Category Archives: My True Life

Sep20

Safety

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As a woman who travels alone, safety is very important to me.

Of course, most women travel alone sometimes, even if it’s a walk to the corner store or a commute to work. Safety is important to all women, so I share my ideas in hopes they will help women who live in conventional housing, as well as those who live in vans, cars, RVs, etc.

(Yes, I know safety is important to men too. However, since I am a woman, that’s the perspective I’m going to write from.)

When I’m out and about in the world alone, I’m careful about what I wear. Yes, I believe women should be able to wear whatever we want without being harassed. Unfortunately, the reality of women’s lives is that some clothing we may be comfortable in allows some men to feel justified in making rude and lewd comments to us. While I tend to dress very colorfully, I usually wear clothes that cover my body. I wear long hippie-lady skirts and loose shirts that show no cleavage. If I’m wearing a tank top in the privacy of my van, I’ll usually throw on another shirt over it before I go outside. In public, among strangers, I don’t wear booty shorts, miniskirts, or sports bras as outerwear—nothing to give anyone a notion I might be out looking for sex with strangers.

I’m also aware of the how the clothes I’m wearing might help or hinder me if running or fighting in self-defense might be necessary. (My long skirts might not be the best choice in such situations.) I don’t typically wear flip flops unless I’m on my way to the shower. Flip flops or other shoes that could easily slip off my foot could be a hindrance when running from an assailant or kicking an attacker in the knee. I usually wear closed-toe shoes fastened securely to my foot. Since heels could also slow a gal down if she needed to run, I prefer flats.

As women, we are socialized to be “nice.” In a million ways, we’re taught we must smile at men and giggle at even their stupid jokes. We’re taught we need to respond to the overtures of chitchat from strangers. Sure, many men are just trying to be friendly, but too many men think a woman alone must be out looking for a man, and our every smile and giggle is encouragement that he might be the one. I do my best not to give strangers any sort of encouragement. I don’t instigate eye contact or  smile if I don’t feel pretty confident I’m in a safe place, and I’ve almost trained myself not to giggle at stupid jokes. (I love to laugh, but only when a joke is truly funny.) I try to present myself as bland, rather than hostile. I often pretend to think a joker is serious, and I respond seriously to a supposed-to-be-funny-but-not question or comment. In any case, unless I do actually want to spend time with someone, I try not to show any interest. Out in public, I mind my own business and try to appear boring so on one thinks I’m worth paying attention to.

I typically don’t party using alcohol or other drugs, either with strangers or on my own. I’ve very sensitive to alcohol and other drugs—after one drink, I find it difficult to make wise decisions. I might party a little if I were with trusted friends, but I usually feel as if I need to be at the top of my game—alert, aware—and I don’t necessarily feel that way if I’m chemically altered. Better to be boring than out of control.

Whenever I’m spending the night in my van in a place among strangers (Wal-Mart, truck stops, public land), I don’t go traipsing around outside in the middle of the night. Once I’m in the van with the curtains closed, I’m in for the night. I have my pee bucket and supplies for a defecation emergency, so I don’t have to go anywhere in the dark. I don’t know if nighttime is actually any more dangerous than daytime, but darkness feels scarier, so I plan to stay in during the wee hours.

Another precaution I take, whether I’m traveling or staying in one place for a time is checking in often with a trusted friend. I text this friend every day when I have cell service, even if just to say good morning. When I’m traveling, I let her know where I’m spending the night. If she doesn’t hear from me and can’t reach me the next day, she’ll have an idea of where to start looking for me.  If I know I’m going to be away from cell phone service for a while, I alert her so she won’t worry when she doesn’t hear from me.

Body language is important. Although my posture is terrible, I try to remember to not to walk like an easy mark. I do my best to stand and walk with confidence: head high, back straight, no slouching.

Sometimes making eye contact with a person invites further—unwanted—interaction. Years ago in a women’s group, I learned a way to avoid eye contact without looking weak. The woman leading the group told us that looking at the ground to avoid eye contact makes a person seem—and feel—passive. She suggested we keep our head and eyes up with avoiding meeting a stranger’s gaze. When I use this technique, I feel as if I’m sliding my eyes past the eyes I’m trying to avoid. I continue to feel confident while conveying that I’m not interested in a conversation.

“Situational awareness” is a phrase tossed around a lot these days. The concept is not new and has other names, such as “paying attention” and “getting your head out of your ass.” (The latter was a favorite of my father.) Situational awareness basically means knowing what’s going on around you and doing your best to avoid sketchy/scary/dangerous situations. In order to maintain situational awareness, I avoid walking around absorbed in my phone or wearing ear buds that block out the sounds of the world around me.

I recommend reading this article about situational awareness to learn more about staying alert in order to stay safe.

Our society tells women the world is a dangerous place and we should be scared all the time. While the world can be dangerous, it’s no fun (and probably not healthy) to focus constantly on being scared. Knowing I’m taking precautions to keep myself safe helps me overcome my fears and enjoy my opportunities to travel and visit new places.

What do you do to stay safe, either while traveling or while staying in a conventional dwelling?

