Tap Dancing

 

“She’s taking tap dancing lessons with a retired former Rockette! Can you believe that?”
I can’t. I’m on the other side of the locker room in my usual panic to get out before the lifeguards start yelling at us that the pool is closed. But this snippet of conversation floats over to me, and, undeniably, needs to be documented. The speaker goes on. She’s holding court. The other women, maybe 5 or 6 of them, are all sitting on benches in various stages of trying to get dressed. Some tugging at their leggings. Others bending over,  stretching damp socks on wet feet. Some still in the beginning stages, just sitting there on the bench, staring into space.

            “She has so much energy! And not only does she take tap dancing, but she also works a full-time job!” The speaker exclaims. “I feel like a slug next to her!”

            I laugh to myself. A slug! Exactly how I feel many days. Today, I was a little less slug-like, but only in the water. Once I’m on land, forget it. I’m slugging along.

            “25 minutes is better than nothing!” L exclaims into the air as she emerges from the shower.

            I holler back, “Totally! It’s great!”

            “I just feel so much better than I did before the pool.”

            And, here is this theme again. Water and euphoria. Does a tap dancing Rockett student feel euphoria I wonder. It’s hard to imagine.

            I remember when I tried to take tap dancing in college from the fabulous Audrey Flint. She had a small group of us, some who had a little experience dancing, and some, like me with none. Every time she said, “And to the right,” I’d go left. And every time she said, “And left….” I’d go right.

            I was directionally challenged. Like my father. A very smart man. But the right/ left mix- up is a family trait. I’ve learned to adapt to this challenge. Mr. Ian came up with the idea that the left can be identified as the ‘bass’ and the right as the ‘treble’, thinking that since I’m a pianist, I’d get this.

            Sometimes I do. But more often than not, I still have to think about it. I’ll be driving us to the pool and Ian will say, “Turn bass.” I immediately think of a Brahms piece I’m working on, one of the intermezzos in Op 118 and how it actually has the lowest A on the keyboard in the piece!

            Not really helpful to be thinking about Brahms while driving down Barrett Avenue in Richmond.

            Needless to say, I was a complete disaster as a tap dancer. I remember doggedly trying to keep up with the routine, but only for a short amount of time. Audrey was a complete professional, cheerful and patient. But I just didn’t have what it took to tap dance.

            “Carol, slow down!” L hollers at me.

            I laugh. “I am! So slow!”

            “No, I think you pick up speed as you go along,” Alice observes.

            “Maybe,” I agree, throwing on my big swim parka to prepare for the breezy rain showers.

            “Where did you get that sweater? It’s so cute!”

            The women continue their chatter. No one seems that worried about getting out by the 15-minute cut-off time.

            They just keep on tap dancing. One question at a time. One laugh at a time. One step at a time….

I Don’t Understand

 

“I tell my neighbors when they go on Next Door that it’s a bot that’s generating the complaints. It’s not a Real Person. It’s AI!”

            In the shower after a crowded, rushed swim at Kennedy High Pool, I stand under the stream of hot water, trying to get warm and trying to understand the conversation I’ve walked in on. Alice is talking. Usually, she is. Linda is listening. Kinda. Mostly she’s trying to get out of her elaborate swim costume of a polka dot suit, leggings, black strapped cap and walking shoes. It’s an arduous process.

            “…. they don’t understand,” Alice continues. “I try to explain to them that the complaints aren’t real, that it’s AI, but I don’t think they get it. But what do I know. I’m retired!” She laughs heartily, rinsing the shampoo out of her hair.

            “What are the bots complaining about?” I ask, trying to get in on the conversation.

            “It’s about language,” Alice answers. “The syntax of a sentence….”

            The bot is complaining about grammar? I wonder. This makes no sense. Did I mishear? Did Alice mishear? I don’t understand. So, I try another tack.

            “You know a lot of languages, don’t you, Alice?”

            “Oh, yes,” she nods. “I took French in school and then I learned Spanish and Italian but I tell you Mandarin was the hardest!”

