Mar 29, 2015

A city of people doing really well, and people making espresso for people who are doing really well.

Our second longer visit in Seattle, summer 1995, we stayed in Madrona. Or more accurate, exactly on the verge between Madrona and Central District, CD. Madrona, one of the wealthier neighborhoods in Seattle and CD, one of the poorest. Also the verge between black and white. To get from Madrona and Madison Park, the also wealthy neighborhood north of Madrona (both facing the shores and beaches of Lake Washington), to Downtown you need to drive through CD, something the Madrona and Madison Park residents preferably did with their car doors locked.
Our first experience of Seattle was two years earlier, staying on the Eastside of Lake Washington, in Juanita, Kirkland. Three months in Suburbia didn’t give us any friends. We watched the sports cars leave early morning, coming back late evening. But we didn’t see any people, even more didn't meet any.  It was like living in a deserted place. It felt safe though. 

At the corner of Columbia and 33rd Avenue on the verge of Central District the police cars were frequent, but in a week we knew all the neighbors and we met our for-life-time friends, the Smitt-Heffron family. It was through them we learned how to not be scared picking up the groceries at the Red Apple Market in the CD valley at nights, where the police cars were even more frequent. From that point, I have never been afraid in Seattle.
Seattle is a part of King County, which includes the areas north and south of the city, as well as Eastside of Lake Washington where cities like Bellevue and Redmond are thriving with Microsifties and those alike. And Seattle neighborhoods as well as King County are going through a crucial change.
I mentioned Madrona and Central District as examples of rich and poor neighborhoods. But of course most neighborhoods are, or should I say have been, somewhere in the middle. Because that’s what’s changing. You can say the Seattle middle class is disappearing. Since 2000 95% of the new Seattle households have been either rich or poor. Only 5% could be considered middle income.
Between 2000 and 2012, King County grew by 85,000 households. More than 40,000 of these households are low-income, earning less than half the King County median income (or about $35,000 in 2012). Roughly the same number are high-income, with earnings at more than 180 percent of the median (or about $125,000 in 2012). That means there was barely any growth in the middle-income group — just 3,500 households earning between $35,000 and $125,000. A note to Swedes, yes, Americans make more money than we do. King County Executive Dow Constantine makes this remark about the change of the county: “It’s people doing really well, and people making espresso for people who are doing really well.”
The map is stunning. And there is actually a map, cheek it out (although for some reason this won’t turn to a clickable link, see if you can make it work better than I do):  file:///Users/mariaalidastolterman/Desktop/Mapping%20King%20County’s%20disappearing%20middle%20class%20%7C%20The%20Seattle%20Times.webarchive
Large portions of King County have become poorer. Spots have turned into middle class. But the chock is pretty much all of King County has become richer. The map is screaming rich, rich, rich!!! There is one very peculiar thing though.
To get from Seattle to Eastside you need to cross either the highway 520 bridge or the 99. On our first stay, the one in Juanita, Kirkland, we took the 520 route several times a week. On both sides of the bridgehead at the east side of the lake there are extremely wealthy neighborhoods. At the south side Bill Gates dug his way into the rock for five years before his masterpiece of home was completed, an entertaining show for every Seattle-Eastside commuter.
Medina, Clyde Hill, Hunts Point and Yarrow Point, those are neighborhood names where I don’t even know anyone who knows anyone who lives there. Besides Bill Gates the only name I know of is the saxophone player Kenny G.
Anyway, the peculiar thing is: 100 percent of the household growth in these neighborhoods was in the under-$35,000 bracket! How could anyone live there on that income?
There might be a two-word answer, which underscored Constantine’s espresso economy notion: au pair. But there’s another, more likely two-word explanation: capital gains. It turns out that investment returns, which many of the ultrarich live on rather than salaries, are excluded from household-income calculations by the Census Bureau, which made this report.
On top of this there is another map. The household income needed to place in the top 5% of each city’s income earner, grew faster in Seattle than in any other of the U.S 50 largest cities between 2012 and 2013. Seattle is out of control when it comes to making money!
So what about our corner of Columbia and 33rd? Is Central District changing too? Yes it is. I was often surprised it was what it was, located right in the middle of Seattle, between Downtown and the Lake Washington-close wealthy parts of town. But CD has a history too. Once a mostly Jewish neighborhood before Japanese residents began moving in, the neighborhood became largely African American during the 1960s and ’70s. By 1980, some two-thirds of the residents were black. 
And 2015? Now, a majority, about 58 percent, are white; 22 percent are African American and 9 percent Asian. The households with medium income and even high income are growing. Crime at the always troubled corner of 23rd Avenue and East Union Street is down by 80% since 2008. The crummy housed are sold as tear downs and the lots filled to the rim with shiny new homes. The word is gentrifying and the black population is moving south.
What to think about this? Well I don’t think anything good can come out of a city turning to a place of “people doing really well, and people making espresso for people who are doing really well.”