Sep16

Picnic Pavilion

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When I was homeless, I lived in a picnic pavilion at a rest stop for two months. By lived in, I really mean slept in. The rest area attendant arrived at 8am, so I left well before he started work. I usually woke with the first light of the sun, rolled up my sleeping bag, put on my shoes, and walked out on a nearby trail. The trail went past a tree, all alone in the high desert. I usually stopped at the tree, rolled out my sleeping bag on the ground under its branches, took off my shoes again, and stretched out to nap for another couple of hours.

Not only did I not want the rest area attendant to find me, accuse me of living there, and call the cops, I didn’t want any civilian bystander to call the cops on me either. Best to not have anyone see me in the rest area during the day, which is why I left as soon as I had enough light to see the path.

I suppose I could have spent my nights under the tree, but I was afraid I’d encounter a rattlesnake or an unsavory human out there. I felt safer in the civilization of the rest area, with its lights and flush toilets. In retrospect, I don’t know how much safer I was in the rest area Babylon.

The rest area attendant got off work at 5pm. Sometime after that, I’d go to my “apartment,” the picnic pavilion which opened toward the natural attraction tourists came to see. The other pavilions opened toward the roadway running through the rest area. Anyone sleeping on the concrete floor of one of those pavilions would be easily spotted by cars driving through at night. Because my pavilion didn’t open toward the roadway, I could sleep between its low stone back wall and the back bench of the concrete picnic table, and no one driving through would see me.

affection, art, backlitThe rest area was open all night. People could go there to look at the natural attraction 24 hours a day, any day of the week. It wasn’t unusual for people to sleep there in their cars. Others pulled in to use the restrooms in the middle of the night. Sometimes people partied there, drinking alcohol and taking who-knows-what drugs. And I’m pretty sure couples came there to “smooch” (my euphemism for anything from making out to oral to full-on intercourse).

Lovers were attracted to “my” pavilion for the same reason I was: it offered just a little bit more privacy.

I never rolled out my sleeping bag before dark. I didn’t want to be spotted sleeping (translation: living) there. I’d read a borrowed book or a newspaper fished from a trashcan and wait for darkness to descend. Often, I’d simply look out at the spectacular view. Once it was adequately dark, I’d roll out my sleeping bag, position my backpack on the ground within arm’s reach, take off my shoes, and snuggle down for sleep. Once I lay down, I didn’t pop my head up to see what was going on, for fear someone would notice me and wonder what I was doing on the ground behind the picnic table.

I don’t know how late it was the first time a couple invaded my space. It was dark during a time when days were long, so it had to be after 9pm. I had been on the brink of sleep when the people sat on the picnic table. Of course, they didn’t know they’d invaded my space. I was so discreet, they hadn’t even realized I was there.

I didn’t know what to do. I’d heard from several single sign-flying and hitchhiking women that sometimes people worry about women in such situations and call the cops to do a welfare check. I didn’t want these people to call the cops because they were worried about me. I wasn’t running from the law, but I didn’t want to be hassled by the police, didn’t want to be told I couldn’t sleep at the rest area any longer or that I needed to move on out of town. Better not to interact with the cops at all.

I knew the longer I waited to say something to the couple, the more awkward it was going to be when they discovered me. (I never doubted one of them would notice me eventually.) I suppose I could have pretended to be asleep, but what if they started making noise impossible to sleep through? Then I’d have to “wake up,” and what if they had their clothes off?

So I sat up and said something like Hi. I’m just sleeping here. (I don’t remember my actual words, but I was trying to convey I’m harmless. I’m fine. I was here first.)

The woman screamed. It was a loud, piercing, blood-curdling scream. So much for discretion.

I started apologizing. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.

Then one of my worries came true. The woman started asking me if I was ok. Are you ok? she kept asking me.

I tried to assure her I was fine. I told her I was just sleeping. I told her everything was good.

Are you ok? Are you ok? she asked again and again.

I wanted to say, I was ok, before you woke me up. I was ok before you screamed. Instead I just assured her I was currently fine.

Finally they left. I don’t know where they went to have sex (maybe the car they’d arrived in?), but the cops didn’t bother me that night, so I guess I’d convinced them they didn’t need to worry about me.

The next time a couple tried to use my picnic pavilion for their shenanigans, it was truly the middle of the night, and at least the guy seemed drunk. When I sat up and told them I was sleeping there, neither of them seemed worried about me or upset in any way or even vaguely surprised. These people had obviously seen a lot in their lives.

I could tell they didn’t want to leave, but they also respected the fact that I’d gotten there first. So they left, but they didn’t go far. They simply walked out of the picnic pavilion and sat down on the ground right next its wall. I could hear every word they said! (If only I could remember their every word. If only I had taken notes.)

The woman (who seemed significantly younger than the man) talked and talked and talked, mostly about her unhappy life. (It’s just as well that I don’t remember the details. She probably wouldn’t want me to repeat her stories, although I wouldn’t feel too bad about doing so, since she knew I was right there the whole time.)

The man? Well, what he said (in drunken repetition) to the woman boiled down to this: I want to be your friend. But I also–if you would like–want to make love to you.

She didn’t fall for his line while within my hearing. Maybe she was hoping her litany of woes would cool his ardor. Maybe she simply needed someone to listen.

As for me, I was wishing I couldn’t hear them. I really just wanted to go to sleep, not listen to an unhappy woman and a horny man.

I thought about calling out, I can hear you!

I thought about calling out, Shut the fuck up! I’m trying to sleep!