            “Oh, yeah,” I laugh, remembering my feeble attempts at learning Mandarin before I went to China and then while I was there. All I learned to say in Mandarin was the name of the university where I was teaching and “Do you have any broccoli?” for when I went out to eat.

            Now I tell the two women how I’m so bad at trying to learn Spanish even though I’ve been studying it for four years.

            “You could get a friend to practice with who knows the language,” Linda advises.

            “Oh, when I was trying to learn Mandarin, this is when VCRs were first coming out, I got Chinese soap operas and learned that way.”

            “I try watching Spanish soap operas,” I sigh, “but I don’t understand anything.”

            They both laugh sympathetically? Or no, not really. They don’t understand.

            Later outside the facility after showering and dressing, I’m chatting with LS and she’s telling me about someone named Rama or Majsua or hell I don’t know. She’s impressed with this person because he gives all of his wealth to charity rather than like in our culture it’s all about how much wealth you can amass for yourself.

            “What’s his name?” I ask her.

            She repeats it. But is still can’t grasp any of it. A huge cement mixer starts to back up in the parking lot, the noise of the truck grinding out any possibility of understanding what she’s saying.

            I don’t understand anything, I think. I don’t understand what the bots are complaining about on Next Door, I don’t understand Spanish, I don’t understand the story about the ancestor of Mohammed. And, I especially don’t understand what’s going on in the US right now. I read every day in the NYT about how Trump wants to move all the Palestinians out of Gaza and create a resort; how he wants to rename the Gulf of Mexico the Gulf of America; how he wants to deport all of the ‘illegal aliens’ out of the US; how he wants to increase tariffs so that all the goods from China, Mexico and Canada will end up being more expensive.

            I just don’t understand.

            And on a grander scale, I don’t understand how Trump is even president. How anyone voted for him. A rapist and a criminal and authoritarian psychopath.

            I just don’t understand.

            Now I think understanding is perhaps beside the point. I just need to understand how to get through my day, work my jobs, get out of bed, not scream at any idiots in the pool.

            Understanding has always been something I craved.

            Now I’m not so sure….

           

The Search

“What are you looking for?”

“Oh, I lost my goggles…” Melvin dives again under the lane lines, skimming close to the bottom of the pool, before popping up again. He tosses a pair of pink rimmed goggles on the deck.

I’m standing on the deck, dripping and ready to exit the natatorium.  Super Swimmer man in the lime green cap and turquoise swim trunks stands next to me. I’ve swam with him in my lane a few times. He’s okay to swim with except that he’s BIG. Tall, maybe over 6 feet, and muscular. His great white core barreling through the water.

Now he just stands and watches Melvin.

Nodding toward the discarded goggles, I ask, “Are those what you were looking for?”

“Not really,” Melvin shrugs before diving back under the water, swimming close the bottom of the pool again, heading out to the middle. He’s the Super Swimmer of the pool. Sleek and muscular, fast, and furious. A lifeguard and a manly man. If he can’t find what he’s looking for, who can? I muse.

I gather up my stuff and start down the cold hallway to the locker room. Lime Cap man shakes his head, then says to me: “Do we ever really find what we are looking for?”

He chuckles. Pleased with his joke. I stare at him, then shake my head. “Depends,” I say, but before I can elaborate, he’s gone, striding down the hallway, leaving big man wet footprints in his wake.

Later, at home now, dry and hungry, I muse about Lime Cap Man’s question. Do we ever really find what we are looking for?

I suppose first, you have to know what you’re looking for. If it’s a lost pair of goggles, then that’s rather straightforward. You either find them or you don’t. But what if it’s something more abstract?

Like the meaning of life?

Hell, I’m never gonna find that! Has anyone? Of course, it’s a question that people have been asking for eons: philosophers, artists, writers. Socrates. Thoreau. Rodin. It’s a search that is eternal. And unanswerable. At least as far as I can figure.

So, I’ll stick to more mundane searches.

Right now, I’m searching for ways to stay warm besides running the heat 24 hours a day, which frankly, I can’t afford.

