Doug Ruhe, We Love You

Doug Ruhe has been a great family friend for over twenty years. I was lucky enough to get to hang out with him a few times before I moved to the city. Some of my fondest memories of him took place in unusual environments- watching amateur boxing matches in shifty Bronx neighborhoods; attending narcotics annonymous meetings in Newburgh (neither Doug nor I are drug users; somehow, we just related to these groups); singing Christmas carols with the Bruderhofers in Chester; and one great day of canoeing on the Hudson River. Doug's huge heart and laugh always made me smile, and I really enjoyed hearing his long stories. This post was written in 2007, with lots of love for this great man's spirit. Doug passed away this week unexpectedly.

The inevitable high anxiety brought on by Thanksgiving Day preparations was not lessened in the slightest by having it at Doug's house. If anything, it made things worse. At least when Thanksgiving was at Dakota’s, they had the luxury of being able to blame each other for their individual anxiety, as families predictably do, and then carry on happily over-eating. Noa felt to have it at Doug's meant her holiday stress would be transferred directly onto his shoulders, but the guilt for putting it there would bring it right back to her, defeating the whole purpose. Dakota called Noa at 7 pm the night before to express her concerns about the pending doom. She had just quit smoking four days earlier and couldn’t stop thinking about cigarettes. There would be smokers at Doug's house and they would be free to wander about the house smoking, tempting her off the wagon. Also, Doug had never made a turkey in his life; there was no mention of stuffing or gravy or any of those essential accompaniments that make it a Thanksgiving meal. Who eats turkey without gravy? While she continued down the list of reasons why this was going to be a horrible evening, Noa tried to monitor her own now rising anxiety level. Suddenly she couldn't hold back either, and burst forth with her own personal gripe with the host. Noa had invited Gilbert to join them. Doug had told her that some of his Kenyan friends would be coming, and Noa knew that Gilbert had been feeling particularly homesick that week, and she cheered him up with the news of the other Kenyan guests. After speaking with Doug a second time, the truth came out that these African friends were not Kenyan at all; in fact, they were not even from East Africa. How could she disappoint Gilbert with fake Kenyans? Not to mention how racist it made Noa appear- just another ignorant American, thinking all Africans speak the same language. The wrath of the sisters was all over Doug. They concluded that they were not in the proper Thanksgiving frame of mind, and that they needed to just let everyone bring to the table what he was capable of and to stop trying to control everyone else. Noa hung up the phone feeling emotionally drained. The next day, try as she might, she couldn't maintain the calm she had wanted. She spent the whole day preparing her signature dishes and then getting dressed up for the special day, right up until the last minute. She loaded up her car with the goods, and as she put on her seatbelt, realized she was now physically exhausted. Roasted root vegetables still hot from the oven gave her car a homey smell, but her nerves could not belie the frazzled soul inside. She put in her Rokia Traoré CD, hoping to regain her sense of peace. She arrived at the Barnes and Noble parking lot and saw Gilbert patiently waiting for her inside his green Hyundai. He looked like a person who never lost his inner peace. His voice made her instantly relax. He had that soft Bantu accent that reminded her of a more peaceful life where no one lived in the confines of the hour. He got into her car, and off they drove. They were running late. She passed the street she thought she was supposed to turn on to. Gilbert said he does that all the time. When they arrived at the house, the sky was starting to darken, but the neon orange and gold leaves outside framed the house. They walked in with the dishes and placed them on the kitchen counter tops. Dakota smiled and said, “Nothing is ready.” Noa smiled back and wished someone had brought a bottle of wine. Noa stepped into the living room and sat down on the couch. She greeted Meg, Doug’s mother, who was wearing a sparkly red sweater. Hailey and her boyfriend Arturo were there. Noa was happy to see her niece with her beau, especially after the disappointment of him not showing up last year for the holiday. Meg asked Noa for the third time who she was. At 91, the recent details escaped her. Noa wandered into the kitchen, and found a stylish Shamsi, Doug’s daughter, checking on the temperature of a large pan of stuffing. The women hugged each other in greeting. Noa admired Shamsi’s striped knit arm-sleeves and commented. Shamsi ran out and got a pair for Noa. Not wanting to get stuck in the kitchen, Noa brought apple juice for the living room people. The only one talking was Meg, who seemed to have a bottomless pit of questions. “Are you married?” The question hung in the otherwise quiet room. “No,” Noa laughed. Doug arrived home and dinner was ready shortly after. Though most of the guests were practicing Baha’is, the eating had begun without the usual thanks. Another Dakota ritual fell by the wayside. About ten years ago, when her children were little, Dakota started the tradition of having all the guests share a few words with everyone of what they were thankful for. Noa was sure it was inspired by her desire to get Noa's extremely shy date to open up about his intentions towards her. The poor guy's face turned deep red as he softly claimed thanks for having been invited. The following year, Noa suspected once again Dakota was using this