In the end, I said nothing. I didn’t want an altercation, especially with someone who was drunk. I only wanted to sleep. I comforted myself with the knowledge that I could sleep for a few more hours under my tree in the morning.

Photo courtesy of https://www.pexels.com/photo/affection-art-backlit-couple-556662/.
Sep7

Zumba

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My friend Lou is athletic and likes to try new things. She has lots of friends just like her. (I’m a friend NOT just like her. While I do like to try new things, I’m not athletic. I can barely walk without falling down. I like inside activities like reading and writing. The sloth is the animal with which I feel the most affinity. Lou and I are different, but we can still be friends.)

The last time I stayed at Lou’s place, one of her other friends suggest a group Zumba excursion.

I’d heard of Zumba. Someone I used to know had been a Zumba instructor. But I’d never been to a class, and I didn’t really know what to expect.

(I learned a few things when I did an internet search on Zumba. According to Wikipedia,

Zumba is a dance fitness program created by Colombian dancer and choreographer Alberto “Beto” Perez during the 1990s…[1]

Zumba involves dance and aerobic movements performed to energetic music. The choreography incorporates hip-hop, soca, samba, salsa, merengue and mambo. Squats and lunges are also included.[3] Zumba Fitness, the owner of the Zumba program, does not charge licensing fees to gyms or fitness centers.[4] Approximately 15 million people take weekly Zumba classes in over 200,000 locations across 180 countries.[5])

Although I didn’t know much about Zumba, Lou invited me, it was the start of a new year, and I was in yes mode. I agreed to go.

The class fee was $6. As I’ve written about that time before, my funds were meager. I thought six bucks was cheap enough for a healthy activity, and I’d get to meet some of Lou’s other friends. How could I go wrong with a healthy social activity?

Although one of my goals was to meet some of Lou’s other friends, I don’t remember any of the other women with whom we attended Zumba class. I don’t remember a name or a face or a personality. While I think at least some of the women met us at Lou’s house before the class, we didn’t spend much time together. People arrived five minutes before it was time to leave, then we all left in multiple cars. (I rode with Lou.) During class, there was no time to talk, and after class, people split. So much for being social.

Another thing I don’t remember is what I wore to Zumba class. I didn’t have much of a wardrobe at the time, and I certainly wasn’t toting around exercise clothes. Maybe I still had the loose fitting pants I’d gotten free from a church clothing give-away in Mt. Shasta, CA? I honestly have no recollection.

We arrived at the location of the Zumba class. We lined up and paid our class fee. I don’t recall if we signed waivers saying we released any and everybody from liability if we dropped dead during the class. (No one dropped dead during the class.)

We went into the main room, the room where the class was held. It was a long, narrow room with mirrors lining one of the long walls. (Ugh! Mirrors!) There were three or maybe four long lines of women (I don’t remember any male students) facing the mirrors. Lou and I and Lou’s other friends stood in the last (or maybe the second to last) row. I tried to line up perfectly behind the woman standing ahead of me so I would not have to see my reflection in the mirror.

The instructor was a man. A young man. A young, effeminate man. I didn’t speak to this man, and I know nothing about his sexuality, but if I were going to slap a label on him (and that’s what I’m about to do), the label I’d give him is flamer. Every vibe I was getting from the young man triggered my gaydar.

I understand it’s also difficult to know anything about a person’s heritage just by looking at her, but I’ll tell you, Lou and I were the only gals I looked at in the class and thought white girl. I wasn’t bothered about being in the minority (I suppose we were all united in fitness, like in the Olympics), but I did notice I was adding a little diversity to the group.

Then the music started, and we were off. No introduction. No preliminaries. The music started, the instructor began instructing, and the students began…Zumba-ing.

Zumba was dance, but akin to the aerobics I did sporadically in the 80s. I guess aerobics was akin to dance too, but with more arm than foot motion.

The women who’d been to the class before definitely had the advantage of knowing the routine. There was no help for the newbies, no hint at what would come next. We were on our own. The instructor announced what to do NOW, but for anyone (me!) who didn’t know how to do what to do NOW, she (me!) was out of luck.

The other friends of Lou seemed to be struggling a bit, but at least they had their natural or (acquired) athleticism and grace to fall back on. Me? I had nothing.

I remember glancing over at Lou for a brief moment. She had a look of intense concentration on her face,but she also looked absolutely graceful, as if this experience was not entirely foreign to her. (She admitted on the way home that she’d been on her high school dance team. What? Dance team? I’d never pegged house-building, roller derby Lou as a dance team kind of gal. It’s amazing what we can still learn about people we’ve known for years.)

I may not have had the dance moves down, but I was totally enjoying the music. Unlike the aerobics we did in 6th grade PE, it wasn’t American Top 40 for this class. I don’t know what tidy category this music fit into, but it was fast and the lyrics were primarily in Spanish. This was the kind of music I wanted at trance dance.

I was trying to keep up, but I was on the wrong foot again. Then, when we spun, I went in the wrong direction. I was clumsy. I was a mess. I started feeling bad about myself. Why can’t I do this? I wondered. Why am I so useless? I longed for the experience to be over.

Then I realized no one there cared if I was on the wrong foot. No one cared if my spin was opposite every else’s. The women there for a workout were concentrating on their breathing and and burning calories and building muscle. Lou (good ol’ Lou!) has been my friend through worse than a clumsy exercise class. Lou’s other friends were not the catty girls from middle school PE, ready to make fun of my every misstep. And certainly the instructor wasn’t looking at me and judging.