Mar 22, 2015

Getting my life back. Twice a week.

My weeks are on a routine that looks pretty much the same month after month. And Monday and Thursday afternoons I have my back treatments. Monday and Thursday evening I get my life back for a few hours.
This winter, as well as the two last ones, February and March have been tougher on me, which means more pain and more difficulties. As a cool addition for the season I can present a stuck neck which makes me dizzy. Every time I move my head the room starts spinning. Looking down, looking up. Lying down. Carousel. As long as I am still I am fine though, so I am grateful for that. And I know it’s the neck, because you can unlock it and I feel better.
What I am always waiting for, I would say, is my treatments. Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday morning hours is a build up for the Thursday afternoon treatment. And Friday, Saturday, Sunday and Monday morning is getting through the days to finally be at my chiropractor’s waiting room just minutes away to get rescued. And it really is a rescue.
Any person who has been in severe back pain being helped by a chiropractor, osteopath or a naprapath can witness about the miracle. You walk in there crippled and walk out of there with a new body. And I get to have that experience twice a week.
Today it’s Sunday. I am tired from struggling through Friday and Saturday. When stuck everywhere it is difficult to recall the after treatment release, but I will try my best.
It is Magnus or David from Civil Care who picks me up for the treatment. They help me out of my couch, puts my shoes on, escorts me to the car and helps me in. At the clinic, the same procedure but the other way around. Michael has been treating me for some 28 years, his colleagues Robin and Christoffer are learning the drill on how to take care of me.
I am a tough case. Ask any body worker around the world who has been treating me over the years, I am a very tough case, and it is hard on the therapists. Yet Michael greats me twice a week and reads my body like a map. The map that’s 28 years old and the map for today. He knows to keep frustration to himself, telling me the positive things I need to hold on to for hope. I am endlessly grateful to him for that.
So, he takes care of what needs to be taken care of for that day. It is important not to over-treat me, it can back fire. And walking out of his office I am let out of that prison my body creates out of mechanics, muscles and nervous system being in chaos. I am moving a lot better, my body is less scared, I can breath, the release reaches my heart and soul, I can peek out of my darkness and I feel…happy!
On the way back Magnus/David and I make a stop at my grocery store, and holding on to the shopping cart I joyfully harvest my supplies, buy tulips and give Emilio and Giorgio, the Romanian Romanies on their knees in the cold and dark outside, a chicken breast.
Back at the house I turn on the lights in every room and put the match to the candles. Tulips in a vase. Magnus/David are serving me dinner and I have the evening hours on my couch with a good TV series and my knitting. Exactly like every other evening, yet so different. Sometimes I am exhausted, sometimes I have energy. I am often in some after-treatment pain, but it’s a different pain. And my body feels free. There is an open room in my chest. There are smiling thoughts in my head. I am on a high. I feel like anything is possible! I feel like I could book a flight to Seattle! I feel like I got my life back!
I know though, that this will probably be over in the morning. I will and am waking up with a scared stiff body, unstable or stuck already. Life, as it was in the evening, gone, as well as the hope. Now, only struggle until my next chance to be let out. This roller coaster between the empowering insight that it’s actually possible for my body to feel a lot better and the hopelessness with the disappointment that follows, I am on twice a week. Gaining life, loosing life. Gaining life, loosing life.
I am wondering how this roller coaster is affecting me. It’s a tough trip for body and soul. Why do I do it? If life is not staying with me? Why do I risk loosing it twice a week? Because I couldn’t live without it. The treatments are my painkillers and my Prozac. Without them I would be in a constant painhell darkness. I get to have my life back twice a week. How many people gets that? And now it’s only 18 hours until next time.

Mar 15, 2015

A fearless voice. Once again.

Once there was a Swedish Prime Minister, Olof Palme.  No one was indifferent to Olof Palme. He was admired, disliked, maybe even hated. Loved? I don’t know. People were intimidated by him for sure, annoyed. He was perceived as arrogant. Born an aristocrat, practicing social democracy as a politician. I think it was hard to figure him out. He was assassinated on his way to the movies February 28 1986. His case is still not closed.

Sometimes I watch Olof Palme’s old speeches. Or read them. I am always taken by them. Some would say he was courageous. Other that he was undiplomatic. Whatever the opinion, he was outspoken. And he stood by his ideology. In Swedish politics as well as foreign affairs. Listening to him I have often been thinking: oh how I wish there was a politician as Olof Palme in this time and age! What would Sweden have been like if Olof Palme hadn’t been murdered? Also thinking those times must have been different in some sense, and we would never hear that kind of fearless voice again.