flimsy guise to get her own closed-mouthed boyfriend Tom to express a little public appreciation for her. This time it backfired. The group that year was standing in a circle awkwardly obeying the Thanksgiving rights. It was finally Tom’s turn. Dakota was beaming at him expectantly. He said, 'I just want to say that I am so thankful for my beautiful, wonderful son Ezra.' Noa and Dakota had to excuse themselves to the kitchen to relieve the hysteria. Maybe it was time to break with tradition for a while. So on this day, there were no speeches, no thank-yous, just a big group of people that Doug had collected to share a delicious meal. Doug turned to Gilbert: “We had a Kenyan named Hezekiah Nyamau stay with us in the 1970's.” Noa turned to her friend and asked jokingly, “Do you know him?” Arturo laughed. She liked sharp men, and thought he was well suited for her niece. Conversations splintered around the table. Noa heard her sister asking Gilbert about his background. “So your father is a king?” She heard her say. “Yes,” he answered earnestly. “And how many children did he have?” “Eighteen,” was the next sober answer. When dinner was finished everyone helped clear the table. Doug sat down in the kitchen and started handing out slices of pie he had cut. He then singled Gilbert out with a finger point and beckoned him to sit down and talk to him. Doug doesn't hold conversations, he holds audiences. He's got a million stories derived from his colorful life, ranging in topic from being a Vietnam vet, to hitchhiking across the states. Noa and Dakota looked at each other and raised their eyebrows in concern for young Gilbert. Doug's voice grew louder and louder as his story continued, and Gilbert could be seen from the back nodding periodically. After a while, Doug received a phone call, and Gilbert was free to walk about once again. It was getting late, and Noa started packing food to take back with her. She asked Gilbert if he'd like anything else to eat, and he indicated with facial expression that he was so too full to eat another bite. Then several more people who hadn't heard his rejection offered him the same plate of seconds. He declined politely. Doug came busting back into the kitchen, patted Gilbert's shoulder and said, “Come in the living room, I have another story I want to tell you.” “OK, I'll be right there.” Noa was cutting a piece of pie for Hailey to take back with her. Gilbert handed her a paper plate and said, “I need a piece too, Doug is going to tell me another story.” Hailey and Noa were doubled over in laughter as poor Gilbert made his way into the Doug Show with his apple pie prop. Then Dakota came into the kitchen. She told Noa that she didn't know that Gilbert had come from royalty. Noa told her that he hadn't. “Then why did he tell me that?” The other girl didn't have an answer. Dakota went on to say, “And he told me he has 18 brothers and sisters altogether.” “Gilbert is an orphan,” Noa announced straight-faced. “So he's a liar?” Dakota was confused. “No, he's not a liar. He was probably playing with you.” Dakota looked over at the display of Doug flailing his arms excitedly as he went into detail about the riots during the civil rights movement to a still Gilbert. “I should rescue him,” Noa said. “Well, you can tell him later that this is the punishment we inflict on liars-we have them sit and listen to Doug's stories for hours.” Noa was curious about her friend's behavior, but she was sure there was a perfectly reasonable explanation for it. They said their good-byes and quickly left before a new story could spring out. When she dropped her friend at his car, she commented on the interesting stories he had told her sister. He looked down and laughed softly. “What stories?” he asked, his face now completely serious. “Your father is a king?” she said. He laughed again, and then explained that when people ask him those kinds of questions, he has to test the royal family story, as it's common for Americans to think that all Africans come from royalty and have large families. He said he didn't mean to lie to her; it's just that he's experienced people's moods changing when he tells them his real story, and he didn't want to change the Thanksgiving mood. Then he gathered his courage and asked the question he'd wanted to ask but couldn't find the right time. “When that old lady asked you if you were married, and you answered that you were not, I felt a pain in my heart for you. I hope you don't mind that I'm asking you this. But why don't you wish to be married?” Noa started explaining how she was really happy alone, and she had had her share of boyfriends in the past, but really, men were just annoying. She believed what she was saying, but also thought the words sounded very sad and somehow didn't ring completely true. Then she thought of the words of that song by Traoré that she had listened to on her drive to Doug's house: M'bifo It is true that strength is in unity Thank you my love For being at my side no matter what Only a distant memory remains Of my solitude and my fears Now I am strong through your support Your presence makes me radiant. I still remember my sadness When I observed couples Crushed by the weight of their bond. Men and women for whom Union becomes a yoke "Solitude would be a guarantee of a more agreeable life." I told myself I would not have to deal with the sweet bitterness Which pervades couples with the passage of time This way I would only enjoy love affairs. Never bitter unions These sad thoughts are far behind me At your side, I have transcended all that. When things go badly. We have each other. And we should tell each other When we are happy Thank you my love, thank you my dearest. I brought you an empty receptacle from the period of my solitude. You filled it with love, you have filled me with happiness.

