Jumping In

The wind off the San Francisco Bay kept the air chilly on the beach – enough so I needed the long-sleeved, button-up oxford that he offered in characteristic chivalry.  The near-cold added to the edge I felt buzzing within my breast, the acidy vibe coursing from brainstem to pelvis floor like caffeine mixed with pop rocks and hot oil.  What was I thinking?  I didn’t know.  I was a smart, 22 year-old, full of ambition and dreams.  At this moment I had decided not to think.  I was holding his hand, shyly, but so warmly.  His skin on mine felt like butter feels melting on your tongue, bathing your taste buds in the rich, sweet flavor of ‘homemade’.  His strong hand and the way he grasped mine delicately, but with a hint of rebellion, transmitted care and stability, but not overconfidence.  It was our only intimacy.  We were walking barefoot together.  He wasn’t my boyfriend - my boyfriend was in Portland, setting up a new apartment for the two of us to move into. 

My beach companion was handsome, his blonde wavy hair and deep dimples mirrored the image of the perfect man that was imprinted in my mind.  By some strange coincidence, or maybe not – he looked just like my first love, a 14-year old boy I troubled myself over in high school.  But this was a man – a funny, charismatic man with good taste and great looks.  He had a drive to explore his world philosophically, a dream to follow a creative path in life, and, apparently a small flame flickering in his heart for me.

I couldn’t contain the unnamed emotion that his touch - that signal of something more than what it had been only yesterday - triggered in me.  I wanted...what?  I didn’t know.  But I yearned.  I longed, I craved…something.  His hand in mine, his presence here with me in this new, bold, scary way opened up a hole in my chest.  I could feel the accelerating suction of gravity funneling in, in a whirlpool of colors, sounds and sensations.  They flooded me at an alarming rate.  My body filled, tension building; the buzz ricocheted inside of me.  I had to pee.  I had to scream.

“You make me want to dive right in without looking,” I blurted out.  “I feel out of control.”

I looked toward the ocean roaring to our left: ”I want to just jump into the sea, clothes and all.”

He seemed to understand the gravity and symbolism to what I was saying.  I don’t remember what he said.  But I do know, had I done it, had I dropped his hand and run straight into the tiny breaking wavelets at our feet, leapt over the rolling breakers, tripped into the icy, hip-deep Pacific, dowsing that hole in my chest and filling my soul with salt-watery risk and craziness; had he done it with me, we would have made love, right there on the beach in the indiscreet evening glow, wet clothes slapping, saline kisses gobbled up like slippery fishes, and my life would be very different from what it is today.

That buzz, that man, that moment in the burnt offering of the sun as it started to submerge like a pixilated rainbow under the choppy water, they burrowed into my brain like ticks and they changed me.  We didn’t jump in.  We didn’t make love.  But it changed my life nonetheless.  That switch of electricity pulsed open inside my emotional world and reset my train onto another track, a convoluted, interchange of decisions and non-decisions, heartache and determination, that led me eventually to a lifelong commitment and the investments adults make in possessions, places and careers.  And it led me to cancer.

I don’t blame my cancer on anything or anyone; not an experience I did or didn’t have, not a person or a place that tainted my environment or poisoned my cells.  Cancer is a part of each of us, and mine just is.  There is no questioning why or how.  The permutations that create the perfect Petri dish for a cancer to develop and grow are infinite. The genetic and environmental factors can’t be isolated or even grouped into likely and unlikely causes, there are so many.  The possibilities range from an unlucky angle in the bend of my lower intestine, to a flake of lead paint I might have swallowed while crawling on the floor as a 1-year old.  The trigger that initiated this particular cancer - it eventually broke through the wall in my colon and sent poisons into my abdominal cavity, bringing me a few days from death – will remain nature’s secret. 

The imagination can go wild trying to reason with cancer.  I am a healthy 42 year old woman who never smoked a cigarette in my life, used alcohol and drugs only sparingly and ate pretty darn healthy in this chemical-laden, American processed-food culture.  I was running 35 miles a week when my cancer was discovered on an Emergency Room X-ray.  I’m sure I looked damn good, naked on that operating table, but, luckily, the surgeon cut me open and repaired me anyway.  The 7 months following that emergency surgery might have been the worst time in my otherwise blessed life.  It wasn’t the chemotherapy that enveloped my fingers and toes in what seemed like gloves made from the sharp end of a pin-cushion.  It wasn’t vomiting – vomiting was old hat for this girl who flirted mercilessly with bulimia throughout high school and college.  It wasn’t even the colostomy that the doctor left on my stomach, a big blood-red piece of my insides sticking out through my flesh, releasing unpredictable volumes of what normally comes out between your legs.  (Granted, the temporary colostomy was pretty horrible and made my working life very difficult, but we joked about it at home.)  The thing about knowing you have cancer is that you don’t know much.  It took an entire 6-month cycle of chemotherapy for me to realize that even the doctor knew next to nothing about how to treat the disease.  There were studies from 20 years ago that showed some people lived longer than others with certain drugs, but there was no predicting who.  There were statistics, all of which advised people to refrain from smoking and drinking, maintain a healthy diet and get plenty of exercise!  Obviously, I was already defying the statistics, stubbornly getting a disease for which I had met no prerequisites.  I was young.  I was healthy.  I was (and still am) female.

 

Through numerous 6-hour sessions sitting in the infusion room hooked up to a IV bag, it dawned on me that cancer is still a huge mystery.  The chances were just as good that it would stick around as that it would spontaneously disappear.  Of course I followed my oncologist’s recommendation, because it couldn’t hurt: I could be the perfect specimen, reacting favorably to the latest chemical concoction.