But this week the Swedish Foreign Minister Margot Wallström stood up for democracy and human rights. By doing so the Saudi ambassador to Sweden was recalled back home. Margot Wallström was blocked by the Saudis from speaking about democracy and women's rights at a gathering of the Arab League in Cairo. As the next move, the Swedish government decided to scrap an arms deal with Saudi Arabia, bringing to an end a decade-old defense agreement with the kingdom. Yes, it’s been an interesting week.

Interesting too was the reson for the Saudis to block Margot Wallström from speaking at the gathering where she was invited. The Swedish foreign ministry had published the Minister’s planned remarks in Cairo, which made no specific reference to Saudi Arabia, but did urge reform on issues of women's rights.

The Saudi foreign ministry deemed her comments about being barred from speaking "offensive" and "blatant interference in its internal affairs.” In an interview with Swedish media, Margot Wallström had described the punishment for a dissident blogger who was sentenced to 1,000 lashes as “medieval.”
And how did Sweden react to it’s Foreign Minister acting like no Swedish politician has done since the eighties? Well 30 some out of Sweden’s most prominent business leaders acted as one man condemning Margot Wallström’s behavior and the Social Democrat/Green minority government’s decision, meaning it would ruin all business with Saudi and it’s ilk. And the Right followed.
For Swedish politics, has the last weeks political business been a smart move for a weak minority government? I have no idea. Internationally? Well, I am absolutely positive Margot Wallström (who by the way is born and raised two hours north of Umeå, served 10 years within the European Union and was then appointed Special Representative of the Secretary-General (SRSG) on Sexual Violence in Conflict by the UN Secretary-General Ban Ki-Moon) is not thinking smart or not smart. She is acting out of knowledge, experience, belief and conviction. And I find her courageous.
To me, it’s outrages that Sweden is exporting arms to any country. To me it’s outrages that Sweden is even producing arms and air force. An on the paper neutral peace loving country which hasn’t been at war since 1809. There might be some good reason for it, but just the thought of it makes me sick.

I feel encouraged by Margot Wallström. Sweden is a tiny country, and we might just be a little terrier barking. But I feel like there is a backbone in Sweden rising from a faint-hearted posture we have been in for much too long. I hear the voice and breath of Olof Palme, and it gives me hope.

Mar 8, 2015

Three ordinary women. Three extraordinary women.

On this important day I want to celebrate three women. I am not painting a picture with the big brush. I am aware of demonstrations, speeches and honoring around the world. Very aware. But then there is the little world. The one close to me. So today I want to celebrate Audrey, Josephine and Janette.

I turned acute on Friday. Which was really annoying since the sun was finally out and Audrey and I had planed to once and for all get the one and only major errand done: buy me a new bra. Every woman on this planet who is trapped in a culture wearing bras knows when the old one is well over time, the need for a new one urgent and the resistance against entering a fitting room taking care of this awful business fills you with such anxiety, you have come to the way of no return. You just have to get it done.

The thing was, I wasn’t that bad when we parked the car in downtown Umeå and Audrey helped me out. It happened on the way to the first fitting room. A snap. In my pelvis. Baby steps. “Are you sure this is a good idea?” Audrey says. No it’s not, but a woman has got to do what a woman has got to do. “But we could do it some other day?” No, this is the day, let’s do it.

Audrey’s patience with me in that fitting room... It’s actually kind of blurry to me. 90% focus on the pain, keeping my body standing up, fending shootings off. 10% focus on what I was actually there to do. So it is thanks to my beloved Audrey and a nice lady in the store that I was back at the house later,  exhausted but equipped with not only one bra, but two!

Saturday Josephine came in the morning to get me to the bathroom, and later for breakfast. As she does every morning. Josephine is 23 years old, has two horses, a puppy and a 2,5 year old daughter. Josephine and I share most everything in our lives, and since we see each other every day, we have plenty of occasions to talk. Somehow though, it’s never enough. We are always short of time. And always waiting for that moment when we will have a real good sit down conversation, not just the bits and pieces while she is assisting me with my basic needs.

I was in bad shape yesterday. And the weather! There was this horrible rainstorm so that Josephine couldn’t even take her horses out for exercise. Which was annoying since her little daughter was with grandma over the day, and she was for once off duty. So how to use this day in the best way. “Maria, what do you say, could I come over later for a cup of tea and talk for a while?” Are you kidding me, of course you can!