So, I hunker under the electric blanket with the heating pad behind me. Grab the cat and place her strategically on my ice-cold feet. Sometimes she cooperates. Other times, she’s looking for something else.

Who the hell knows what that could be!

So far, finding warmth has eluded me. It’s just not possible. I think I ‘run’ cold anyway. I talk to people who tell me they are always hot. What would that be like? They never seem happy about it.

            And, I guess, just to end with the cliché. It’s this ‘happiness’ that we are all searching for, right? I do believe that I can find this. Though it is fleeting.

            In the pool. At the piano. Snuggling with the cat. Hanging out with Ian.

            The search, though, continues. I’m always looking for something.

            Will I find it?

            I hope not. Cuz without a quest for that elusive ‘something’ would we have any purpose at all?

            Something to ponder.

            I do wonder, though, if Melvin ever found his goggles. I’ll have to ask him next time I see him. That is, if I can remember. I'm still searching for my brain. 

    Always!

           

 

The Memo

 

“We got a memo from the administration yesterday,” Jess says, rubbing the shampoo into a soapy lather. She’s a fellow English instructor, teaching at a local community college. Often, we chat about teaching after our swims, in the shower or getting dressed.

            Now, I stand shivering under the hot stream of water. I just can’t get warm lately. It doesn’t matter how hot the shower is or how warm the pool water is, I’m always freezing!

            “…they said that if ICE comes into our classroom, we don’t have to cooperate with them.” Jess rinses the shampoo out of her hair, ducking under the shower head to keep from knocking into it.

            “WOW!” I shake my head, thinking how that didn’t take long. Trump was just sworn into office the day before. He didn’t waste any time, though, signing all those executive orders, this one Jess is referring to is about rounding up all the ‘illegal aliens’ and deporting them back to their home countries.

I can’t imagine what I’d do if I were teaching and ICE agents came barging into my classroom while I was giving a lecture on the writing process.  I would be terrified. Not to mention my students. Some of whom may not be in the country legally. Even if the administration said that I didn’t have to comply with ICE’s demands, what would I do?

             Jess turns off the shower, shakes her wet hair.

            “I mean, I guess it’s good that the administration is on top of it. I just can’t believe that you’d have to contend with this,” I say.

            She nods, “Yeah, well, this is what they’re gonna do. Go into college classrooms, churches, places of business.”

            Jess grabs her towel and begins to dry off. And I think, damn. Isn’t our job hard enough? Trying to teach writing to a group of students who may not know anything about it? The time in the classroom is so valuable. Do we, as instructors, really have to worry about ICE agents barreling into our classrooms? Demanding we hand over students? And then what? The instructor has to stand there and go against their commands? Are they going to just go away? Or will they arrest us? Throw us in jail? Prosecute us for noncompliance with federal agents? And will the administration do anything to support us?

            I can’t imagine. And, this is the kind of fear that instructors will have to contend with, especially those like Jess who are teaching in the community colleges. Sure, we live in California, in the Bay Area. Our politics, like these put forth by Jess’ administration, don’t support Trump and his draconian policies, yet…. will these politics protect us? Will someone like Jess really be able to tell ICE agents, “NO, you’re not taking any of my students. Get out of my classroom!”

            I turn off my own shower, grab my towel, still shivering. Is it from the cold air or the hostile environment of fear and threat that we are all going to be living under for the next four years?

            “Your leggings are so cute! Where did you get them?” one of the other women asks, the question echoing up and into the air.

            “Ross. They have the best selection.”

            “Really? I’ll have to check it out,”

            I unlock my locker, grabbing my clothes and begin pulling on my tank top, sweatshirt, sweaters, thinking how our lives will go on. These women aren’t thinking about Trump. They are thinking about where to buy their next pair of sweatpants.

            Maybe this is the answer? Just go on with our lives? Don’t think about it?

            I wish I could. But right now, I can’t. All I can do is think about Jess and her students and ICE agents barging into her classroom in the middle of a discussion of Langston Hughes.

            Jess is dressed and headed out the door now. “Pray for me,” she jokes, halfheartedly. 