So I decided to cut myself some slack and relax a little. I might have had a little bit of fun before the class was over. But I didn’t suggest a group Zumba excursion for the next week.

Sep3

Dragon Boat

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It was the start of a new year, and I was with my host family.

The Lady of the House asked me if I wanted to go to a dragon boat practice with her. She wasn’t yet part of the dragon boat team, but she was thinking of joining. She’d never been to a practice before, but wanted to check it out. Did I want to go with her?

As I’ve mentioned before, I tend to go into new years ready to say Yes! to trying new activities, so I was primed to agree to dragon boat. I told the Lady ok, even though I’m not really athletic and I’m scared of drowning. (I may be an Aquarius–the water bearer–but I’m not a big fan of being in–or on–the water.)

The Lady and I discussed what we should wear. Living in my van means I can’t maintain an extensive wardrobe. Since I don’t exercise much, I don’t have exercise clothes. I tend to dress in long, flowy skirts, which didn’t seem like the right thing to wear for boating. I settled on the one pair of jeans I owned, my long-sleeved denim shirt (to protect my arms from the sun), my Keen sandals, and a blue cotton hat I’d recently paid $1 or at a small-town thrift store. I don’t remember what the Lady wore.

Practice started at 8am, so we were up early to eat breakfast (protein!) and prepare for our morning of exertion.

The Lady drove us to the marina, and we sat in the car trying to figure out which folks we saw milling around might be part of a dragon boat team. Once we made the connection with the team, we signed release forms and walked over to where the boat was stored.

I was extremely disappointed to see the boat looked nothing like a dragon. Let me repeat: There was no dragon to this boat. I thought we’d be propelling something ornate and fancy through the water. I thought the boat would have a beautiful head and a lovely tail, but no. The boat was only a boat. I guess the head and tail are used only for competitions. I suppose the head and tail would get banged up if they went out every week for practice, so I understand why they’re only attached during races, but still, I was sad to know we’d be in a plain, boring boat.

One team member took all the new people aside to teach us the basics while we were still on dry land. The newbies dutifully carried the paddles we’d been assigned to the grassy patch where our teacher went over the commands we would hear. She also showed us the proper way to hold our paddle, as well as how we would move them through the water. It wouldn’t be like paddling a canoe, she warned us.

The Lady and I laughed and said neither of us had ever paddled a canoe–or anything else–in our lives, so at least we wouldn’t have the problem of trying to break an old habit.

If I remember correctly, we held the paddles across our bodies.  We were told we’d put the blade straight down into the water, then twist our upper bodies to move the paddle. It all seemed so easy on land.

Before we got in the boat, we suited up with life jackets, which made me worry a little less about drowning.

Each new person was paired with a more experienced team member. I knew it wouldn’t have been smart for the Lady and I–neither of whom knew what we were doing–to be paired up, but I did suffer some seperation anxiety when we had to part. I was matched up with the only man at practice that day. He turned out to be a nice guy, but I also suffered some dude anxiety when I was told he’d be my partner.

The group pushed the boat-laden trailer into the water. The boat was then detached from the trailer, but still tethered to the dock.

My man partner and I were to be the last pair in the boat. Only the woman steering sat behind us.

Getting into the boat was treacherous. With my every move, the boat rocked beneath me. However, I managed to get in and sit down without tipping myself or anyone else into the water.

Soon it was time to put our paddles into the lake and propel the boat.

I’m not very coordinated, and I’m particularly bad at timing my movements to stay in sync with a group. Other members of the team had warned me and the Lady that these new movements might feel awkward at first; I don’t think they realized I wasn’t joking when I said I pretty much always feel awkward when I’m making any movements.

The Lady was sitting directly in front of me, and sometimes our paddles crashed when one of us (usually me) was out of sync. Later, the Lady told me she’d made herself laugh thinking about how funny it would be if she purposely crashed her paddle repeatedly into mine. She knew I would have laughed, but she thought the other folks might have frowned on such shenanigans, and she was considering joining the team, after all.

Sometimes the woman steering would call out directions and suggestions to me. I tired to follow her instructions, but I was definitely thinking, I’m never coming back. Why bother? But I did bother because I didn’t want to ruin the practice or reflect poorly on the Lady and her (possible) team aspirations.

A woman at the front of the boat faced us. She directed our actions. She had an accent that made me think of an Eastern European gymnastics coach. She was very serious. When she wanted us to work particularly hard, she would shout, Pow-wa! Pow-wa! Pow-wa! I found this especially hilarious and had to concentrated on not giggling.

(Since that day, when the Lady and I are working together on a task that requires strength or determination, one of us will say to the other, Pow-wa! Pow-wa! Pow-wa! Sometimes we chant in unison.)

The best parts of the practice were the few times the woman in front said new folks should remove their paddles from the water and just sit. It was lovely to let others do the work while I enjoyed the cool air rushing past me and concentrated not on the proper movements of my paddle but on the view of the lake.

The worst  part of the practice was when I had to switch to the other side of the boat. Scary! Each member of each pair had to switch, and we performed this maneuver while out in the middle of the lake. One pair at a time did the switch. I was once again pleased not to tip myself or anyone else into the water. However, the switch meant that just as I was growing accustomed to making the proper motions on the right side, I had to start making the movements on the left.