But I wasn’t.  The surgeon had cut the cancer out of my gut, and the chemo was like a disinfectant, saturating my entire body in metaphorical bleach.  But the original tumor was ornery and microscopic missionaries  traveled to my lymph nodes and lungs and set up shop.  Seven  months later, I was back in chemotherapy.

 

“Incurable…” the doctor said.  He was a young but impersonal man who tried to comfort me with awkward pats on the shoulder

. 

“What do you mean?” I asked, trying to get a grasp of the definition in his mind so I knew we were both using the same dictionary.

“It means that we are not going to try to cure you, like before,” he responded.  “We will treat you, but now our goals are prolonging your life and maintaining a high quality of life, not curing the cancer.”

This news was another blow to my determinedly carefree existence.  It took getting used to - again.  The medical profession considered me a hopeless case.  They had even fewer answers for me, now that I fell into a new, more complicated classification.  They were all convinced that I would die from this disease. 

Like the day I woke up from surgery, drug-foggy and alone in a thin cotton hospital nightie, again I sat quietly and allowed myself to not think.  I didn’t think about the possibility of dying soon.  I didn’t think about the likely pain and suffering that my family and I might endure.  I didn’t think about what comes after.  It was there, in that state of not thinking about all of these things that I remembered another moment of not thinking - on the beach, holding hands with that San Franciscan man who wasn’t my man.  I was young.  I could live moments like that glorious evening with him without thinking and I could allow the indiscretion because, I could tell myself, of my youth.  But puzzling through things and trying to figure them out is a side effect of responsibility.  As time passed, certain material and personal goals required solving problems.  How do I gain stability?  Buy a house.  How do I buy a house on limited income?  Live cheaply and save money.  How do I fill that house with beautiful children?  Find a man that I could trust to father and raise those future people, those babies who would be more dear to me than anything else in the world...

My San Francisco moment of not thinking allowed me to experience a lightning bolt of excited emotion, a diving-in to something unknown without calculating the consequences.  I relish that memory of Steve – that was his name.  It fills me with a love of the person that I was when I was not thinking:  full of possibility, full of adventure, risking it all for a feeling, doing what feels good and living the moment to see what it will bring.  That is how I remember my walk on the beach.  I realized that I wanted to throw myself into his love without caution.  I wanted to expose myself to the elements of a new and scary and maybe wonderful thing.  I wanted to flail in the freezing water just to see what it felt like, be there sharks lurking, or disgruntled boyfriends.

I didn’t.  My frontal lobe kicked in, overruling the cerebellum, and it thought me back to practicality.  I moved to Portland with my boyfriend (and subsequently broke up with him not long after). Thinking has ruled my life ever since. 

How can a romantic walk on the beach lead to cancer?  It does in that my entire life led me to this point in time, and this point in time includes cancer.  But more than that, holding hands with Steve might have been the last time, until cancer came, that I didn’t think; the last time I abandoned myself to the powers of instinct and sensation.  But then, I didn’t follow through.  I didn’t jump in blindly.  By overruling that impulse, I started down a lifelong path of goal setting and achieving, of strategy, responsibility and commitment.  I have lived 20 years of a life that caters to only half of my brain, neglecting that spontaneous, adventure-seeker curled up in the temporal lobe.  It was hibernating until now.

  

As I sat in the doctor’s office with the new information about the end of my life, I let the situation seep into my body and my cells like a watercolor.  I didn’t try to answer any questions.  I didn’t try to format it to fit into my current framework.  I just allowed it to be, and let my instinct take control.  I allowed myself to feel what it feels like to know you might die soon.  I let the idea enter my world and become a part of it, a new monolith in the landscape of my mind.  As I see it, cancer is a mountain, large, rock-faced and icy, but it is only one of many beautiful features in my internal landscape, which mirrors the great Pacific Northwest with the poetic Three Sisters range, and Hood and St Helens mountains trapped in a frozen ancient courtship.  There is plenty of green.  I see flowering trees swaying in the wind and rivers gurgling pleasantly.  Cancer is only one piece of my world.

By allowing cancer to join me through an avenue that doesn’t analyze and deduce, it is a truth that I accept.  It is in this way that my last moment of not thinking has lead me to cancer, because now I understand cancer like I understand love, which is, not at all, and that is the way it is supposed to be.  I feel what it is instead of knowing it.

 

I have started listening to my non-thinking self more often, in small pieces because I still have children and a husband who depend on me, a mortgage to pay and responsibilities at work.  I navigate my world as often with impulsive feelings as with logical planning.  I’ll walk home from work a new way, or strike up an off-hand conversation with a stranger at the busstop.  With the uncertainty of being here tomorrow, every decision depends at least partially on ‘does it feel good?”  This is something I should have incorporated into my life long ago.  Although these changes are minor, I think I will have at least one last opportunity to ‘jump in without looking’ in a big way.  Nobody knows what awaits us after we die.  But now I know how to not-think about it.

Ballad Against Teen Pregnancy

Go Masturbate, Go Masturbate
Teenage fathers ain't so great
Saving the world, negative one by one
Havin' a good time, just for one
So go masturbate, Go masturbate
It's never too early, it's never too late!

After four beers, through the bottom of a glass
That plumber's butt looks like a nice ass
If makin' it with Billy-Bob is startin' to look grand
Put down the drink, honey, I'll introduce you to your hand
And then Masturbate, go masturbate
You really don't want to be his jailbait

Leave the dancefloor and walk into the bath
Get your own rocks off, just do the math
Is she the gal? If not, it's short:
Your choices are abortion or child support.
Is she the one to share your life?
With your baby dependents, to be your ex-wife?
At age 15, it's a very slim chance
That you can know this after just one dance
So go masturbate, go masturbate
Make these decisions when you're 28.

