Oakland, 1986

[The final stop of the Virtual Book Tour for Danyel Smith's first novel is right here on Umami Tsunami. Kevin asked me to write a personal essay about growing up in Oakland in the 80's. As I read Smith's book, I remembered more and more, although my experience was of course radically different from hers. Still, I think that's the interesting thing about Oakland - there are so many things to write about...]

Oakland, 1986

I can recognize, with a warm familiarity tightening my heart, threads of my Oakland in Danyel Smith's narrative; but the foundation of her Oakland might as well be another world. I might have been more familiar with hers if I had gone to Oakland Tech, just down Broadway, which at the time was one of the most dangerous schools in the state. Oakland in the 1980's was in a bad way, anyway. The Raiders had left, crack cocaine had come, and Reaganomics snuffed social programs. The folks living in what Smith calls the hills - the Oakland Hills, above Broadway, forested and packed with tasteful, quirky homes - got richer. That area's all gone now, devastated by the fire in 1991, and turned into the bland wealthy peach-colored neighborhood that exists now. Folks in the flatlands, on either side of Telegraph for example, or in West Oakland, or south of 580, got poorer. Neighborhoods crumbled. People crumbled.

But what was that to me? In 1986 I was in seventh grade. I lived in the hills, but I never felt rich. Of course we had some of the trappings of a comfortable upper-middle-class existence. French classes from second grade. Horse-back riding lessons. Summers in Japan. But I remember a constant anxiety about money hovering about the house like second-hand smoke. I felt lucky, not privileged.

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Hearth and Heart

We didn't cook together as a family, although my mother and father were both accomplished in the kitchen. My mother was the more traditional, at the time; later in life she got looser, more experimental, but the dishes I remember best from her repertoire were things like roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, apple pie, spaghetti in a marinara sauce that simmered all afternoon on the stove, oxtail soup, and a big fat goose for Christmas. My father was fond of elaborate dishes with exotic ingredients he'd spend all day shopping for - lamb curry and couscous or lamb chops with potatoes and asparagus and mint apple chutney. Although Anne and I did not participate often in the meal preparation, dinnertime was unmissable. We sat down together, talked, and excused ourselves when we were done. Although there were a few foods I didn't like back then, we weren't allowed to refuse any serving of my parents' cooking. I cried over mushy eggplant, but I ate it - albeit under the most vehement protest I could muster.

I'm not sure where along the line I learned to cook. I made a birthday meal for my first serious boyfriend, when he turned twenty I think. We had a small dinner party at his parents' house in Orinda. His parents were out of town. I made vegetarian lasagna, layers of fluffy fresh cheese, vegetables, and sauce topped with paper-thin slices of eggplant under a thin layer of parmesean that crisped delightfully in the oven. Jeff claimed it was the best meal he'd ever had. I wasn't so sure. I was never sure. The end product never matched up to the vision I had started with. In the end Jeff gave up trying to convince me of my culinary talents. And maybe I stopped believing in them.

Jeff always wanted to help out with the cooking, but I never could let him. Except to let him grate the cheese. I was too stressed out while preparing food to enjoy another pair of hands at the stove, and the friction between us tainted the experience. I wasn't raised to collaborate on meals. When my mom cooked, she cooked alone; and our dad also wouldn't dream of enlisting the aid of his children. So when I cooked, I cooked like an absolute queen bitch of the kitchen.

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The Secret to Success

This past year, I think I've discovered it. The secret to success. And it's not what I thought - it's not hard work, or discipline, or perseverance, or even knowing what you want to do. The secret is Rock.

Let me explain.

Or rather, maybe I should let Souris explain, because she does it eloquently. Souris has been my teacher this year. "Be your own cheerleader," she often says, "Because no one else will be." And she often also says, "Believe in yourself, because otherwise no one else will."

In fact, she has been my cheerleader when I've been unsure; she has urged me on to my dream, convinced me to believe in myself, to drop my doubt and fear. And I've learned enough from her now that I can do it not only for myself, but also for others.

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The Tao of Shopping

There is a boy I know who doesn't like to shop. Like many boys, if he doesn't find exactly what he needs in a few minutes he gets frustrated and slightly claustrophobic. He loses his inspiration and retreats, defeated.

What boys often don't understand is that shopping requires as much dedication, stamina, and concentration as any serious activity. This is especially true when engaging in the difficult but rewarding task of thrifting. You must be prepared to swiftly browse through miles of hideous polyester to find that vintage Saks Fifth Avenue silk. Your judgment must be finely honed to be able to decide instantly whether to grab the item off the rack or pass it over. Efficiency like this will save you hours of standing on tired feet. You must have a hand for fine fabric and an eye for cut, and most importantly, you must know your own body and taste so intimately so as to be able to envision the item integrated into your wardrobe. What shoes will you wear with it? What accessories will enhance it? How will it make you feel while you wear it? An experienced shopper with a catalogue of her clothing already in mind will be able to answer these questions without thinking.