Also annoying was my new blue hat trying to fly away in the breeze. I literally had to hold onto my hat at times. I managed to keep up with it during practice, but I gave up on it altogether and left it in a free pile a few weeks later.

I was worn out when practice ended. I was glad to help paddle back to the dock. Everyone helped sponge out the boat (why?) and we returned our paddles and life jackets. We didn’t go with the team for breakfast at Denny’s, but the Lady did treat me to French toast at her favorite diner.

I haven’t been to another dragon boat practice, but the Lady joined the team. She has her own gloves and her own PFD (personal flotation device–aka life jacket), and her own paddle.  She’s even competed in races, and I suppose she’s seen the boat decked out with its dragon head and tail.

Pow-wa! Pow-wa! Pow-wa!

 

Aug9

Wrong Number

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Some guy named Israel once had my phone number.

I learned this when I went to Auto Zone to buy windshield wiper blades. Auto Zone is one of those corporations that tracks customers by their phone numbers. After the counter guy punched mine into his computer, he looked at me and said, Israel?

Not even close, I told him.

Now when I make a purchase at Auto Zone, both my name and Israel’s pops up on the computer screen. Will Israel ever be cleared from their system?

Black Vintage TelephoneEven though I’ve had my phone number for four years, I still occasionally get calls for Israel. Who goes so long without talking to a friend that s/he doesn’t know he changed his phone number over four years ago?

Sometimes the caller speaks in Spanish, and I’m not sure if he (it’s almost always men who call) is calling particularly for Israel or if it’s a misdial. These guys hang up when I say, Hello? Hello? What? Maybe they know the person they want to talk to is not an English-speaking woman.

Often my phone is turned off or put away, so I don’t hear it ring, and I don’t realize until later that someone I don’t know called. Those folks hardly ever leave a message. I only suspect they’re Israel’s friends because their area code is the same as mine.

A couple of times, I’ve actually spoken with the person who was trying to find Israel.

One guy cut me off with apologies before I could finish saying, You have the wrong number. I don’t know anyone named Israel. I’ve had this number for three years.

Another guy, upon hearing my wrong number rap, said only Sorry, lady, sorry before hanging up.

Maybe after not speaking to Israel for years, those guys didn’t really expect him to answer his last known number.

The most exasperating caller never asked for Israel, so I don’t know if she were trying to contact him or someone else.

The caller was an old lady, from the sound of her, a very old lady. I heard from her several times in the first few months after I got my phone number.

I can’t remember if she first left a message on my voice mail or if I actually answered a call from a number I didn’t recognize. In any case, I found myself speaking with a very old woman who denied calling me. She was convinced I’d called her. Well, I did call her, at least once, after she’d left a message on my voice mail, but she denied she’d called me first. I tried to tell her she  had the wrong number, but she couldn’t understand she’d dialed the wrong number when she was convinced I’d called her. After a couple of rounds of us both claiming the other had called first, I named her number Old Lady Who Didn’t Call. Since the phone I had then didn’t allow me to block numbers, I just wouldn’t answer when I saw the Old Lady Who Didn’t Call was calling.

I haven’t heard from the Old Lady Who Didn’t Call in a long time. I hope she finally contacted the person she really wanted to talk to.

 

Image courtesy of https://www.pexels.com/photo/black-vintage-telephone-209634/.

Jul24

Trance Dance

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Lou told me about trance dance not long after I pulled into  Austin.

It was held at a dance studio. The participants were blindfolded. There were a few people not blindfolded who made sure the dancers didn’t careen into the walls or each other. Music played. Dancing occurred.

Lou had never attended a trance dance, so she didn’t know if people actually achieved a trance state, but she thought I should go. I wanted us to go together, but the event only happened once while I was in town, and Lou already had plans that night. I’d either have to go alone or not go at all.

The $10 price of admission discouraged me. I’d rolled into Austin with maybe $10 in my pocket (and found a $10 bill in a letter from my friend Tea in New Mexico waiting for me at Lou’s house). By the night of trance dance, I’d picked up a few odd jobs (dog siting, house cleaning, a couple of psychology studies involving MRIs), so I had some money, but $10 was a significant amount for me at the time. I sent an email to the organizers asking for a discounted rate, but received no response.

This better be worth it, I thought on the appointed night.

IMG_6613

I took this photo of my purple Grateful Dead bandana. I traded a hemp bracelet I’d made for this bandana on Furthur lot.

It was dark when I drove to the studio and almost missed the driveway. Once inside, I removed my shoes and readied my purple Grateful Dead bandana to use as a blindfold.

All of the participants (eight? a dozen? my memory is faulty, but surely no more than twenty) went into the large open room lined with mirrors.

Ugh, mirrors. Let’s just say I don not enjoy viewing myself in mirrors. I probably would have left had being blindfolded not been a main component of the evening.

We all covered our eyes, the music started, and we were off.

Dance as if no one’s watching, indeed.

(I tried to forget that at least a few people were watching, told myself they were only watching to make sure no one got hurt.)

I was wearing a long, loose, flowing, flowered skirt. I took great delight in feeling the fabric swirl around me as I twirled. I also enjoyed grabbing handfuls of the skirt in each hand and flipping it around my knees as I kicked my legs and stomped my feet.

