To Gain or Retain?

Give me the genius of the year award for saying the issue of Cleveland's future is complicated.

I've been considering both Cleveland Brain Gain, the nonprofit started by Hawken student Madeline Bruml, and a certain reaction evoked therefrom.

Oh, I guess a part of me wishes I wasn't so sensitive to linguistic nuances - I shudder at the term "brain gain" because of what it implies: bringing in smart people from elsewhere, because the locals ain't smart enough to know what's good for 'em. (An ex-elitist myself, I cringe when I sense it in others.) Part of the reason I called this blog Really Bad Cleveland Accent is because, well, that's what I want to hear when I'm in Cleveland, and if you're reading this from your Warehouse District loft or your house in Slavic Village and you don't think there is such a thing as a Cleveland accent, that's good, you definitely have one, stay put. Stay where you are, don't move. Don't sell your house to some displaced east or west coast agent of gentrification, because when I come home (and I am going to come home - how many other expats who've lived in New York are going to say that?) I want to serve "cahffee" to those who've been waiting "in line", not "cwawfee" to those who've been waiting "on line." (yes, they say that here, isn't it weird?????)

It's really a measure of my pride in Cleveland that I think it could "Californicate" like western Montana has been since the dotcom bubble burst. I, like Kossuth, don't want Cleveland to fall into the hands of yuppies disguised as hipsters. I don't want mixed-use neighborhoods like the West Side Market district in Ohio City, which have been so painstakingly restored, to be usurped by the false gods of Crocker Park. I don't want it to get discovered. Or, I want it to get discovered, but like former Oregon governor Tom McCall (who was so instrumental in rebuilding Portland), I want them to come, look around, spend their money, and get the hell out.

What worries me is that the price of real estate on the coasts is so outrageous that sooner or later, anyone with half a brain is going to have to realize that living there is unsustainable. And they'll look around for cheaper pastures. For New Yorkers, New Jersey used to be it. Now New Jersey is as expensive as New York. It's only 500 miles to Cleveland, folks, and let me tell you something, Cleveland has a lot more going for it than most of New Jersey.

Let them come, you might say: we need the business! But consider the effect their arrival would have on our fair city.

Two years ago I looked at a gorgeous, prewar Tudor-style apartment on Edgewater Drive. Brick, patina, vines, the works. It had no less than 18 windows, some of which had stained glass, I believe, a fireplace (granted, not in working order), and all the original details. One bedroom, huge kitchen, more closets than you need. You could see Lake Erie. The asking price? $500 a month. How long do you think those prices would last with hipsters flooding in from expensive elsewheres? How many apartments do you think exist for that price in Greenwich Village?

Still don't believe me that big Metropolites will ever discover Cleveland? Every week I get one of those email newsletters that lists all the last-minute airfares. During the winter, especially, there are frequent fares of $68-98 roundtrip between New York and Cleveland. Every time I've tried to buy one of these fares, they're sold out. But wait...there's more. This is typically the only route on the list that's sold out. And it's sold out within hours.

God, I feel like I'm telling a younger sister who's finally grown into her "unique features": yes, you are pretty. People like you.

The thing that encourages me about Madeline Bruml's Cleveland Brain Gain is that it doesn't, technically, aim for gaining brains. It aims for retaining brains, which is entirely different. I suppose I can forgive her for not carrying a dictionary to all of her genius sessions the way language uberdorks like myself would. After all, she attained the unfulfilled dream of my high school self: she went to Hawken, a school which, for all its hoity-toity debate about whether it's located in Gates Mills or Chesterland, is actually an academically rigorous, progressive school that encourages its students to make a difference in the world, rather than encouraging them to buy their prom tickets early, which is about all my high school could manage.

Madeline Bruml, for all her youthful folly (as my fellow blogger, not I, might claim), actually does appear to believe in the locals. Hooray! We tear at our unwashed hair and bang on our rocks with glee! And she, like me, is poised to "grow up" (i.e., go away for awhile) and come back.