            “I will!” I call after her.

            Standing at the mirror near the doorway, I finish brushing the tangles out of my wet hair, turn around and gather up all my stuff littered all over the wide wooden bench. 

            I shiver again. 

            Then head out the door, the wind whipping my wet hair into my eyes, the screech of a seagull circling overhead piercing the air.

Who is This Guy?

 

Who is This Guy? I think to myself as a whoosh of a man passes me in the next lane. 

I’m swimming in the shallow pool of Kennedy High on a Saturday. Have the entire side of the pool till This Guy shows up. Of course, I notice him getting into the lane next to me. Muscular, fit white guy. Mid-forties or so in short black trunks that hugged his masculine physic.

            He isn’t your ordinary Richmond Swimmer with the pot belly and limping gait.

            No. This is A Man.

            And when he got in the water, he could swim. Really swim! Lapping me every 200 yards or so. I’m not that fast, but then again, I’m not that slow. He has a smooth easy rhythm to his stroke. All freestyle. No fins. No snorkel. Just him and the water.

            Where the hell did he come from, I wonder as I watch him flip turn at the wall again.

            After about 20 minutes, he stops. Leaning against the wall, he stares out into space. Tired? Or just contemplating his speedy swim?

            At the wall now, I start to put on my fins. Glance over at him. He gives me a movie star smile. The dimple deep in his cheek, his blue eyes twinkling. Perfectly straight white teeth, but not too white. His shock of bleached brown curly hair, dripping.

            “Hi,” I venture.

            His smile broadens. “Hey.”

            “You are a mighty fast swimmer,” I comment, thinking how this is obvious. But no, he has other ideas.

 “Oh, I used to be,” he shakes his head, suddenly shy? “But I haven’t been swimming in a long time. I’m pretty out of shape.”

            Coulda fooled me, I think to myself. Don’t say this, but go for common ground instead: “You on a swim team?”

            He chuckles softly, “Yeah, back in high school. Team in Moraga. Now I mostly surf.”

            “Were you in those monster wave this last week?” I think about all the articles I’ve read of the Santa Cruz wharf being washed away, 60-foot waves at Mavericks.

            “Oh, no! I stay away from that action. I go for the smaller waves. I’m 46 years old. Not in  same shape as I used to be.”

            I think how he thinks he’s old at 46. Twenty years my junior. I don’t divulge my age. Not to him. Or anyone, lately.

            “Yeah, you have to be careful. My brother-in-law is in his 70s. He surfs, body surfs. Recently he crashed body surfing, hurt his shoulder.”
            He shakes his head. “Sorry to hear that. But, yeah…. that’s my dream. Surfing at 70.”

            I think how 70 is only 4 years away for me. Will I be surfing? No. Haven’t done that really since I was in college with the boys at Pleasure Point in Santa Cruz. I’d get up before the sun came out, drive with the guys to Capitola, we’d pull our wetsuits on, then hurl ourselves with our UCSC Styrofoam boards into the frigid surf.

            I only did this cuz the boys were so cute.

            Now, talking to Surfer Man, I can see the similarity with the boys I used to know. That cocky confidence, subtle, that they’re handsome, athletic, and attractive. That the ocean is no foe of theirs, but a playground to swim with waves, seals, and surfer girls.

            I wonder what has happened to these surfer boys of my youth? Are they swimming in pools in various cities across the state like This Guy?

            I can only hope this is true.

            Now, I finish putting on my fins, then smile over at Surfer Man. “Take care of yourself. Don’t let those monster waves sweep you away.”

            He laughs, his dimple crinkling, then nods, “Don’t worry. I’m not that stupid.”

            I dive under the water, thinking how, yes, he doesn’t seem stupid.

            But hell, with a body and smile like that, who needs brains!

            I turn at the opposite wall, catching a glimpse of him lifting himself easily out of the pool, sitting on the deck for a moment, then standing and striding out of the natatorium.

Menacing

 

“That was magical….” LS sighs, turning on the shower, letting the hot water cascade over her after our swim.

“Yeah, it was…” I agree… “except for The Perv watching over us.”