The music was fine, but not what I would have picked. I would have picked the Grateful Dead, had I been dancing alone. If I were picking music for a group, I would have chosen music heavier on drums, faster rhythms, a bit more upbeat. But really, the music was fine. It wasn’t the type of dance music that makes me want to rush out and do speed (The Crystal Method, anyone?), and I suppose the tempo was plenty fast enough.

I don’t know how long we danced. An hour? An hour and a half? Certainly no more than two. While I’m not sure I was ever in a trance, it became difficult to stay aware of time. The music was continuous, no break to say, This song is over; now a new one will begin.

I did pretty much stop thinking about the other people there, stopped thinking about what they might be doing, what they might be thinking of what I was doing. The world shrank down to me, my body, the music, my movement. It’s unusual for me to be in the the moment and in my body, but during trance dance, I was in both.

When the music stopped, I felt both So soon? and Finally!

The whole group then sat in a circle on the floor and had a check-in so we could talk about our feelings and any issues that had come up. I can’t remember what I said, although I think I may have mentioned that I’d enjoyed dancing with my skirt.

Would I do trance dance again? Hell yes, even for $10. But I hope the next time, Lou can be there too.

According to http://www.gerrystarnes.com/trancedance.html,

Through a combination of focused intention, breathing, use of the bandanna and movement to rhythmic music, participants can experience a trance state and be transported into an alternate modality of awareness.

The first 30 minutes includes a discussion and orientation to Trance Dance, followed by an extended dance behind the bandanna. Following the dance, the group gathers in the circle for optional sharing and to get “plugged back in” before leaving.

 

 

Jun25

Rebirth Day

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Four years ago today, I ran away from a bad relationship in the middle of the night. My plan was to kill myself.

My partner had been telling me that’s what I should do, even though he knew I had a history of depression and suicidal thoughts. Things were so bad between us, I believed my death was the only solution.

I was surprised to discover that the farther away I walked from the relationship, the less I wanted to die. I guess I wanted to live, just not with him.

Sleeping helped. He’d kept me from getting a good night of sleep for weeks, and the naps I took as I walked (especially several hours of rest in an abandoned car) really helped clear my head. Being away from his second-hand pot smoke helped a lot too. (I never thought the second-hand pot smoke was affecting me until I got away from it and making reasonable decisions became easier.) And the DMT I’d smoked the night before? I think it saved my life by giving me just enough sense of well being to keep me going.

I started a new life when I snuck off into the night, a life where no one told me I was a bad person. I started a life in which I had friends again. I started a life where no on threatened to kill me, the dog, my entire family, everyone I’d ever cared for, and finally, himself. I started a life where no one yelled about my driving and found fault with everything I did. I started a life where I ate what I wanted and wore what I wanted and did what I wanted.

However, I didn’t quite dance into the sunrise surrounded by animated woodland creatures. I was homelss (as in no house, no van, no tent) for a while. I slept in a rest area, wondering if I’d wake to a rattlesnake curled up on me for warmth or to a man with a gun. I ate out of trash cans and from the special room at the food bank for people who didn’t have stoves. (Cold soup was delicious when I was hungry enough.)

I don’t write these things looking for pity. Pity aggravates me. I’m not looking for anyone to say Oh poor you. I never had it worse (and usually had it better) than so many people in the world who face bombs and famine and rape and torture.

I write about these things because they are true. This is what happened to me. And these kinds of things happen to other people too. Why are we supposed to be ashamed and silent?

Why are we supposed to be ashamed for having been in an abusive relationship? (Maybe our abusers are the ones who should be ashamed.) Yes, I should have left sooner (and I’d actually left three big times before.) According to http://www.domesticabuseshelter.org/infodomesticviolence.htm,

On average, a woman will leave an abusive relationship seven times before she leaves for good[,]

so I figure I’m ahead of the game. At any given moment, I was doing the best I could to do what I thought I needed to do to protect myself and others.

Why are we supposed to be ashamed of being homeless or living in a van? Why are we supposed to be ashamed of being poor, of living hand to mouth? (Maybe the rich who live with excess while others do without necessities should be ashamed.) Why are we supposed to be ashamed of eating out of garbage cans? (Maybe the people throwing out perfectly edible food are the ones who should be ashamed.)

I write these things in the hope of helping others. I made it through the darkness; I think you can too. If a person tells you you’re stupid and worthless and no one else will ever love you, it’s a lie. Being homeless is not the end of the world and being unencumbered by material possessions can be liberating. Don’t let anyone shame you for living in a van; you have a freedom many envy. Being poor is not a moral failing; the system’s set up so the rich benefit while the poor suffer.

Running away in the night led to hardships, but it led to beauty too. I made new friends. I started selling sage sticks, then jewelry, then shiny rocks to support myself. Old friends found me when I thought no one was looking for me and no one cared. They gave me a bit of money and a bunch of love. I bought a van. I went on an epic road trip practically from coast to coast. I worked at being a good person and helping others when I could.

My first rebirth day was a quiet big deal to me. I’d made it a year. My ex hadn’t found me. I was alive, and I had a van to live in. My friend reminded me of my second rebirth day, and I was happy I’d made it another year without any contact from my ex. Last year I was so busy being a camp host that my rebirth day passed quietly by.