The bathroom is empty. It'll take just a sec.
So love yourself, don't get in a wreck.
The human body was made for fun,
So go on sugar, have yourself some.
And Masturbate, yes, masturbate
It'll clear your head when you are out late
When you are out partyin' with Jose or Nate
Don't worry about it, no need to debate
Just masturbate, just masturbate
Don't need an appointment, don't need a date.

It'll make your choices so much easier
Would John, Hank or Rasheed be a better pleaser?
The answer is you, you know you the best
Guarantee your return, don't wind up with less
And Masturbate, Yes Masturbate
Don't settle for sex that's second rate

Those teenage boys are known for speed
Out and in, in and out, no time to breath
Take it upon yourself, don't waste a tally
On somebody's belt, in some back alley
Just whip out the Astro, and lube up your fingers
Your needs will be met, no need to linger
Please masturbate, please masturbate
Get your own thrills, It's not too late

Save yourslf a baby, the guilt and a rash
Step out a minute, in the middle of class
There's nothing the matter with pleasing yourself
It's really your job and nobody else
So Masturbate, Go masturbate
Now's not the time to procreate

Kill three birds with just one stone
Get more pleasure, by yourself, alone
Gives you time to see the world at ease
You can be your own friend with bennies!
So go masturbate, go masturbate
Yes masturbate, please masturbate!

How to Make an Impression at the Grocery Store

In my ever-evolving commitment to maneuvering through life without reliance on a car, I recently challenged myself with the following proposition: Could I manage to purchase and transport the typical $200 weekly supply of groceries for my three hungry kids, my husband and myself without the use of a motor vehicle?

One cold and drippy day I decided to find out.

It seems a simple undertaking, buying stuff and getting it home. If I weren’t so stubborn, I could limit my purchases to what I can carry in a few shoulder bags and easily walk the half-mile to and from Fred Meyer's. But that would require an increase in the frequency of my shopping trips to two or even three per week, a frowned-upon inefficiency in my family’s over-committed schedule and an interruption to the steady predictability of our household mechanics.  If I identified as an ecstatically dedicated, long-standing bike-a-holic, I could whip out an appropriate 2 or 3-wheeled human-powered vehicle from my well-stocked stable/garage – maybe the homemade cart-in-front tricycle, or the long-haul trailer pulled behind. Nowadays, there are plenty of these uber-functional cycles around and they all appear equally capable of hauling enough food to keep a full-sized refrigerator from feeling unappreciated.

Alas, I do not own one.

My family’s "bike and walk" lifestyle is what I might call ‘well-developed, yet not rabid’. There are five bikes among us, two of which have racks, but otherwise, they are all plain-Jane bikes with two wheels, 12 gears and affordable price tags. In order to transport all that we need in one trip, I decided I would have to bring one of my favorite carriers – my offspring! With two backpacks, two bikes and two able-bodied bikers, I thought we would probably be able to approximate the carrying capacity we typically demand of our Honda Civic.

The first hurdle – which child could I sucker into coming with me on a day that, while officially falling after the first day of spring, chilled and bit and drizzled upon anyone that ventured outdoors as if it were reluctant to let go of its drunken wintry heyday? My sweet daughter Georgia, always interested in making me happy, agreed to join me.  It took us ten minutes to dress for the weather - the final snap of Georgia’s rain pants signaled that we were ready to embark.

At Fred Meyer, I deposited the two backpacks and our coats and gear into the bottom of a shopping cart and pulled out my husband’s shopping list. Georgia and I got to work.  We started in the produce section. Pumpkins were out of season, so I picked up two butternut squashes instead, along with plenty of vegetables for stew. I threw in a bunch of beautiful greens (rainbow kale – my favorite), and was inspired to try an Asian pear, despite the price. Growing bodies need fruit, so I made sure to include a good variety of apples, bananas and other healthy "sweets." We moved on to the bulk food bins for lentils, barley, a large bag of almonds to keep my stomach satisfied between meals at work, and my husband’s favorite granola. Georgia and I systematically continued through the bread aisle, the canned goods and the frozen food section. We picked up a nice roast, some cheese, a container of juice to share at my daughter’s school party and another for the family, plus two gallons of milk. We were sailing along and the cart was filling up, but I felt no apprehension - yet.

Then, as I rounded the cereal corner, I gasped! Peanut Butter Captain Crunch (PNBCC) was on sale! I helped myself to 3 boxes and added 3 more of Cinnamon Life (gotta have variety, I always say!). Georgia frowned at the heap of boxes that rose above the lip of the shopping cart, but we were in the final stretch. The last item on the list was snake bedding from the pet section.

I am constantly amazed at what products a person can find at Fred Meyer's. There, on aisle 14, not far from human staples, like milk and butter, were snake staples - large plastic bags full of shredded wood and scratching posts shaped like dragons - to help beloved reptile family members shed with ease. The size of the bedding bags discomfited me. The smallest was the size of a fat throw-pillow. Where would I put it? Georgia was getting quite nervous now, eyeing me with a look of mild terror as I cautiously balanced the bag on top of the jumble of cereal boxes in the cart.

I admit, I was starting to question my ability to pull this off. But, with my customary obstinance, I plunged the cart forward, heading straight for the checkout stand so as not to be tempted to add a cherry to the top of our precarious grocery sundae.

When our turn came to unload our purchases, the tall, tattooed cashier took one paper bag in each hand and ominously whipped them open in the air with a sharp double-snap.

"We’re biking," I told him. "We have our own bags." I heard a disbelieving snort and raised my head to catch a glimpse of something that looked like ridicule pass over his face as he eyeballed the mountain of items moving toward him on the conveyor belt.  His faithlessness lit a fire of resolve in my gut. Was he challenging me? He may as well have put the store microphone to his mouth and announced over the loudspeaker, "Ladies and Gentlemen, this lady can’t do it."