The thing I want to point out to those who might consider Bruml a "childish" proponent of Cleveland's economic future is that she gets what's happening with suburban sprawl. It's evident from her Cool Cleveland interview that she gets that her friends - yes, probably from well-to-do suburban families - are dreaming their futures out in Solon or Avon Lake "starter castles", taking their Baby Gap-clad future children to Champps for some freedom fries, leaning slightly left in their voting habits but resolutely avoiding the city because it's crammed with scary poor people. But she sees that that shouldn't necessarily be the American Dream for her generation, and is cheerfully willing and able to kick them in a direction that this New Urbanist is pretty pleased about.

The thing is that there are an awful lot of issues at play in Cleveland's stagnation/rejuvenation cycle, and they interact in unusual and messy ways. Of course we have to understand and preserve everything that makes Cleveland not "like New York", but there are reasons why Cleveland's young people go to New York and Chicago and Boston and San Francisco.

But I'm hungry, this post is long enough, and I'd like to give some of those reasons due attention rather than just lipgloss. If you are or if you know any Cleveland expats, bid them drop me a comment about such.

Or Not

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, even in New York you find yourself in unbearable little bubbles of dullness, watching the same stupid, tired after-work reruns of the Simpsons while shuffling around a bunch of stuff that you don't even want, which you justify by telling yourself that you're cleaning, during which time you find a discarded empty wine bottle that was sitting on your bedroom windowsill (where did that come from?).

Happy new year. I'm just frowning all over the place for no good reason, wishing I didn't live so far out in Queens that it feels like freaking Dakota Territory, mindlessly chipping away at the dishearteningly large mound of sweets that's accumulated since Christmas, as delayed, dented (and in one case, even opened) packages keep arriving from faraway relatives.

Jerry Mander says that out of boredom springs action, but I'm not springing for anything except another couple of beers to settle my ennui. Except actually I'm not, because I don't have any cash. I'll probably just spend the rest of the night looking up symptoms on MedlinePlus, terrorizing myself into believing I've got multiple sclerosis, and gallstones, and an appendix fit to burst.

Big Buildings and Fog

I love being on an island. There's such an intense fog that's rolled in off the river. I work in a 17th floor office a stone's throw from the Empire State Building, and when I looked out the window this morning the Empire State Building had completely disappeared. I come from seafaring (well, lakefaring) people, so something about this just gets me right there.

And there's something about being downtown that gets me in the same way. Whether it's New York or Cleveland, there's something in the way all those big buildings, built so purposefully, make you feel important, like you have a place in the history and future of civilization:

I learned the reason why man must work and how to dream big dreams
To conquer time and space and fight the rivers and the seas
I stand here filled with my emptiness now and look at city and land
And I know why farms and cities are built by hot, warm, nervous hands
~Woody Guthrie, by way of Wilco

God, in a way it pains me to quote anything from the Wilco canon, but when I look out on the Manhattan skyline, or the Cleveland skyline (draped in fog or not), I just have to wonder of those people who built Atlanta and Phoenix and Jacksonville and most of central New Jersey and all those sprawling concrete wastelands: what kept them from dreaming big dreams?

To Speak Ill of the Dead

I've started this post three four times. Here's the essence of what I'm trying to say, in three sentences:

My friend Nathan, who was an immature self-centered jerk, killed himself in a particularly graphic manner six years ago today.

I don't think I've ever felt sad about what he did, because he hurt a lot of people in having that really selfish last word (which has deeply annoyed me); I've just felt sad that he never figured out how to relate to people better.

Without trying to sound sappy or insane, sometimes Nathan appears in my dreams and in my dreams he's figured it out, which brings me as close to sad as I'll ever get on this issue, because we were a lot alike, and we could have been much better friends than we were.

I'm sure Nathan would have a love/hate relationship with the blogosphere - he had a love/hate relationship with everything mainstream - so here's my humble attempt at putting him there, if only for a few paragraphs.

One of You Must Know How

There's a wikiHow on making a Chicago hot dog; why isn't there one on making a Cleveland-style Polish Boy?

Oh No, He Didn't

I realize that in assuming any of my Cleveland friends give a subway rat's grimy whisker about what's going on with the MTA strike, I've become one of those loathesome New Yorkers who thinks the world twirls about like a beachball tethered to the Empire State Building.

Sorry. Forgive me. Give me a good Cleveland scowl. Grrr!

Now get ready for some Cleveland-style cynicism.

I'd been waffling in my sympathy for the Transit Workers Union. The knee-jerk liberal in me wanted to support them before I even knew their demands. Then I found out that the average MTA employee makes around $55K annually. (Now that sounds like a lot more than it is, given the cost of living, but if you're living in, say, Queens, it's still fairly comfortable. Think $37K in Cleveland.)

Then I found out they were asking for an 8% annual raise. Part of me thought, gee, that's an awful lot more than most people get. But then I found out that the new contract would force new employees to pay 1% into the cost of their health benefits, while they'd still be 100% covered for existing employees. Unfair to younger workers! Boo! Hiss!

Though I'm currently sitting at home because I'm unable to get to work - and I'm not getting paid for sitting at home, either - I've decided to support the TWU out of sheer distaste for this bit of nonsense from Michael Bloomberg, commenting on the strike:

"This is not only an affront to the concept of public service, it is a cowardly attempt by [Transport Workers Union President] Roger Toussaint and the TWU to bring the city to its knees to create leverage for their own bargaining position." (italics mine)

Prithee, Lord Billionaire Mayor, tell me about the concept of public service. Tell me about how great it is to do a job that no one appreciates because they just expect you to be there, like air for them to breathe or grass for their Pekingese to pee in.

Underlying this statement is a very class-based insinuation that if you choose to earn your bread "serving" the public, you are hereby throwing away your human dignity, your right to at least ask to be treated better by your employer and by the ever-demanding public, who (guess what!) largely doesn't respect you. You might as well buy a T-shirt that says "Public Servant. Dump Shit Here. Have a Nice Day!" (I looked at the MTA Online Store this morning to see if they had something like that, but they don't. Too bad.)

I don't buy Bloomberg's assertion that the TWU is deliberately trying to harm the city just because they're greedy bastards who won't take whatever pathetic offer is dished out to them. I don't like him using this "affront to public service" crap to influence public opinion, to turn people against the transit workers. And most of all, I'm absolutely rabid with resentment that someone with his power would say something to perpetuate the hateful, hateful perception of the public servant as public doormat. He isn't just saying that to 8 million New Yorkers. Again, I've gone over to the self-centered dark side, but this was the top story on Google News this morning. The whole confounded taxpaying country, with its suspicious hatred of bureaucrats and Big Gub'mint, heard Mayor Michael Bloomberg of New York City imply that if your kids' PB&J is paid for on the public payroll, you should take what you can get and just be grateful that you have a job.

Please, sir, can I have some more?

New Yorkers could take this opportunity to reflect upon how much they depend on the lowly transit worker to power the lifestyle they've created here. I'm a cynical ex-public servant, though, and I suspect that most will simply, sullenly resent Mr. Joe Subway Conductor for not being grateful enough that he's allowed to serve them.

Riding Around

Though it's a bit ironic that I'm choosing to sing the praises of public transportation on the eve of the imminent MTA strike (which will leave 7 million people -- myself included -- unable to get to work), I was pleased to see that Cleveland has made just a little more progress in the car-free department.

Some of the reasons I used to like public transportation don't really apply to my current situation. For instance, having some quiet time to sit and read: though I'm near the end of the line, I never get a seat, so my hourlong commute from central Queens to 34th Street is spent clinging to the same infectious pole that the little kid who just sneezed into his mitten has been clinging to. It's hard to read while you're lurching around, trying not to touch anyone else in a blatantly invasive way, while also trying not to think about how much of a mess someone with a stick of dynamite in their North Face vest might inflict.

Taking the subway there's also no pleasure in watching the urban landscape pass by. Taking the 75X from Fairview Park, and then the 23 down Clark Avenue, and then the 45 up West 65th, and the the 55X from Edgewater was probably what got me interested in urban revitalization in the first place. Without trying to sound too melodramatic, I wonder if young people zipping east-west on I-90 across Cleveland could ever truly come to appreciate what's there, what they're missing, what they're wishing they could move away from.

But there are a few pleasant things that, in the last five years that I've been car-dependent, I've forgotten (and a few that I've just discovered).

1. Time means something different when everyone relies on public transportation. If you're late to work because of a breakdown underground, chances are you're not the only one -- and you won't be singled out.

2. Walking through subway underpasses and up many flights of stairs per day is good exercise. It sounds like a cliche, but you really don't see many fat people in New York. People in New York just look healthier. Sure, it's been bandied about in the news that living in the suburbs makes you fat, but I'm not just talking about fattitude. There are probably some who would say, what New York have you been living in, but I'll venture to say (and I'll back this up in a future post, if you'd like) that I see less physical stress in people's eyes, in people's posture, here.

3. When you rely on public transportation (or, indeed, walking) to do your grocery shopping, you buy less. And I find that when I buy less, I use more of what I buy -- there's not as much danger that I'll buy more than I need because I only buy what my two little arms can carry. Sure, I have to shop more often, but that means the food I'm eating is fresher. And grocery shopping just takes a little more effort, too -- you might be hauling that bag of potatoes, that sack of kitty litter, and that pork roast for 5 or 6 blocks. Also good exercise, and a lesson in appreciation: there's no rotting cabbage in my crisper because I don't want the walk I took uphill in 27-degree weather to have been for naught.

This is something that, in my 5 years of car-dependency, I had completely forgotten about. I had forgotten that when I used to take the bus from Edgewater out to the now-defunct Danny Boy's on Lorain Road, I'd spend exactly $36 on enough groceries for two weeks, and I'd never throw anything out that wasn't a peel, stem, core, or packaging.

4. Hmmmm...I suddenly have more money. I'd had many moments over the last 5 years where I'd vaguely wonder, "how could I have more money when I was only making $800 a month versus when I was making $40K a year?" Certainly, relative deprivation played a part, but having a car - even a car that had been paid for outright in cash - is a huge moneysuck, and huge moneysucks don't equal freedom. Not to me.

5. When you have a car, there are things you have to expend mental energy on. Is my car going to get stolen if I park it here? Dented? Can I even park here, or is there some ancient yellow paint on the curb that I can't see? When was the last time I got an oil change? Was the engine making that noise this morning, or is that new? Does my back tire look flat? Should I shop around for some better insurance? Oh crap, did I just hit that guy? I have one thing to say in the face of all these potential ulcer-causers: no freaking thanks.

Like This

Sometimes I wonder if blogging just isn't right for me, as I often just don't feel the constant need to comment on the world around me. It's not that I don't notice things, or have opinions on them, but at this point in my life I tend to drop out of society for weeks at a time and just think about things, without telling people what I'm thinking about. It's what always got me B's instead of A's in high school, because my teachers claimed I didn't participate enough.

Of course, many high-quality blogs update constantly with interesting snippets gleaned from surfing the Internet. I don't have the energy to be one of those bloggers, nor do I want to recreate the wheel. And I don't want to be an oatmeal-and-toast blogger, either.

So if you've been wondering if I've died or if I've abandoned RBCA - no, I haven't, just bear with me that I might say something interesting once or twice a month.

Like this:

In the last month, four things that weren't working for me have fallen away: suburban sprawl, car-dependency, full-time work, and public librarianship. In the last month, I have lost ten pounds and have seen the complete disappearance of two significant health problems which had plagued me since a) I'd gotten a car and b) I became a public librarian.

It's a very weird sensation, but I think I might be happy.

The moral of the story is, if you ever have a niggling sensation that something isn't working for you, open up the refrigerator, confront the body inside, and for heaven's sake, make like a mobster and dispose of it!