This year I’m commemorating by telling my story. I ran away, and I’m alive. I have friends and a job, and I’m relatively happy. (Some days are better than others, but that’s how it was when I lived in a house too.) I travel and see amazing natural beauty. People enjoy reading what I write. I have a good life.

On this special day of mine, please allow me to whisper in your ear: Stay strong. Don’t give up.

 

Jun15

In Need of a Ride

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Green Trees And Mountain I was coming home from civilization, chugging up the first stretch of the mountain, trying to get to the post office where I pick up my mail before it closed at noon. As I rounded a curve, I saw a person walking along the side of the road. There’s not much side to the road up there, so I was worried for the person’s safety. Besides, it was a hot day. The person was wearing a big straw hat (the kind Latino landscape maintenance workers tend to wear) and a long-sleeved white shirt, but was using a cane. The person wasn’t hitchhiking (no thumb out), but no way was I going to roll by a person walking with a cane in the heat on a narrow mountain road and not stop to find out if s/he needed help.

I stopped next to the person, who turned out to be a man. I asked him if he needed a ride, half expecting him to say no, half expecting to be told he was walking on a narrow mountain road in the heat, using his cane, because that’s what he wanted to be doing late on a Tuesday morning. (Isn’t hot mountain cane walking a new Olympic sport?) But he said that in fact he could use a ride.

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I took this photo of Esmeralda, my hat model.

I keep a lot of stuff on my passenger seat and on the floor in front of it. Before the man could sit there, I needed to remove three one gallon glass jugs of water; one (full) six gallon plastic water container; three 59 oz plastic tea bottles, now filled with water; a foam camp chair (the kind without legs); my backpack of supplies for when I work at the parking lot; a duffle bag full of the entire stock of winter hats I’ve handmade over the last year; and Esmeralda, my styrofoam hat model. I told him I’d give him a ride, but I needed a few minutes to clear a space for him.

He suggested I move the van down to a turnout about 100 yards from where I was stopped. That seemed like a good idea; I didn’t  want to get rear-ended while stopped in the middle of the road. He said he’d walk down there to meet me.

Some people would say it’s dangerous to pick up a stranger and let him ride in my van. To those people I say this: If you are ever walking on a narrow mountain road with no real shoulder, in the heat of almost midday, using your cane(!), I hope someone does the right thing and stops to offer you a ride, then actually lets you in the vehicle when you say yes.

Not long after I had the front seat area cleared, the man with the cane and the big straw hat made it to the van. He climbed in, and we rolled on. He needed to be dropped off before I got to the post office, so it all worked out.

I told him my name, and he said his name was Mack, like the truck.

I’m not not sure where he was coming from. I didn’t interrogate him, but from what he said, it sounded as if his vehicle had broken down. However, I don’t recall seeing any vehicles abandoned on the side of the road.

He started talking to me about the cracks in my windshield. He suggested a place in Babylon where I could get it replaced before CHP (the California Highway Patrol) hassled me about it. He gave me convoluted directions to the place, and I pretended to know what he was talking about. I told him the van was registered in another state and said maybe that would mean the CHP wouldn’t bother me about the windshield.

He pointed to a set of three mailboxes at the end of the driveway where he wanted to be let out. I pulled off the road there.

Before he got out of the van, he gave me his card and said if I went to the windshield place, to tell them he’d sent me. I took the card and put it in the basket that holds pens, paper, incense, a lighter, two pieces of selenite, and my handmade knife with the elk antler handle.

He thanked me. I said, no problem, nice to meet you. He said the pleasure was his.

I drove away and made it to the post office before noon.

Later, I looked at Mack’s card.

Apparently, Mack (which is not the name on the card) is the president of the Babylon Area Republican Assembly (whatever that is). At the bottom of the card, under his name and a phone number and email, website, and mailing addresses, the card reads “You Know We’re RIGHT.”

That’s a rather smug sentiment.

I wonder what Mack would think if he knew he’s been rescued by an anarcha-feminist bisexual rubber tramp Deadhead tree hugger.

Photo courtesy of https://www.pexels.com/photo/green-trees-and-mountain-755706/.

 

Jun11

It’s Saturday

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It’s Saturday, and I didn’t sleep well last night.

It was one of those hot and cold nights.

Although the night air outside the van cooled off, inside the van the air was warm. I guess it was too warm inside the van, or maybe my feather comforter is getting to be too much. In any case, I had one of those nights where I’d wake up too warm and push the covers off my upper body. (I always sleep with at least a sheet over my legs.) I’d doze off, then wake up cold and have to pull the comforter over me again.

During one bout of too hot, I opened the curtains over my back windows to let the cool mountain air rush in. That was delightful…until it wasn’t.

cards, chance, deckMaybe the real culprit was playing solitaire on my phone right before trying to sleep. I’m not a gambler, and in fact I dislike playing any card game with a group of friends, but something about solitaire on an electronic device grabs me and won’t let go. Winning or losing, I just want to play. This is it, I tell myself, the last game, but then I play ten or fifteen or twenty more, until I can barely keep my eyes open. Maybe the blue light interfered with my ability to sleep, or maybe the game itself overexcited my brain.

Daylight was barely a hint outside my windows when the birds started their chirping. 4:45am and the birds were already communicating at full force. I know the early bird catches the worm, but are worms out and about and ripe for catching before daybreak? Didn’t the birds get the memo that folks like to sleep in on Saturdays?