Tea Party - 茶话会 (Cháhuàhuì)

“A Proper Tea is much nicer than a Very Nearly Tea, which is one you forget about afterwards.” ― A.A. Milne

I am sitting in my Monday class on Managing the Environment to Support Young Children's Learning. We have a guest speaker who is enthusiastically showing a slide show of pictures from her center. I look at my watch, and calculate that if I leave class in fifteen minutes, I will be able to make it to Pearl River Mart to pick out a nice tea set for the next day's party before the store closes at 7:20. I hate missing class, but my compulsion to buy this tea set at Pearl River Mart takes precedence over my desire for perfect attendance. Confident in my choice, I quietly pack my books and leave the classroom with as little fanfare as possible. Down in the basement of Pearl River Mart, it is easy to become completely distracted by their enticing knickknacks and odd merchandise. I find a painted metal toy with four hens that peck feed when you twist the base of it. My search for my mother's birthday gift is over. I have seventeen more minutes to pick out a tea set for eighteen. There are several inexpensive pre-packaged sets with a teapot and four little cups. I want saucers as well, and realize that I need to find individual wares. On the other side of the packaged sets are a huge selection of painted cups and saucers, reminiscent of teacups used in Chinese restaurants. Some have dragons painted on them; some are jade colored with Mandarin letters. I quickly choose three different styles of six, and then rush around searching for the respective matching saucers. With my remaining six minutes, I quickly decide on just purchasing one teapot. I realize I need to ignore my budget for this spree- I can't leave the store without the goods. As an afterthought, I bring my now very heavy basket next to the cash register, and run over to the food section so I can pick out a box of tea. I need something fragrant and different from the Pu Er tea I have at home, which I will use for the children as well. I find a box of 100 Jasmine Green tea bags for $3.99, and grab it. In front of the cash register, at 7:15 P.M., a man rings up my numerous items, and a woman wraps stacks of the saucers in local newspapers. They are talking very loudly and agitatedly in Cantonese. I apologise in English for bringing so many items up five minutes before they close. The woman says it's fine, as she continues yelling at the man. It looks like no one has bought these particular cups and saucers in a while. The next day in Ms. B.'s prekindergarten class, I come in quietly and set my large yellow canvas Pearl River Mart bag down next to the sink. As I unwrap the little cups and saucers, the children watch me from the rug. Ms. B. is talking about a special surprise that Ms. Tamar has for them today. I say good morning, and ask the children if they know what we are going to be doing? Kelly, who has a great imagination, says, 'We're going to have a tea party!' I ask her how she knows this, and she points to the bag and says, 'Cause you bought the stuff at the store!' I felt very proud of the children for being the curious, eager little souls that they were, and couldn't imagine a group more deserving of its own tea party. As I rinse out the little cups and saucers in the sink, the assistant Ms. D. tries to take off the price stickers. I am struck by what great team work this class has- an atmosphere of helping one another and working together always permeates the environment. I