REDD ARMOIRE

home – a desolate block – died inside of me at Newport Beach where I witnessed a miniature Versailles sidewalk surfing, and learned the fitness virtues of surfboards & yellowtail.

never mind the grungy beachside citizens wading along the oil-contaminated surf- “we’ve still got the best waves” – as evidenced by the splattering of surfer bars and nascent Brazilian cafes.

bikini-clad girls in flip-flops and trucker hats parade up and down PCH and Main sans aim – purpose nor destiny – a quick pedal home toward paternal security

the surf shops hide away long forgotten legends of the tide and sand lamenting an old glory that never was – only imagined.

see, the preservation of a local culture is drowned out not by waves and songs of the seagull, but by corporate cranes migrating North.

GREEN MOUNTAIN

I’ll never forget my first adult glimpse of Lake Champlain and New Hampshire’s White Mountains. The sight captivated me to the point of postponing my trip to Montreal, so as to explore the state of Vermont – a spacious museum of pristine nature and “New English” culture.

Being a Chicagoan curious about small-town America and personal (ethnic) identity, in Vermont I commenced what would become a living tour of far-North American history.

I visited people, places, and circumstances I had previously only heard and read about – particularly the impoverished “Yankees” of the Appalachian North. I witnessed domestic abuse on multiple occasions. I often tell people Vermont has the worst poverty I have ever seen – it brought me to tears.

In many Vermont towns, pickup trucks blasting country music are paramount – cultural characteristics I always attached to the south(west). This amazed me because the history books always portrayed Yankees and Confederates as culturally polar opposites.

I befriended an older Italian-American woman named Mary. A child of Italian immigrants, and in great physical condition; she took me to her family cabin, high in the mountains, and shared tales of tearing up the NYC dance clubs during the 50’s and 60’s.

She also shared her family’s struggle – that of able-bodied Abruzzi men arriving to America with New York-sized hopes and dreams, only to spend the rest of their lives digging ditches to feed their families. The lucky ones made way to Argentina and fared much better.