(Back in the day when I did drugs that kept me up at night, when I heard the birds singing–even if the sun wasn’t out–I knew there’d be no sleep for me.) animal, bird's nest, birds

Because the curtains were open, when the sun did come out, the light was right in my face. Sigh. So I gave up on getting anymore sleep.

I’m not exhausted. I did get some sleep. But since I didn’t get the amount or quality of sleep I wanted, I feel tired. I have to work in the parking lot today, and it will probably be busy. I told myself I’d be nice to people today and not give sassy answers when people ask me why so many trees are dead. I was hoping to feel chipper and excited, but I suspect I’ll spend the day feeling slow and dimwitted. Maybe pancakes will perk me up, or maybe I’ll need a cup of black tea.

I wrote this piece on June 4, 2016. I ended up not drinking tea, and the parking lot wasn’t too busy. I did ok. I think I was mostly nice and while my brain might have been slow, I didn’t make any major mistakes.

Photos courtesy of https://www.pexels.com/photo/playing-game-card-58562/ and https://www.pexels.com/photo/nature-animal-cute-sitting-36430/.

 

Jun7

Why It’s Better for Me to Stay on the Mountain

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#1 When I’m in civilization, I spent too much money. I get into town, and I suddenly have material desires. I go into the Mexican supermarket to use the restroom, and I’m overwhelmed by wanting a sweet treat from the panadería. (I stand in front of the racks of goodies for a comically long time, weighing my options of 79 cent pastries. Thankfully, I make a good choice with a pumpkin empanada.) I go into Wal-Mart to stock up on propane, then remember I really want a tablecloth for my picnic table, then decide I need clamps to hold it down. And a stainless steel camping cup with collapsible handles would really be useful when I want to heat enough water for tea but don’t want to haul out my multiple-quart glass saucepan. Suddenly I’m almost $50 down, most of it on comforts I could do without.

#2 I eat better when I’m on the mountain. At my camp, I’m all brown rice with beans or tofu, some veggies if I’ve got them. Sure, I eat eggs for breakfast, I love cheese, and I probably eat too many processed potato products. But in town, in addition to the aforementioned emapanada, there’s a grilled breakfast burrito at Taco Bell, then later in the day, a pizza from Little Caesars. I know it’s junk food, but it’s cheap and oh so delicious. On the second day in town, in an attempt to save money (and have more time to write), I tend to not eat enough, so I return to the campground with a headache pounding behind my eyes and up my forehead.

#3 In town, I get distracted from my routine. I forget to take my glucosamine after breakfast. I find I don’t have dental floss with me when I go into the restroom of the big box store to take care of my teeth before bed. I go to sleep later than I should, and I’m generally out of sorts.

#4 The lower elevation of town means it’s hotter there. The guideline I hear from migrating rubber tramps is that for every 1000 feet drop in elevation, the temperature increases by 3˚F. My campground is at a little over 6000 feet. If it’s a warm (but relatively pleasant) 85˚F there, it’s at least 100˚F in town. By mid-summer, by the time I pull into town, I feel as if I’m in an oven and wonder why I thought leaving the mountain was a good idea. There aren’t many trees near the coffee shop I spend my days in, so the van sits in the unrelenting sun all day. Even if (if!) the night air cools off, the interior of the van stays hot for hours. (I really wish I had a roof vent.) The summer heat in town is not pleasant.

#5 I sleep poorly in town. Even since the cop knocked on my van after midnight, I don’t like to spend the night in the supermarket parking lot. (Read about that experience here: http://www.rubbertrampartist.com/2015/09/07/cop-knock/.) I found a place I like on a residential street, near a couple of duplexes and what looks to be a shade tree mechanic. My van doesn’t seem out of place there. I pull in after 10pm, and I’m gone well before 6am. I don’t turn on my light. However, I’m still nervous about being there. Is someone going to notice me and call the cops? Are the cops going to notice me and decide to check me out? Is someone going to try the handles on the van’s doors? Sometimes the workers from the restaurant across the street make a lot of noise putting out the trash. Some mornings the garbage truck wakes me before 5:30am. Even the reduced traffic of nighttime is noisy and it’s always so damn bright in Babylon. Also, even with my windows open, I’m usually hot all night. (See #4)

#6 When I’m in civilization, I drink coffee. Some other time I’ll go into detail about the joy and sorrow which is coffee for me, but in a nutshell, coffee makes me all jacked up. I drink it, and my whole being hums, buzzes, and twangs for hours. And hours. And hours. Bedtime rolls around, and I’m still awake, even if I’m back on the mountain and the night is dark and the air is cool. Because I usually sleep well on the mountain, I don’t need coffee up there. Because I usually sleep for shit in civilization (see #5) I have coffee on the morning of my second day in town, and I’m still feeling the effects that night. (For real.)

#7 The mountain is good for my spirit. The mountain is peaceful. The mountain is beautiful. The mountain is (mostly) natural. Just being out there brings me peace. Seeing tall trees growing just for themselves is good for me. Sitting in a place so quiet I can clearly hear the sound of the flapping of a raven’s wings as it flies over is good for me. Feeling the earth under my boots is good for me. Being on the mountain brings me a contentment I’ve never found in any city.