didn't need to ask her to help me, she simply saw that I needed help, and there she was. It reminded me of the studies I'd read on collectivist cultures. I made my way over to the children who were waiting for me on the rug. As I sat down in front of them, Ms. B. walked over to help Ms. D. arrange the tables in one long rectangle. They found my assortment of table cloths I'd brought from home and covered the tables with them. To my amazement, this all seemed to happen automatically- how did they know I had brought table cloths? I greeted the children, and reiterated to them that we were going to have a tea party today. Jackie, a tiny girl with a head full of cornrows and barrettes couldn't contain her excitement. In a surprisingly loud voice, she says, 'Because we never had a tea party before!' I smiled at her, and considered this. I asked the group, 'Have any of you ever had a tea party before?' Some of the girls said they had with their dolls. One girl said she had a tea party with a friend. I brought an actual tea bag out, and walked them through the steps of making a cup of tea. They focused as though watching a dog giving birth. Their comments revealed that for some children, tea was a part of their daily lives; but for most it seemed, this may have been their first exposure to the concept. I then opened the little tea bag and poured the contents into a white plastic dish and passed it around to illicit some feedback from the children on the sensory components of the plant. Some of their descriptors included dirt, seeds, raspberries and soil. This was pretty impressive for urban four year olds, who are likely not coming into contact with any of those things on a regular basis. After the lesson, we gathered the children around the table. Each one had a little teacup and saucer sitting in front of him, and a few animal crackers on a napkin. Each child took a turn pouring himself tea from the pot, and then passing it to his neighbor. One child noticing that his saucer was pink and his cup was jade, said to me, 'Excuse me, mine's don't match my tray.' Another little girl asked me if she could dip her cookie in the tea. A different boy, noticing that his friend was shifting the table cloth, told me: 'He's moving the blanket.' One very quiet boy was leaning back drinking his tea with his pinky raised in the air. He looked like a cup of tea was part of his morning ritual. At an age where routines, rules, and rituals are such crucial elements in teaching about classroom community, maybe tea parties should have more of a presence in the early childhood curriculum.

Happy Valentine's Day

"Without You"


I'll grow when you grow
Let me loosen up the blindfold
I'll fly when you cry
Lift us out of this landslide
Wherever you go
Whenever we part

I'll keep on healing all the scars
That we've collected from the start
I'd rather this than live without you
For every wish upon a star
That goes unanswered in the dark
There is a dream, I've dreamt about you

And from afar, I lie awake
Close my eyes to find I wouldn't be the same

I'll shine when you shine
Painted pictures on my mind
Sun sets on this ocean
Never once on my devotion
However you are
Or far that you're far

I'll keep on healing all the scars
That we've collected from the start
I'd rather this than live without you
For every wish upon a star
That goes unanswered in the dark
There is a dream, I've dreamt about you

And from afar, I lie awake
Close my eyes to find I'd never be the same
Without you, without you?