After that, it was him versus me.

"Just set it all at the end down there, and we’ll pack them ourselves," I instructed him authoritatively. Grudgingly, he did as he was told. As the groceries disappeared from the holding area of our shopping cart, our backpacks, coats, hats and scarves emerged. Georgia and I slowly re-created our sexy ‘Michelin Man’ look for the ride home, newly reassured by the fact that our clothes occupied a not insignificant volume underneath all that food.

I was hopeful and determined. I started to pack. I carefully chose the heaviest stuff - the squashes, cans, milk and juices – and placed them at the bottoms of the two backpacks, giving Georgia less on account of her youth (I didn’t want to scare her off completely on her very first foray into bike shopping). Next came the meat, fruit and veggies. I zipped up Georgia’s backpack, feeling that the weight was about as much as I could ask her to carry. I packed a bit more into mine and stuffed my pockets with apples, ramen and cheese. But when I had filled every zippered space in my current wardrobe, there were still 6 boxes of cereal lying on the cashier’s countertop.

Georgia fidgeted. The Cap’n smiled at me mockingly. The cashier tried to hide his smug satisfaction, pretending to cough as I stood there puzzling. Shifting from foot to foot, Georgia trained her anywhere but directly into mine. All seemed lost.

With a sinking feeling, I realized that I would have to raise the white flag and return the poor Cap’n and his yummy, cheap Crunch to the grocery store shelves. But suddenly, I let out a happy gasp and reached into a hidden pocket on the inside of my pack. I had remembered my secret weapon!

"You underestimate me!" I announced triumphantly as if to no one in particular.  I was really addressing my nemesis, the doubting Thomas on the other side of the cash register. I pulled out two black, reusable grocery bags with handles, flourishing them in a figure eight like a bullfighter’s cape or a ninja's nunchucks. Georgia looked at her shoes and tried to disappear into the texture of the plastic grocery-store siding all around us. (I wonder if my dramatic flair embarrasses her.) Three orange boxes fit snugly into one bag and three yellow ones into the other. I would sling these nicely-symmetrical weights from either end of my handlebars.

"Your total is $194.53."

Did I catch a whiff of defeat in the cashier’s voice? Fishing my wallet out from beneath the hot dogs and carrots took a little effort, but I did it smiling, pleased with myself at vanquishing the naysayer and accomplishing my goal. 

"Oh," the cashier’s voice rose from where he was crouched by the shopping cart. "I missed one."

My smile turned upside down. I swear I could hear an evil, high-pitched cackle as he pulled a plastic bag, squeaking, along the slick countertop. He slid the large bag of snake bedding across the scanner and said, "The total is now $197.43."

The oversized parcel and his cocky smirk let us know that the game was now officially over. He had won.  A grim silence encompassed us.

"Mommy," Georgia’s soft voice drifted up. "Mommy, I have an idea." We both turned her way, my adversary and I. She took the snake litter from me and pressed it up against her stomach.

"See?" she said, testing out her solution, and she tucked the bottom half of the bag into the waistband of her rain pants, then zipped up her coat around the soft parcel. I saw: A suddenly very chubby little girl, braced against the cold and rain, smiling proudly.

My hero.

I hoisted her backpack onto her shoulders for her, buckled her helmet and tucked her scarf into her coat so that all that showed were her pink cheeks and bright blue eyes. I pulled my gear on, groaning at the weight. It was like hauling a package of composite roofing shingles up a ladder. I took one reusable bag of sweet, Crunch-y goodness in each hand and turned back to make sure I hadn’t left anything behind at the register.

The cashier motioned for me to wait. My former opponent smiled.

"Let me get a picture," he said.

Georgia and I stood in profile, looking like a mama Sasquatch and her baby, or two misfit members of a climbing party, confusedly far from basecamp.

"Impressive," he said, wielding his smart-phone and grinning. “Say cheese.”

I patted the quarter pound of sharp cheddar in my breast pocket and said, “Cheese!”

In Your Dreams

Sometimes even the bravest of us shy away from saying what we really mean in times of potential conflict. Like when the bus driver totally speeds past our stop without even slowing, leaving us waiting in the rain for the next one. Or when a driver parks in the handicapped spot at the grocery store to run in ‘just real quick’ (but doesn’t have a handicapped permit). There are things we want to do or say, but wouldn’t dare because of this pervasive social expectation called politeness – and a strong sense of self-preservation that typically restrains us in case the target of our disdain is quite a bit bigger than us, certifiably crazy or both!

With the ever-possible repercussions of unwanted fist-fights, biker road rage or the embarrassing discovery that you just snapped at your 2nd grader’s math teacher, living out your fantasy witticisms is hard to do. But when losers and mean people thwart our attempts at getting around outside the protective armor of a four-wheeled motorized contraption, we have the right to dream of snarky comebacks and acid protestations. And after the fact, we are so much cleverer, more courageous and glorified in our righteousness. Below are some of the things I dream of saying or doing to rude or ornery commuters in the course of getting around in our fair city. Try to match the utterance with one or more appropriate scenarios. Answers below.

1. A clueless pedestrian’s forward progress confusedly meanders from side to side on the narrow downtown sidewalk, impeding your rapid, efficient stride. He sporadically stop or cut over into your ‘lane’ without a backwards glance.

2. You are stopped on your bike at a four-way stop sign, awaiting your turn to cross. A bike rider zips past from behind you and jets through the intersection without slowing, throwing off the carefully orchestrated pattern that you and the other three vehicles that are engaged in the intersection-crossing understand and follow.