While the storm eased out Josephine tucked herself and the puppy in under the blanket on my couch. We had our tea. And for hours we told each other what was on our mind. Uninterrupted. No glancing at the watch. Of course we only skimmed the surface on our never ending list of important matters, but those we covered, we covered well. Suddenly it was dinner time and Josephine cocked me her thai chicken dish which she makes for me most very Saturday evening. It was a good day after all.

This morning I woke up in terrible pain. The kind of pain that makes me really scared. Sweat breaking out in fear. Nowhere to hide from it. Josephine helped me with my morning routines. After that, alone with my pain. Then there was a knock on my door. “Hello, it’s Janette, can I come in?” But of course you can!

Janette lives in my village. She is about ten years younger than me and most likely the sweetest person ever. She is also incredibly beautiful. And even taller than I am! Now and then she shows up on an impromptu visit, always bringing something. Today her daughter’s fresh baked very healthy muffins, still warm from the oven.

Janette loves dancing. She knows I do too and she is so sad that I can’t. She wishes for me to rise from my couch, break out from the prison my body has become and just dance. Dance the pain away for ever.  And oh how I wish that too! I love the image, it really feels like that would be a way to heal. But how to get there?

The weekend is over. And so is International Women’s Day. I haven’t been in this much pain since December and it could have been the most terrible weekend. But thanks to Audrey, Josephine and Janette, it wasn’t. Three ordinary women. The extraordinary women.

Mar 1, 2015

Is there someone else living here too?/part 2

Okay, so I had a leaking dishwasher (probably) and mysteriously water filled bowls on two shelfs in the cabinet next to it. Not much water on the shelfs and no water what so ever out on the floor. In wait for the plumber Audrey emptied the bowls and we shut off the water feeding the dishwasher. And, of course we didn’t use it.

He came a couple of days later. Looked into the cabinet. Checked the pipes and the tube at the far back. Didn’t find anything wrong with the plumbing. Looked at the wood surrounding. The insulation. Felt it. Sniffed it. No, no signs of water damage. And if there had been, there most certainly would have been water on the floor. 

What?

Audrey and I were instructed to run the machine and see what happened. And off he was. We ran the machine. Before, we put the bowls back to stage the same scenario. Then we ran the machine. And what happened was the plastic pipe connected to the dishwasher outflow was flooding. Lots of water. On the shelfs and out on the floor. Nothing in the bowls! 

So, literary the reversed scene. And also water right down from the plumping at the far back of the cabinet under my kitchen floor. Audrey was quick with a bowl trying to catch some of it, but absolutely, right down under the floor. Like poring a bucket down there.

This did not feel good. Not at all. Really bad. Okay, we had done the troubleshooting and localized the error to the sewer system, but where in the system? Was it ways under the house? Did I have to take out the floors in the kitchen, bathroom and entrance to fix it? And all that water…

The day after the plumber was back. It turned out the water trap in the cabinet connected to the dishwasher was clogged up. Really? Was that the whole thing? Yepp. Can I trust that? I will cut off my right hand if it isn’t. Ok, I hear you…

Then he took a good look into the cabinet. Checked the surrounding wood at the back. The insulation. Felt it. Sniffed it. It was all dry. Bone dry. You can’t be serious? Yepp. But we saw all that water running down there? Well, all I can say is that there is no signs of water damage here.

What?

I just couldn’t let it go. I didn’t feel safe. So I had an inspector from my insurance company come and look, this was Tuesday this week. It was a big man. While he crawled into the cabinet I told him the whole story, and I didn’t leave out the water filled plastic bowls. He checked the wood. The insulation. He touched it. He sniffed it. He measured the humidity with his special measuring instrument. He was thorough. 

Dry. He told me. Everything was bone dry. No signs of water damage. But how is that even possible? Can it be the water has been running through the insulation and is down under my floor, but it’s dried out on the surface? No, I would see that. But there is not a trace of any water what so ever here.

I should be able to let it go now, right? I mean, I have had a plumber and my insurance company saying it’s all good. But where did that water Audrey and I saw go? And those plastic bowls? Neither the plumber or the insurance guy had an explanation to how the water could have gotten into those bowls, especially without the shelfs being more than just wet, and no water running out on the kitchen floor. They both agree on that’s mysterious.

So what do I think? I have absolutely no idea. I am still worried there is undiscovered damage from the water I saw with my own eyes, and who knows how long that’s been going on? But the unexplained water bowls don’t bother me that much. Audrey is more uncomfortable than I am, after all, as I did tell in the Part 1 of this thrilling mini series, I am kind of used to some inexplicable activity around the house.

And if there is someone else living here too, it must be someone who looks after me. Someone who doesn’t want to harm me, but the other way around. Someone who takes plastic bowls, holds them to a leaking tube and fills them with flooding water. And at an instant dries wood and insulation.