Please Keep Your Feet to Yourself

Half asleep, I shuffled onto the uptown 1 train to head home. The crowds of people with their holiday shopping bags took me by surprise. Was it that time of the year again? As the doors opened to let passengers off at the next stop, a seat near the door became available. In anticipation of a good nap, I quickly claimed it. Instantly I felt all of my muscles relax upon sitting down. I closed my eyes for a few minutes and thought about how odd it was that I could take a nap in the midst of total strangers who were looming over me. The train stopped and the doors opened again to let on the next crowd. A short attractive woman holding a toddler walked on. She looked a lot like one of my professors who was from India. I stood up and leaned towards her. 'Would you like to sit down?' She nodded as if it was the only civilized thing I could have asked her, and thanked me politely. She was well-dressed, and cooing to her child softly. The angular mousy-blonde woman sitting next to her was intently reading her book, arms stiffly guarding her space. Someone stepped in front of me and obscured a clear view of the action to come. I heard the toddler vocalizing excitedly. I saw blondie protecting her space. 'Your child is kicking me', she said in a controlled voice. I saw her long arms exert halting little movements towards the Indian woman, which I imagined were attempts at corraling the child's unweildy legs back into his mother's lap. 'He's only a child, he can't help himself', I heard the mother defend. Her face was clearly visible to me, and she held a broad, confident smile that was turning into condescension. Blondie continued guarding her territory.'His legs are kicking me, keep them under control.' The mother responded instantly with the same crinkly-eyed smile, 'Oh, you obviously will never be a mother, or never a good mother, anyway, that's for sure.' The mother started laughing, and before Blondie could respond, a heavy woman on her other side offered to switch seats with her. The new arrangement was quickly implemented. The mother suddenly burst into tears. A seat opened up on her other side and a man was walking towards her with a look of concern. He sat down next to her and asked her what had happened. She answered in between quiet, heaving sobs, 'I was so upset, I said something I wouldn't normally say. Why was she so mean?' They talked in hushed tones as the toddler calmed down and stopped kicking. I didn't feel sorry for the mother, though she was clearly vulnerable and full of self-doubt. I felt sorry for the crazy book reader. People were now glaring at her and whispering about how horrible it was to treat an innocent baby like that. Some were even doing double takes to record her image, lest she be caught in future tussles with babies on subways. Had this incident taken place in the car adjacent to this one, she may have been supported by like-minded adults in favor of preserving kick-free seating zones. There probably is something wrong with me, I thought as I reflected on my utter fascination with scenarios that involved very uncomfortable verbal conflicts among strangers. Calm was restored, as the mother and her male counterpart now spoke in voices which were inaudible. If the emotions of the incident were still on their tongues, it was impossible to detect from their facial expressions. They could well have been discussing what silverware to use for their Sunday brunch in the Hamptons. Blondie got up at the next stop, and with little fanfare, exited the train. No parting advise on how to raise children with urban sensibilities. Another day on the 1 train, and no one lost an eye.

To all the innocent ones

My friend in Saltash, a small town about a four hour train ride from Heathrow airport, sent me a quick message on Facebook last month. She mentioned that she'd like to come visit when the Freedom Tower is built. We receive so many bits of information online in such a short period of time, in comparison to BC (before computers), that our filtering system has become very efficient at responding mentally to specific data and filing it as necessary. My gut response to her statement was to feel slightly foolish at not being as interested in 911-related news as Cornish friends half a world away. It's not that I was so physically removed from the site, living five miles north of it. Every week for the past three years, I have taken the number 1 train to Rector street to tutor my young student. Every time I crossed the West side Highway I would see the construction of this tower. My focus on arriving on time for my weekly appointment and crossing the highway invariably took precedence over reflecting on 911. And then one day, waiting for the light to turn green and wondering if the crossing guards took their jobs home with them, I looked up and saw a glittering piece of architecture that seemed to have materialized from nowhere. It caught my full attention, and it dawned on me that this was what everyone was talking about. The foolish feeling returned, accompanied by a sense of awe at the power commanded by a giant structure. This Friday morning, two days before the tenth anniversary of 911, I am sitting in front of my new class of children. The school is in a community center in the Bronx. There are twenty four-year-olds sitting in front of me on the rug, waiting to hear 'The Man Who Walked Between the Towers'. I checked first with my director for approval to read this book. She requested that I not go into any detail about the disappearance of the towers at the end of the book. As a person highly committed to honesty, this posed a slight problem. I had planned on answering any question that came up in a way that children could understand and use in their struggles with conflict resolution. (Sometimes people don't agree on things, and sometimes they forget to use their words when they become angry). My director was firm on her stance, explaining that some parents might become irate over such exposure to 911 events to their children. Having experienced the wrath of an angry mother on two occasions, I quickly accepted the argument and began my reading. The children were focused. Jason, who was sitting in the front, saw Philippe Petit juggling in the park wearing his street performer outfit. 'He looks like Michael Jackson!' When I read the part about Petit contemplating sneaking up to the rooftop against the instructions of the police officers, I said, 'He knew he wasn't supposed to be up there, but he wanted to walk across the wire so badly, he couldn't help himself. So he snuck up there.' My assistant Ms. Shandra walked over to set the tables for breakfast and said under her breath, 'Hmmm. They know a lot about doing things they're not supposed to.' When I got to the page where the towers were missing, I asked the children where they were. 'They broke', Jason said. 'How?' I asked. He shrugged. He tried again. 'They disappeared!' 'Yes' I said, 'But how?' He waved his hand like a magician making something disappear, then clapped his hands with the flourish of a seasoned performer and smiled up at me. I smiled back at him. At that moment, I agreed with my director. Let's hold on to our innocence a little longer.