3. A motorized vehicle or helmet-less bike messenger speeds into a right-hand turn as you are taking your first step into the very crosswalk they are about to blindly traverse.

4. The hail is creating pits in your scalp in the January darkness, but you are heartened by the looming shadow of the 7:30 pm number 23 bus a few blocks away. You wave your flashlight and step towards the curb, but as the roar of the engine reaches a deafening level and the slosh of icy rain water streams out from beneath the tires, you notice the driver is not slowing at the usual rate, and in fact, is not slowing at all. As you wave your arms wildly, the last bus of the night races on without you.

5. You arrive out of breath, 5 minutes late at your usual carshare parking spot, only to find it empty. As you tap your foot and check your watch for the tenth time, the car you are waiting for pulls into the space. But the driver fumbles around looking for her purse, scattering multiple food wrappers onto the floor, delaying your departure further.

6. It is well after your carpool’s agreed-upon departure time. Daycare for your son starts charging a dollar a minute very soon. Your carpool co-worker snorts and chortles about the big game with his buddies as you stand poised behind him, arms folded, shoulder bag loaded, keys in hand. He pantomimes scoring the winning point and his buddies break out the beer and chips…


A. “Jeez! Do I have to drag you by the ear?”
B. “Hello! I’m right here!”
C. “Pick a side!”
D. “Good thing I didn’t, like, actually have an appointment or anything!”
E. “The tourist route is on the other side of the street.”
F. “Do you cut in line at the grocery store too?”
G. “Come back here you X%$X(*&##”! I pay your salary!”
H. “AAAAEEYYeeeooooowww! My foot!!!!” (screamed at the top of your lungs)
I. “Excuse me, it’s my turn.”
J. "I curse you! May you live a life full of flat tires and hemorrhoids!”
K. “Pedestrians always have the right of way.”
L. “Next time, have your mommy drive you.”
M. “A minute on the lips, forever on the hips!”
N. “What, are you late for your lunch break?”
O. “My hourly rate goes up the more annoying you are.”




Answers:
1- B, C, E; 2- B, F, I, J; 3-B, H, I, K; 4-B, G, J, N; 5- D, I, J, L, O;
6- A, L, M, O.

To Know Thee is to Love Thee, Dear Portland

Do you know your way around Portland? I mean REALLY know our fair city? There is one group in town whose members can say verifiably, that, yes they do!: Meet the Hash House Harriers. “The Hash”, as it is called, is one of many around the world dedicated to, in order of priority, drinking beer, running, and singing bawdy songs not fit for the ears of anyone under 21. The hash is Oregon’s "drinking club with a running problem."

The hash regularly exposes hidden nooks and crannies of Portland by leading members on wild running, walking or biking events. Members take turns leading these events along little-known thoroughfares connecting, for example, posh neighborhoods to homeless encampments, or city parks to industrial dump sites. A “commendable” (this is a euphemism) trail often passes through “shiggy” - mud, brambles, brush and swamps; and a truly memorable trail will no doubt require a little trespassing, be it through a tunnel, over a train trestle, or across the Governor’s back yard. Fording streams, climbing fences and scaling steep embankments add to the fun. Only the brave and adventurous dare to follow!

The hash began in 1938 in Kuala Lumpur. British expats regularly met at a greasy spoon, or hash house, to run and drink beer. The runs became a ‘hare and hounds’ type of game, where the leader, with a 10 minute head-start, set out running, dropping random bits of shredded paper for the ‘hounds’ to follow. Today’s hash uses biodegradable flour, dropped in handfuls every 20 yards or so, but the modern ‘hares’ still feel the pressure of the panting pack on their heels, because the punishment for getting caught by the hounds is a de-pantsing! *

*If you ever see a pants-less man running through your neighborhood carrying a bag of flour, now you’ll know why (female hashers are typically smart enough to wear two pairs of pants!).

There are thousands of hash groups around the world; one can be found in almost every major city. Hashers are even crazy enough to have established clubs in Antarctica. Portland has, at last count, three separate hashes with varying degrees of family-friendliness, athleticism and beer-consuming capabilities. Old, young, fit, fat – there is a hash for everyone here. The governance of the Hash is lovingly referred to as the MisManagement. The Religious Advisor and the Grand Master or Mattress do very little other than rile up the crowd, direct drinking ceremonies and generally incite obnoxiousness among the members.

Hashers meet at a pre-disclosed location, sometimes a bar, often a trailhead or parking lot, and warm-up for their impending physical activity by, you guessed it, drinking beer. The hares set a trail using special marks to guide the hounds – sometime astray. An ‘X’ written in flour on the ground is a “check”, indicating that the trail diverges somewhere nearby. Checks serve the dual purpose of slowing down the front-runners so that the lazy, out of shape or walking participants can catch up, and gives the hares a little extra time to increase the distance between themselves and the pack. No well-planned hash lacks a “beer check”. This is another opportunity for the hares to inebriate the fast guys, slow them down and increase their own chances of arriving at the end clothed.

The hares set off and, after a mandatory 10 minute wait, the hounds endeavor to find the trail, capture the hares (and their pants) and explore the rich and entertaining, uncharted territory of the urban pedestrian environment. The hounds will blow whistles or call out “On-on” when they find flour marking the way. Often times, the hares make them work to find the “true trail”, so it is not uncommon to see a bunch of people jogging around in circles in a parking lot or by the side of the highway, calling out and whistling to each other as they scan the ground for that elusive white, dusty pile that beckons them to the promise of more beer.

