plans: the three youngest kids and I were going to see a movie. 

That sounds like a consolation prize, right? I got to take the kids to dinner and a movie while my husband got to hang out with his old friends, some he hadn't seen in decades, in some place far from home, eating food provided by the venue...Wait, on what planet does a night out with kids sound like the lesser option?

I remember that night really well: the kids and I walked to one of their favorite local pizza places, got pizza (although I think I couldn't at that point), walked to the train station, went downtown, got movie snacks at the semi-swanky grocery store, then saw a movie I'd been looking forward to for a few months. I had a lot of fun with my kids, and at no point did I wish I were with someone else or by myself.

Not sure how well my husband remembers his reunion with his friends, but I know he regrets not being able to share that night with me and the kids.

Scenes from our neighborhood

 Yesterday was not as eventful: we returned a library book, went to the same pizza place (sadly, their best days may be behind them...), got a drink at a cafe, then got eggs and crackers on a bodega on the way home. It was just another afternoon, and I am lucky that I can still share them with my children. I felt better--I felt lucky. Productivity be damned.

Deb in the City

No, really, people should read more (Day 4)

As I've said, my preferred media is books, but to keep up-to-date, I subscribe to The Economist, as well as keep up with the Joongang Daily and my local public radio websites (and On the Media). The Economist is a much better publication than it was fifteen years ago--I will never forget their cover trumpeting the growth potential of Southern Europe, less than two years before the default debt crisis that effectively claimed Europe, but they are less filled with wishful thinking than they were before.

They also cover a breadth of topics, including science (or science-adjacent) news that doesn't always make it to national outlets. So I was not surprised to see them cover a the rise in feral boar hybrids yesterday. I was, however, shocked by the story itself.

Apparently, Canadian pig farmers in the 1980s decided to breed their stock with British boars to improve their stock, getting meatier animals they could, I presume, get more of a profit from. But when the price of pork fell in 2001, some of them released their pigs into the wild when they couldn't sell them.

My dear reader, I would have known the punchline to the story even if the subtitle hadn't given it away. Of course parts of the Canadian countryside were going to be infested with wild boars over twenty years later, and of course some of them are starting to make their way to Minnesota. This has happened before. I know this because I read about it in a book less than two years ago. Ecological Imperialism by Alfred Crosby is a classic that was published in 1986--you know, around the time the pig farmers started cross-breeding.

Like other European imports of fauna, particularly the horse and cow, pigs did extremely well when they got to the Americas, and by the 18th century there were so many that farmers released them into the wild. Fun fact: it takes about two generations for a domesticated pig to revert to a feral state, complete with sharp tusks. The colonial versions were not a joke--they're not called razorbacks for nothing. If anything, we should be grateful that these modern Canadian wild boar hybrids are relatively tame, and that their population hasn't exploded.

(This would normally be where I would post a picture, but I just can't.)

I don't blame individual farmers as much as I do local and regional governments. What did they think was going to happen to all of those pig farmers when the prices dropped?

Deb in the (wonderfully razorback-free) City