Asian Persuasion

My friend AeRhee and I had just finished watching a Brazilian documentary at MOMA. This was the type of film that would fall into the category of 'films about quotidian routines that are not designed to promote tourism'. For some reason, we both decided to wait it out to the bitter end. The rough premise was to highlight twenty little known villages in Brazil with short vignettes of their local inhabitants. Upon leaving the theatre and marching out into the steamy evening air, we got into a discussion about how we express our dissatisfaction with others. In my usual self-deprecating manner, I confessed that I was noticing my occasional tendency towards passive-aggressive responses to strangers' unintended slights. I gave AeRhee an example from the night I went to see Pink Martini live at Summer Stage in Central Park. I was standing not far from the stage with an audience of a thousand or so people, and was dancing a little to 'Lilly', one of their catchiest songs. Suddenly, a young woman arrived with a large tote bag which she tossed in front of her, and then planted her body two inches from my nose. My Cha Cha moves ceased, as I looked down on this spectacle of space invasion. As the red in my cheeks started deepening, I tried to think of a tactful way of asking this person not to insert her hair in my mouth. My friend had no trouble coming up with a solution. 'I would have said, 'Excuse me, can you please move forward a little, I don't have enough room here.' I looked at my friend and smiled. Yes, that would have been the normal thing to say. I told her that culture plays a role in our responses, as I recalled learning about Asian cultures having a very direct way of communicating. AeRhee, who is Korean-American, agreed with me. As we quickened our pace down 58Th street, we arrived at a bar my friend wanted to go into. It had an East side look to it that I wasn't used to. Men were wearing business suits or collared shirts, and the women were in cocktail dresses. I was wearing an outfit more appropriate for hiking a mountain. AeRhee and her direct communication skills miraculously got us two bar stools as we slid through the crowd of suits. I ordered a Czech draft beer. It was cold and crisp, but it lacked a pulse. It put me in a bad mood. I like my friendly Belgian ales. Being heard involved screaming, so our conversation was limited to lots of nodding. Through the sea of conversations one voice succeeded in getting its message across. A clearly inebriated man wearing a pink sports shirt repeated the same phrase several times as he looked over in our direction. 'My friend just got back from serving two terms in Iraq'. AeRhee responded by taking out her cell phone to show me pictures of the pianist she had become friends with. As she scrolled through the images of a pensive looking man in a tuxedo with long flowing hair, the war veteran made his way up to the bar. He too was drunk. He leaned over and touched an image of the pianist sitting in AeRhee's convertible. 'He's a good-looking guy', the vet slurred. AeRhee and I looked at him momentarily, and then went back to the pictures. I felt bad for the vet. I turned to him and said, 'Welcome home'. He thought I was offering an invitation. He must have had a lot of those Czech beers. As I glanced at a picture of the pianist standing in the woods, the vet stuck his finger under my arm. What was he doing? The gesture was unacceptable for many reasons, not the least of which being that I had been sweating all day from the record-breaking temperatures. What to do? With all my Asian moxy I turned to him and in a clear, direct voice announced, 'Don't ever touch me again. I don't like being touched by strangers.' This huge, drunken man who had previously worn a mask of arrogance, suddenly woke up from his stupor. His features slackened in a moment of defeat, and gazing at the floor, he apologised. Though thrilled with this new found directness, I still didn't trust it's power to permanently block future space-invading attempts. I picked up my stool and moved it closer to AeRhee. I was on the right path. I looked forward to a future of directness accompanied by better beer.