“I found his whistling to be a bit menacing,” Teresa says, leaning her head back into the shower to gather water for shampoo. “You know, there we were, just three women in the pool and here’s this Man, this Large White Guy, up there on his throne whistling at us. I don’t know if it was conscious or not, but to be whistling at three women in the pool…. well…I found it a bit menacing. Men are so used to taking up all the space. And that whistling, it was definitely a manifestation of this.”

“WOW!” I exclaim. “That is so true. I knew he was particularly creepy today, but I always think that he is. (Regular readers may remember that The Perv informed me about a year ago that ‘I can see through your suit; you might consider replacing it.’)  “So, of course, today, I noticed the whistling, I just didn’t pinpoint this as a behavior that was menacing today, but you’re right. It was!”

          And menace is in the air, right? Esp. from Fat White Men in charge. They have all power right now. Or at least they think so. And as women in this country, we need to let them know that they don’t.
          Last weekend, Teresa had told me how this Big White Guy that she had to share a lane with cuz there weren’t any other openings told her that she had to watch out for him cuz his backstroke was wide and if she didn’t watch out, he might hit her. She’d fired back, “I have to watch out for you! Listen Dude, you need to watch out for me. Not the other way around.”

          Her large brown eyes flashed with anger. “After last week’s election, watch out. I’m mad as hell and not gonna take it anymore.”

          Okay, she didn’t actually say that famous line to me, but this anger and frustration at the world of Trump is palpable. I move through it in the pool when large men get in the lane with me, taking up all the space. Cuz you know, they can. It’s all about them. I’m invisible. Why on this same day that Teresa is talking about, down at the Richmond Plunge, when it was so crowded, I got into a lane and signaled the man already in the water to split the lane with me. He’d acknowledged my presence. We swam a couple of laps just fine, I on the right side of the black line, he on the left side when WHAM, he crashed right into me.

          “Oh…sorry sorry,” he’d mumbled, before turning and swimming on. I was left fuming. What the hell was the matter with this guy? Did he just forget he’d been swimming laps? Or, was is something more menacing. That palpable right-wing fog that was spreading all over the country. Women were, once again, very much second-class citizens. No rights over their own bodies. No options to ‘take care of it.’

          But hey! Why should I care? I’m an old crone. It’s not an issue for me anymore. (Yeah, Trump said that. But I’m not gonna get into all the insulting misogynist things that come spewing out of his mouth every minute of every day right now. You’ve all heard them. You know what I’m talking about)

          “That word menacing…” I nod toward Teresa as we're out of the showers now, throwing on our clothes. “It’s such a good word!”

          She smiles. “It is. Menacing…hey Men- a- cing…I never thought about that till now!”

          We all laugh.  "I’m gonna look up the etymology of the word later."

        "Speaking of entymology," LS contributes, "have you heard of the word petrichore?"

       "No," we both respond. 

        "Petrichore is the smell of rain. The word comes from the Greek words for 'petra', meaning stone, and 'ichor' which in Greek mythology refers to the golden fluid that flows in the veins of the immortals."

        "Wow!" we exclaim.

         "Let's hope there's no ichor in the veins of The Perv!" I cry.

        "Oh, he can't be an immortal!" LS pronounces.

        "Yes, I'm sure he's not. Unless he's one of those immortals from Hades that's come to our sphere to torture us with his whistling!"

          We all laugh, cuz  for now, menace is not in our sphere. We are three women laughing, dressing, and commiserating over the state of the world.

          Let him whistle. I don’t care. I’m mad as hell ...and..... I’m not gonna take it anymore!

Menacing Entymology

Election 2024

The Day Before the Election

“Hello?”
“Oh…Hi! This is Carol, a volunteer for Team Harris-Walz and….”

“Lemme ask you a question.” The Man from Pennsylvania interrupts my spiel, barreling right into my words. “What’s your favorite color?
“Blue.”

“Me too. Lemme ask you another question, What do you like better, Ford of Chevy?”
“Ford.”