The final location of a hash is a tightly guarded secret, for obvious reasons. But well-heeled hashers, familiar with the myriad topographical secrets of Portland, can sometimes guess its whereabouts. Depending on how closely their confidence reflects their actual skill, short-cutting the trail can position these egomaniacs to catch the hares - or find themselves lost in a dead-end gulley full of hypodermic needles and used condoms. In the end, though, every hound is found and gathered up for ‘religion’, which ideally takes place around a campfire. Down-downs – rapid, on-demand drinking assignments – are meted out to punish, reward or recognize hashers at the whim of the Religious Advisor. Down-downs are bestowed for such egregious errors as wearing a t-shirt advertising a race (athletic prowess is officially frowned upon at the hash), or for skipping a beer check (a clear sign of disrespect and avoiding responsibility!). The accused swig beer from a unique drinking vessel, that, when seen on the shelves at a medical supply store, is commonly mistaken for a bed pan.

While at the hash, hashers use hash names, which are typically derogatory, offensive and/or overtly sexual in nature. Conceivably, this practice serves to protect the true professional identities of hashers after a rowdy night in the woods (a certain public school principal comes to mind). But mostly, because the names are funny. To earn your hash name, you typically have to do or say something stupid or perform an extraordinarily daring feat (one and the same thing, no?). A good hash name makes you cringe. It makes you want to wash your mouth out with soap. Needless to say, most are not suitable to print in this publication.

For special occasions, hashers liven things up by wearing togas or red dresses. Imagine a long line of random-looking men and women cutting diagonally through the downtown Nordstrom’s, unified by the bright color of their feminine Goodwill attire. Hashers can also be seen cross-dressing, or pulling a drunken charioteer riding her regal, silver grocery cart in the annual Urban Iditarod.

While juvenile obnoxiousness, beer and exercise are all great fun, the best thing the hash offers to its participants is a special intimacy with this place called Portland. There is unspeakable joy in discovering a hitherto unknown passageway beneath something as impassable as the I-5 freeway, or an expedient connection between McLoughlin Blvd and the Marylhurst University campus. Hidden gems, like the Crystal Springs headwaters and the Reed Canyon nature park fill the heart as the fresh, crisp Portland air fills the lungs. Slogging across empty nude beaches and full swamps on Sauvie’s Island on a wintery afternoon can change the aura from that of a children’s Halloween amusement park to a mature, serene habitat. The hash leads us up and down the voluptuous hills of Portland, entangles us in her twisting undergrowth and allows us to sneak a peak at her foundations. Sometimes she wears a girdle or some ratty briefs; but more often than not, it’s a lavender negligee.

It All Started with a Belly Roll...

Who could have guessed that a 42 year old, former rugby playing feminist with a midsection scarred by multiple surgeries would become an avid belly dancing student? Certainly not I, and, yet, faithfully, I get into the car and drive 10 miles every Tuesday night in order to ‘move my belly’ as my godson calls it.

Surprisingly, I was inspired by my slightly-awkward, 11-year old daughter. Unlike me, Georgia has natural six-pack abs. One day, while goofing around, she did a little dance that included the most extraordinary muscular wave from the bottom of her ribcage to her hipbones and back up again. Her stomach undulated as deeply as a tidal wave! We all gasped in amazement and reverence at such a feat, but, being 11, Georgia shrugged it off. After that, in secret, I tried to emulate my daughter. I tried to make my stomach roll with the tiniest of waves. Despite my intense efforts, I had no success and gave it up for lost.

Around this same time, I noticed a belly dance class at the community center where I drive my godson each night for swim team. One night while waiting absentmindedly for swim practice to end, I listened in on the belly dancing class for a few minutes. Truthfully, it went in one ear and out the other; it didn’t seem to make any impact whatsoever. However, on Christmas morning, I unwrapped a present from my mother, and the contents revealed itself to be the third piece of a puzzle I didn’t know I was concocting in my mind. From inside the box, a lovely scarlet belly dancing hip-scarf with hundreds of metallic coins sewn onto it glimmered and winked at me slyly. Without hesitation, I signed up for that community center class the following week!

Most people today became familiar with belly-dancing through the movies: A young, lithe woman dressed in transparent scarves and jingling metal adornments dances alluringly to win the favor of a powerful Sultan; an exotic beauty with heavy eye-makeup makes her low-slung tassels swoop and swirl as her undulating pelvis whips them in frenzied figure-eight patterns. Think Sinbad, Scheherazade, Arabian Nights. This image of belly-dancing was born of “Orientalism”, North America’s projection of exotic fantasy onto real life practices from North Africa and the Middle East, an area that, at the turn of the century, was still considered part of the “Orient”.

Americans tend to interpret belly dance as an erotic dance performed by women to entertain and please men, but its history is much more complicated. What we call modern ‘belly dance’ came from the “danse du ventre” introduced in the US during the World Exposition in 1893. Because it was performed by visiting Middle-Eastern and North African ‘Ghawazi’ practitioners, it was called ‘Oriental dance’, giving it special mystique as a novel import. Some sources say ‘Oriental dance’ was common among both women and men in the Islamic countries where it originated, but women only danced in the company of other women, and men with other men. It was a family activity, not an attempt to tempt or entice. Other sources say the dance was a common form of muscular training and exercise for reproductive health, learned at a young age by girls imitating their mothers, and later used to achieve a more relaxing and fruitful experience during childbirth. Regardless of how or why this dance was performed in the East, the Western world’s prudishness stigmatized it as scandalous, interpreting a purposeful, family-friendly dance as something risqué and salacious. In the time following its debut at the world exposition, its ‘indecent’ reputation helped transform it into “hoochie coochie” – from the French name for a bird that “shakes a tail” -- and it became a sensation, drawing crowds of outraged, yet eager and curious carnival-goers during an age of tight corsets and strict feminine propriety. Some dancers capitalized on the publicity and notoriety of belly-dancing as a ‘danger to public morals’, and took it up a notch by stripping bare. As strange as it may sound, the modern-day strip-tease descended, in part, from Islamic “Ghawazi” belly dancing!