The Me Generation

Being a CUNY student, I have unlimited free access to all films showing at the MOMA. Being unemployed, I take advantage of this quite often. MOMA supports film makers from all different stages of their careers- some of the best of the lot, like last night's 'Das Lied in mir' directed by Florian Micoud Cossen, was a final film school project. Unfortunately, the previous eight films I watched there left me wondering if my taste in film was no longer in sync with my budget. Two weekends in a row I viewed international documentaries that sounded very promising- the first, told from the protagonist's perspective, about a woman in South America sold as a child to work as a servant for a middle class family. The first hour of the film featured no dialogue, no music- just straight footage of this woman as an aging servant, toiling through her chores. The camera followed her as she pruned the plum trees, watered the plants, chopped wood. An hour. One hour. I had to stop asking my friend Mel to join me for these viewings, as she no longer trusted any film I showed interest in. So I invited Mike, who hadn't seen me for much of my 'MOMA film marathon' period, so was unaware of potential pitfalls with my film selections. The very long line snaking around the entrance door to the downstairs theatre was a good sign. We found some empty seats, and started settling in. I looked behind me, and realized that the very short man in back of me would never be able to see over my head, so I asked Mike to move down a seat, and I followed. We put our coats and bags on the now empty seat on my left. Within seconds, the elderly lady sitting on the other side of the seat said in a very audible voice, (something all little old ladies seem to possess), 'Don't you think it's rude to put your belongings on one of the seats when the theatre is so crowded?' I looked around to see if I had missed some movie-goer who was looking for an empty seat. Seeing none, I replied, 'It's not a big deal, if someone wants this seat, we can simply take our jackets back.' She was intent on forcing the issue. 'But they'll think someone is sitting there if they see your jackets.' Then she turned to her friends before I could come up with a good answer, and said very loudly, 'It's all about them, the 'Me' Generation.. Me, me, me!' All of a sudden I turned into my grandma Blanche, and was fired up and willing to risk being kicked out of the theatre to stand up to this seat Nazi. 'If someone wants to sit here they're welcome to, I don't know why you're getting so angry.' 'You want to see angry, I'll show you angry!' she said in a huff, and then added quickly, 'Well anyway, I want to sit there!' I smiled triumphantly. 'Well why didn't you just say so in the first place, instead of giving me this big lecture?' I took our stuff off the seat, she moved over next to me. I turned to Mike, my heart pumping from the adrenalin- 'Is this funny? It sounds funny to me, but no one is laughing.' Mike is a therapist by day, and has a penchant for keeping the peace. Since granny was still muttering about me and my selfish ways, and Mike saw my haunches up, he said jovially, 'Am I going to have to sit between you two?' I was thinking it might be a good idea, but then granny sat quietly with her hands on her lap looking straight ahead. All bark and no bite. I was tempted to give her another piece of my mind, but eh. I have been tested by the best of them- irate phone company customers, out of control three year olds, and revenge-seeking stalkers, to name a few. It's hard to take pride in engaging in warfare with someone half your height, but I must say- it really feels good to tell someone, 'You picked the wrong person to act like a lunatic with. Sell crazy someplace else, we're all stocked up.'