“Me too! I have a Ford truck parked in the drive right now. Hey! Do you like to mow your lawn?”

“No.”

“Me neither. I….”

“I have to go now,” I interrupt him. Why I’ve gone along with his random questions so far is beyond me. I think I was just so happy to finally reach a real person instead of everyone’s Voicemail that I was swept away. Plus, he didn’t give me a chance to protest.

Now I hang up. Not letting him ask another stupid question. Is this what political phone banking is for? Answering stupid questions from stupid men in stupid states?

I sigh. Dial the next number.

“You have reached 918.555.7865, please leave your message after the tone.”

“Hi, this is Carol, a volunteer with the Harris Walz team and….”

 

 

 

Nazareen School, Holy Bible, 1937

Election Day

“I tell you, it doesn’t matter who wins. Man or Woman. Republican or Democrat. Red or Blue or Purple. There is only ONE person in control and that is God.”

            I’m trying to yank my swimsuit on in the Richmond Plunge Women’s locker room. Had I asked her who she had voted for? Or was this proclamation of God as the only one in control something that was volunteered into the community air of the locker room? I can’t recall. And it hardly matters. She’s going to say what she believes no matter what others think.

            I never know what to say to those who have this belief. My first reaction is shock and increduality.  I mean, ‘c’mon, God is in charge? Since I don’t believe in God this is easy for me to say. But another part of me thinks, well, if this gives her comfort then let her continue on.

            She struggles now to pull on her sweatpants. Trapped in a wheelchair, her life is one that I can’t imagine. Maybe a belief in a being that has all the control is the only way she can get through the day. And the pool. She must feel so free floating, out of the confines of the chair, the water’s embrace taking her to places she can’t go on land.

Getty Images

            Today, after her proclamation, I don’t respond. Just nod and continue on with my preparations to get into the pool. She’s busy too. Her dressing so much more labored than anything I struggle with. Her heavy black sweatpants still crumpled at her feet; she’s taking a rest before carrying on. Staring out into the vacuum.

            Heading out to the pool, I let the God Comment float around in my brain. Nothing I could say that would change her mind, I’m sure. It must be nice to have no responsibility for anything, especially politics on a day like today. I sit at the edge of the pool, dangling my feet into the aqua water, before jumping in and swimming swimming swimming.

           

Day After Election Day

Turning at the wall in the shallow end of the Plunge, Harp Woman stands on the deck in front of me. She motions to split the lane. I nod, yes. “Good morning,” I greet her.

            She stares at me for a split second, then shakes her head, “It’s NOT a good morning.”

Whoa! I know it’s not. Kamala lost. And it wasn’t even close. The Rapist Lying Crook has won. Given permission by the American people to run things his way.

            So, yes, it’s not a good morning for anyone who voted for Kamala. Myself included.

            But, hell, I was just greeting her. I didn’t literally mean that it was a ‘good’ morning.

            This is how upset people are. They, I imagine cuz this is how I feel, feel like they’ve been punched in the gut. Hard. All of their efforts to bring Kamala to victory were for naught. I had spent many hours the past weekend phoning folks in Pennsylvania and Nevada, urging them to vote.

            And, yet, I know that many of them didn’t. Though my hope is that some of the dozens of people I left the scripted voicemails for were prompted to cast their ballots for Kamala. No way of knowing, of course.

            Today, the day after, I’m at the pool. Where else would I be? Swimming is my salvation. My church. My religion. Yes, I don’t believe in God. And yes, I know that the world now is dangerous and scary with this crook in the Whitehouse again. But all I can do today is swim.

            Tomorrow is another day.

            Will I fight anymore? Make any more phone calls? Talk to the naysayers.

            You bet I will.

            But for today, I’m going to just let the water carry me into another more peaceful world full of blue light and luscious embrace.

            Harp Woman is in the water now. Chugging away with her bright pink turban on.

            I can only hope the pool helps her too.

            She turns at the wall, not interacting with me anymore.

            From the looks of it, the pool is doing its work. She’s swimming. And sometimes, that’s all we can do.

Kamala's Concession (NOT!) Speech: