I hear she's been picking peaches. I suppose it's about that time in the valley. The time for Palisade peaches. Succulent, flavorful, fuzzy fruits about which I always brag when people ask, "What do you grow in Grand Junction?"
"Why, we grow the most marvelous peaches. We also grow apricots (although the frost claims most of them every year. Without fail.), apples, a vast variety of melons, squash, and rednecks who have absolutely no appreciation for controversial theatre or yoga that involves the saying of "namaste".
If I ever used the word "Om" in Grand Junction, I believe I would have been chased out of my less-than-beloved hometown with pitchforks and brandished 22s (the gun of choice for people who want to turn their old vacuum cleaners into tools of target practice). However, I never used the word "Om" and my yoga classes were quite modest in size, so I was able to practice and teach in relative peace. The only disquieting aspect being that I taught twelve classes a week and made one hundred and twenty dollars a week. If I was lucky.
But that's neither here nor there. I now teach yoga for personal pleasure and for an excuse to spend time with good people. My English family is still enjoying their leisurely vacation in Menorca, so to stave off feelings of isolation, I've been doing a lot of socializing with the family who owns the stables down the road. Spending time with Bob, Anne, their four boys, four dogs, six cats, many horses, and Pascaline (their enchanting French volunteer who is in love with all things Spanish) keeps me happy and fosters the gregarious side of my nature. I usually head over around five, check on India (Violet's pony) and then mosey into the large farmhouse, sniffing appreciatively in the beautiful high-ceilinged kitchen and asking, "Anyone want to do yoga?"
I can't begin to describe how good it feels to be able to offer that to people. I don't have money. I don't have computer, language, or marketing skills. I can't help someone fix a leaky sink or a defunct dvd player.
But I can teach a yoga class. I can help people feel good in their bodies.
Anne injured her back whilst moving a patient during a particularly short-staffed day at work. I was able to design a routine without back bends, twists, or forward bends (poses that help prevent spinal injury but only exacerbate a per-existing injury) but still gently strengthen the low back, core, and stretch out the hamstrings. When I went over yesterday, I introduced yoga to Bob and Pascaline. Two of the boys joined us after some initial hesitation, and I showed them some of the "yoga breakdancing" moves, just to garner a bit more interest. Boys and men are generally reluctant to attempt yoga (perhaps it's the Lycra thing), so I try to give examples of the poses that have an impressive look and require more strength than flexibility.
My evenings down the road have been full of excellent conversation, delicious food, sloe gin, and Netflix disasters. During one of our after-dinner talks, the polite topic of racism was brought up (I'm probably responsible... I'm quite adept at instigating the controversial conversations). I mentioned that I'd been caught off guard by some of the zealous racism I'd overheard in Ireland.
Scene: A group of young, well-dressed middle eastern men are chatting on the street
Acquaintance: Oh, it's those awful people. Those horrible, awful people. I hate them, I do.
Aimee: (somewhat surprised) Horrible people?
Acquaintance: Yes, they're everywhere. Taking over.
Aimee: (fumbling with tact) Those people? Where are they from?
Acquaintance: Pakistan, no doubt.
Aimee: Uhh... (really not knowing what to say) I thought Ireland was having a difficult time with all the Polish people moving in.
Acquaintance: Oh, they've all left, they have. Now we have these horrible, horrible people. I'm a racist.
Aimee: Uhh...
Acquaintance: Oh, I shouldn't say that, should I?
Aimee: *thinking -- Good! Maybe she's not such a racist... she at least knows she shouldn't call a race of people "horrible"... perhaps there's some remorse for --
Acquaintance: I shouldn't say that because they can probably read my lips. Horrible people.
In Southern France, racism seems to be directed towards Moroccans and Algerians. In Ireland, towards Pakistanis. In Colorado, towards Hispanics.
In England?
Pikeys. Although from what I've heard, they seem to merit their less than reputable reputation. For the most part. However, before I commence my paragraphs on Pikeys, allow me to first admit that I have no firsthand experience with this group of people, so DO NOT SWALLOW anything I write as fact. This is only the impression they've made on a few folks in Buckinghamshire.
What is a Pikey? I'd only heard the term in the film "Snatch" prior to the dinner discussion, so I'd kind of assumed that everything in it had been exaggerated (like Brad Pitt's terrible accent) and needed to be taken with a heaping tablespoon of salt. Post-discussion, I'd reached the conclusion that the film didn't do justice to just how destructive the Pikey way of life can be on the surrounding community.
*Ahem*
The Pikey
Pikeys are travelers. Vagabonds who caper about the country with no fixed abode, helter-skelter, hither and thither. They seem to cause a lot of problems in England because they have a pesky habit of setting up their caravans on private property, trashing the land, and then absconding to fresh, unmolested territory.
The Gypsy/Pikey/Traveler is under suspicion of the following:
- Petty theft: if something goes missing, it's typically assumed that a traveler ran off with it. This idea made me chuckle at first, because the image in my mind was of gnomes running off with socks. However, Pikeys are much more serious business. They snatch up expensive machinery, bicycles, engines, vehicles, and metal to be sold as scrap. A friend of Anne's has had his costly wood-chipper stolen several times, and on one occasion, he actually saw the culprits making off with his machine and his cars. He called the police and gave them the information for the tracking device on his chipper, and they quickly located his equipment at a Pikey camp miles away. However, the law enforcement team wouldn't help him retrieve his equipment because it would "cause too much trouble." For the most part, it seems like a Pikey caravan site is off limits to the law.
- Not educating their children: Their girls get married young (average age of 16) and the boys start working young so that they can afford to purchase gifts for their pubescent bride. As they are continually moving about and don't belong to any set community, attending public school isn't really an option for the gypsy children.
- Tax evasion: As they have no permanent addresses and deal solely in cash, they choose to abstain from paying taxes. This can sometimes chafe the local community, as they are still seen in line for the dole and receive all the free healthcare the tax payers provide.
- Cheating customers through gang intimidation:The Pikeys possess magnificent entrepreneurial spirits. When they reach a new site, they drive around and take in the area, noticing all the little things that might need doing. Does your driveway need tarmacking? If so, beware. You might come home from a hard day at the office and see a Pikey van in front of your house, your driveway freshly tarmacked and a bill for 20,000 pounds being thrust into your unsuspecting hands. Don't want to pay your bill? Didn't want your driveway tarmacked in the first place? Tough. You better pay up or the 15 year-old with the thick accent and intimidating demeanor, else he'll be "bringin' da boys by".
- Taking work from local community: Because they don't pay taxes and don't dispose of their waste products properly, they can offer cheap services (when they choose to). If you need your tree trimmed and don't want to pay top dollar, you can call up your local tree trimming traveler. He'll take care of the excess foliage and dump the waste in the middle of a nearby field.
When I was in Ireland, I was approached by a couple of young Spanish men who assumed that I was Spanish because of my dark skin and wooden earrings. They started to converse with me and quickly discovered that I spoke not a word of their native language, so they drunkenly stumbled along in English for a bit.
"America? You are from America?"
"Yes," I took a sip of my Bulmers. "From Colorado."
"Colorado? That is west, no?"
"Pretty west, yes."
"The only thing I know of the States is "Nigga, please!" my new friend spoke far too loudly.
"Ummm..." I hid behind my pint, "We actually don't say that in the states."
"But it is on the TV all of the time!" he insisted, demonstrating with gusto to the full room, "Nigga, please!"
"Yeah, but only African Americans are allowed to say that. If you said that -- "
"NIGGA, PLEASE!!!"
" -- and you weren't black, you'd be in a lot of trouble."
"That is not a problem," the Spaniard answered saucily, "I would reach under my bed to grab my Winchester. BANG, BANG, BANG. That is what you do in America, no?"
So. We've all got a bit to learn about what's slang and what's just tremendously inappropriate.
To conclude my post on Pikeys, I would like to comment that the people who gave me this information are some of the most considerate, lovely folks I've ever met. They were also quick to say that take someone who lives the lifestyle of a gypsy by himself/herself, and the person is probably absolutely lovely. The manner by which they choose to live their lives just makes it very difficult for them to coexist as a group with the existing, settled community.
Generalizations and stereotypes can be helpful for finding out how you fit into a group of people, but goodness, they can be so limiting. Like my English friends were saying, it's vital to recognize the individual within the group, else you'll miss out on so much unique beauty and meaningful interactions.
When I think of Grand Junction, I have to remind myself that: As a town, it encourages values that are different than the values I hold. Who am I to say they're good or bad? I can only say that they're not useful for me at this time in my life.
I also have to remind myself that a few of my most beloved friends have chosen to make Grand Junction the place they call home.
So, it's all a mixed bag.
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