This sexualized aspect of the dance was something of a turn-off for me. I wasn’t interested in dance as titillating entertainment for men. Participating in something historically akin to stripping made me uncomfortable. But I soon learned that American Tribal Style belly dance, the type commonly practiced today in the US, is more of a private activity to be shared among women, and when performed, is family-friendly and encourages audience participation.

“American” belly dance may sound like a misnomer, but the name is quite fitting. Since its introduction in the US over 100 years ago, belly dance has evolved into something very Western, even in its exaggerated Eastern flourishes. Islamic women, at parties or in the throes of labor, didn’t likely wear jingling coin bras and heavy eye makeup. Religious modesty forbid them from baring limbs and midriffs in public. The tassels commonly seen bouncing on American belly-dancing hips historically adorned lowly camels, not people. The US latched onto the novel and thrilling phenomenon of “oriental” dance and altered it to fulfill a Hollywood-fueled national imagination. In fact, belly dancing has been so Americanized that every child in the US has danced a version of it. This dance, its name taken from the belly-dance-inspired “Hoochie Coochie,” instructs participants to shake each part of his or her body separately, and then “turn yourself about”: it’s the Hokey Pokey!

When I walked into my first belly dance class, I discovered that today’s belly dancing, contrary to what we see on the silver screen, doesn’t have age or weight parameters. I was greeted by four roundish, 40-something women with ample bellies, and three gawky middle school girls. American Tribal Style is taught and practiced in the non-exclusive spirit of its origins, attracting females of all shapes and sizes to celebrate their feminine forms. During class, most of my classmates danced un-self-consciously with beautiful protruding stomachs on display. Hollywood’s Eastern-inspired fashion, however, was alive and well. Teachers and students alike wore coin sashes and jingling coin halters, bindis on their foreheads, sheer harem pants straight out of ‘I Dream of Genie’ or flowing layered skirts. Some balanced swords on their heads.

This iconic wardrobe focuses attention and emphasis on the dancer’s feminine form as it performs the moves typical in belly dance. The core repertoire mimics the natural movements of the female body: sashaying hips, rolling torsos, undulating shoulders and a few shimmies thrown in. As the teacher described it to me, it all seemed so basic! I am female; I am a good dancer (believe it or not!): I thought I would be able to immediately ‘move my belly’ with the best of them. All there is to it is shaking your hips right? I was humbled to find out that belly dancing takes much more than just rhythm and grace. Coordinating multiple actions with different parts of the body, and often different concurrent actions in the same part of the body, challenged me to a point of tears on more than one occasion. Belly-dancing requires balance, core muscle control and coordination. But most of all, it requires surrender: You have to let it all hang out! The successful shimmy – a simple vibration of the torso that makes the sinews, muscles and fat of the female torso come to life – depends more on loosening the gluts than on controlling the belly. A good belly-dancer accentuates her feminine beauty by using both control and release in the body’s center.

Many tribal style dance forms show off the strength of the core, the pelvis, where all important human functions originate – standing, walking, bearing weight and bearing children. In societies where a strong body is important to the economic success of the family unit, a good dancer makes a good partner. Personally, I don’t plan on plowing fields by hand, and I am done having children, but I can still enjoy the modern benefits of belly dancing – celebrating music and movement in the company of like-minded women, expressing femininity unapologetically with every jiggle of adipose tissue, and eventually building my own six pack abs.

Coming Home

August 24, 2011 at 9:00 am, my family eyed the uncommonly shiny, new taxi waiting for us in the parking lot just down the hill from our Pisac hospedaje. A long seven months ago, on February 8, 2011, we piled into a larger, rougher-looking taxi at the Cusco airport – our first non-air transportation in our new temporary home of Peru. So much had happened in the interim, but in such small increments that we could hardly describe the metamorphosis we all had undergone. We noticed the new car, a rarity in this part of Peru, that was for sure. Our understanding of what is common and what is not had grown more comprehensive each day that passed in the small community of 3,000.

As we started loading our bags into it, I noted that, as opposed to our first taxi ride, this time we had more stuff and less taxi.

The driver managed to squeeze the hatchback closed and the four of us clambered into the available seats, holding the smaller of the bags and satchels on our laps. After more than half a year in this foreign place, we were almost ready to leave – leave Pisac, leave Cusco, leave Peru. The taxi took us down the hill about 6 blocks to a restaurant on the main carretera. The bright orange sign showed a Lambayequan god in a large, ornate headdress, poling his canoe into the sun, his name blazoned over his head: “Naylamp”. We had one more family member to pick up.

We spotted the grey-haired Otorongo, his grizzled face softened by the now-smudged, blue tattoo of a nautical star between his eyes, and his young, pregnant wife Diana sitting outside the entrance. Their boys, Prem and Sebastian, moved about on the sidewalk outside the restaurant like impatient farm animals waiting to be fed. The restaurant owners, Mama Nelly and her partner Angel, were there, but one person was noticeably missing: the namesake of the restaurant, our new godson and soon-to-be exchange student in the United States, 15 year old Naylamp. He was not in the restaurant, but his bags were.

I heaved one of his backpacks into the already-stuffed station wagon, remembering how, upon our arrival, I was not allowed to lift anything over 10 pounds. I had had major abdominal surgery 2 weeks prior to our departure from Portland and wasn’t allowed to do a lot of things, but going to Peru was not one of them! Lucky for me, my husband had been ever-accommodating: he carried two of his own backpacks, plus mine, from Portland to Los Angeles to Lima to Cusco to Pisac. This time, strengthened by months of high-altitude living, lots of walking and simply time passing, I could do my fair share.