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Realpolitik

On the morning of war, it's difficult to think of anything else. I have avoided writing about it until now, partly because my own feelings and thoughts were so clouded, but also because I questioned my ability to add anything new or constructive to the discussion. I'm not an utter pacifist, although my Political Compass scores near Gandhi's. I, like many reluctant Americans, want more time for U.N. inspectors. I mourn the passing of NATO because I am not sure what hope the future has without it.

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Yuji

he's slender, and dressed fashionably in a subtly embroidered white shirt and lean jeans, a fur-lined leather jacket and black boots, amber sunglasses. his manner is easy-going, his mind-set is tolerant. he is probably my favorite cousin, and anne agrees with me.

we meet, the thee of us, in Kichijoji, a hip young neighborhood in western Tokyo which bears a lot of resemblance to my other favorite neighborhood, Shimokitazawa.
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The Scents of Times Past

the fashion section of the nytimes reports that perfume customers are nostalgic for the rich, sensual frangrances of their grandmothers' boudoirs. i remember my fascination with my mother's prized bottle of Chanel No. 5, the only scent she ever wore (and that, only on rare occassions). it was like a magical philtre, the little square-cut glass bottle. i would furtively undo the old-fashioned stopper and breathe in the scent - light and powdery at first, but after a moment slightly like rubbing alchohol, probably because my mother kept it for far too long. to me it was a symbol of ultimate glamour.
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AWK Remix

From: pepito pea
Date: August 2, 2002 1:08 AM
To: jane
Subject: please allow me to interject

jane.

yo. had i realized your fondness for AWK earlier, i would have eagerly engaged you on the subjct at the cafe a few weeks back. however, after reading your brief dialogue with chris on umamitsunam, i must respectfully disagree with your analysis. as tempting as it would be to pen a separate exegesis in response, i must resist, as it would in fact directly conflict with the very point i attempt to convey. consequently, i shall just presumptuously insert my responses directly into your previous repartee. i will be marked as PP (and yes. i am yelling purposely. over the music, of course.)

J: But do you know what I mean about their sounding "Swedish"?

CW: I think so - the music is so removed, it's like a detached appreciation for kitsch.

PP: WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT? DETACHED? THIS IS ANDREW WK! LEAVE WORDS LIKE "DETACHED" and "KITSCH" FOR BANDS LIKE THE STROKES. AWK IS FROM DETROIT. THERE IS NOTHING KITSCH ABOUT DETROIT. OR SWEDISH FOR THAT MATTER.

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Sensual Sensory Overload

When I first saw Nagisa Oshima's In the Realm of the Senses (Ai no Corrida in Japanese) I thought it was a thrillingly dangerous and erotic film. I was twenty three or so at the time, and I was so impressed at the brutal honesty of the sex portrayed in the movie that I remember feeling quite positive about it. Finally, I thought, someone dares to turn a lens on sexual obsession without pulling out any cheap tricks. I'd never seen anything like it before, and it was beautiful. Also, at the time it really turned me on - I found it erotic and powerful and disturbing at the same time.

When I saw again this month, I was surprised at my much different reaction. While I still felt that the performances and art direction were wihout peer, I was not aroused by any of the powerful sexual images and situations which had affetcted me so strongly seven years ago. My responses this time were focussed primarily on the psychology of obsession, portrayed so vividly in the film, and on the framing and composition of the shots. In other words, I found it engaged my intellect more than my libido.

Two other Japanese films I've seen recently, while technically pornographic in that they depict sex explicitly and frequently, function more as art films with sex than sex films with art. The U.S. porn I've come across tend to place sexual activity at the center of the film; in these movies, it is a vehicle for the story, a metaphor for relationships, and the theatre where the characters engage and explore their relationships. Sex is rarely purely sex. It is a complex social ordering.

The Minority's Report

Bob? Hey, how ya doing. Lily Wong here, of Wong and Associates Industrial Design Consulting Group. I got your vid-message, I wanted to thank you for the tour of the Pre-crime Center yesterday - it was neat-o. Really. Anyway, I think I understand where some of your problems might lie, and I'll just give you some of my thoughts - you know, off the top of my head, some first impressions if you will. We'll be sending you a more formal report later this week, but here's a few things that occured to me.

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