Naylamp’s family passed around hugs and kisses and we chatted in limited Spanish as we awaited his descent from his grandma’s living space above the restaurant. All of a sudden, he appeared, racing towards us, wet from a shower, smiling as usual, and looking a little bit frantic. Of course he was frazzled. He was about to embark on an 11-month journey, far from his family and friends, to a strange place, a strange house, a strange family.

The taxi-driver had an appointment to pick someone up at the Cusco airport after he dropped us off, so he was in a hurry. He goaded Naylamp and his family into gathering the loose items that hadn’t made it into the backpack – the poncho, the chullo, two sets of Andean pipes – and herded our newly-enlarged family of five back towards the car.

More kisses and hugs all around, more bags wedged between knees, under feet and above heads. We waved goodbye and blew kisses from our squashed positions within. The doors slammed shut. Through what little window-glass was still unobstructed by luggage, I saw Naylamp’s grandma Nelly, standing in the entrance of her restaurant, wiping her eyes. She is Mama Nelly to Naylamp, having raised him since he was small. With no time for sentiment, the driver stepped on the gas, and we were off! I couldn’t see into the back seat to gauge my new dependent’s expression. How did he feel leaving everything he knew? Who were these strange Americans who would presume to be his parents for the next year? Was he scared? Excited? We were all too crammed together to feel much other than the sharp pang of knitting needles and toothbrushes stabbing us through our carry-ons.

The next three days did not impress me. We spent them in Lima, not the star tourist attraction of South America. Dirty, busy and dangerous, it left no impression in my already richly-filled visitor’s brain other than that of expensive taxis, bad food and noise. It was like drinking powdered skim milk after seven months of fresh buttercream straight from the cow’s udder.

The highlight in Lima was meeting and saying goodbye to more of Naylamp’s extended family. Other activities included visiting a military museum that offensively celebrated the very weapons used to subdue indigenous Peruvians and bring their race close to extinction; and walking through a famous shopping mall, famous for no other reason than it is ridiculous for people who earn so little to spend so much on stuff they so don’t need. We hailed cabs, packed into rapid transit busses at rush hour and generally spent most of our time getting to and fro within the gigantic maze that is the typical urban setting in developing countries.

Matt and the girls flew to the US on August 28th. Naylamp and I followed on the 29th. Getting away from Lima was a blessing, in more ways than one. Escaping the city itself was a relief. But moreso, it felt good to eliminate the ambiguity caused by being the responsible ‘parent’ for Naylamp, which started when we left Pisac, while his real family was also present. I felt like I could finally be the authority and the responsible adult without guilt. And then there was immigration. We were a bit nervous as we approached the border-crossing immigration officer stationed just before our boarding area. He looked unkindly at Naylamp’s long hair and paperwork. He silently noted my skin color and my American passport.

“Where are your parents?” he asked Naylamp in Spanish.

Naylamp explained that his mother was outside in the airport right now, having just seen us off, and that his father was in Pisac.

“Who is this notary?” the man asked, pointing at the notarized form authorizing a minor to travel. It was an Asian last name.

“He is in Supe.” Naylamp responded, “Outside of Lima.”

The officer went away to check with someone else about the notary and the documents. The two of us stood there, apprehensively waiting to see if Peru’s infamous make-them-up-as-you-go rules would come into play here. The man returned. He silently stamped Naylamp’s passport. He folded up the original Authorization to Travel and put it away in a drawer, then waved us on our way without another word.

As we rounded a corner, we both let out the breaths that we had been holding. We could finally breath easy. From that point on, we could let down our guard knowing that we had cleared the biggest hurdles. All that remained was US immigration once we landed in LAX. I had heard that, even there, they could decide to send you back if they didn’t like your attitude. But I thought that was pretty unlikely. So we enjoyed the long airplane ride, the raunchy movie selection and the two and a half meals served during our 9 hour flight. Naylamp asked two fellow passengers to take photos out the window for him (we were in the center seats). We made it to the US pleasantly and uneventfully.

Landing in LAX, passing through immigration bleary-eyed at 10 pm, dealing with a small-potatoes hotel chain and their aggravatingly limited shuttle service, even eating at the diner close to our hotel – it was all a blur. We went to bed at midnight and awoke less than 4 hours later to catch our final flight, destined for Portland.

By 8:00 am on August 30th, we had made it home. Matt and the girls had already dived in to the long lost of things necessary to jumpstart our old life in the house. Over the next few days, the five of us visited doctors, filled out paperwork, registered for classes, organized our stuff, cleaned, cooked, visited… It was real. We were back home. As surreal and as jolting as it was, it was shockingly easy and familiar. I once again understood people – truly understood them – when they gave me directions. I knew how much a loaf of bread should cost. I didn’t worry about getting ripped off, or getting lost, or hurting someone’s feelings inadvertently. I didn’t have to look around at others to know where to stand, where to sit, how long to wait, which side of the street to walk on.

I felt empowered, like a long-estranged master of my surroundings. Every traffic movement, every social interaction, every simple custom bowed to my command. The things I took for granted before our travels, when we were completely familiar with the culture and the language, had reappeared, magically fat on the vine for the picking. The frustrations of being less than fluent, idiomatically and socially, fully dissolved the moment I set foot on that loud, American carpet of red and blue at the Portland International Airport.

How easy life can be, how at-rest my mind, securely running on auto-pilot as the complex rituals of time and place once again become background noise. But I never would have known how much I know, how competent we all truly are in our own cultural setting, had I not flung my poor flailing brain into the equally complex culture of others. As I now rest my overworked brain, Naylamp’s is the one swimming in that confusing vat of foreignness. We should be patient with him.