School Uniforms

In England, all school children wear uniforms. I have to admit that it dresses the place up a bit when at 3:30 the students pour out of school, all wearing nice pants or skirts in their school colors. In smarter parts of England, the children wear blazers, instead of the sweaters and sweatshirts we see around here. I've seen pictures of my husband as a young child, big eyed and knobbly kneed, in a puce jacket with sky blue piping and dress shorts. In Walthamstow, uniforms are often modified for religious reasons. When a group of older girls leaves school, most of them will be dressed in American Catholic girl uniform styles, a few will be wearing head scarves in school colors, and rarely one or two will even be wearing school-colored abayas.

Yesterday, as I was taking my son for an afternoon walk, we saw a young girl, maybe six or seven, hop out of her family's car and onto the sidewalk a few feet in front of us. Her mother was on the other side, lifting something, maybe a younger child or a bag of groceries, out of the backseat. The girl wore a school uniform, and the top was a green and white checkered Pakistani-style tunic. Her curly light brown hair was falling out of its braids, and I smiled at her because she looked happy, unkempt, and unconcerned with her appearance, and she made me feel nostalgic for that age. Instead of returning my smile, she furrowed her brow, took a white piece of cloth that I hadn't noticed she was holding, and quickly covered her hair in a veil. I've seen these white veils before, on young girls and on store window mannequin heads. The veil looks a lot like a nun's wimple, leaving only the facial features exposed and draping down to obscure the neckline of the shirt as well. Over the forehead is a little bit of trim, sometimes with lace, a kind of fabric bang. Until this performance, I hadn't realized that the style meant young girls could quickly veil and unveil themselves. When she was done, she looked up defiantly, as if she had gotten the better of me. And it is true, that when she put on the veil, I no longer saw her as a reminder of my younger self, but not because she was dressed differently. At six or seven, I would never have had the nerve to stand my ground and stare down an adult. I smiled again and walked on.

The English Countryside at Easter

We spent Easter weekend with my husband's family in the country, about an hour southeast of London. After five years of frequent visits, the green, human-sized English landscape is now familiar and I have to think back to my first visit to remember what made it so striking and so foreign. On that visit, my then-boyfriend-now-husband picked me up at the airport, and we drove through the outskirts of London into the narrow winding roads of my mother-in-law's corner of Kent. Like streams, the roads have unpredictable twists, and hundreds of years of traffic on these ancient lanes have worn grooves into the landscape. Along the side, the branches are often trimmed into a neat line so that they won't trespass onto the lane, and then the trees open up into a canopy above. Two cars can't pass, so neighbors must back up into driveways or little shoulders to give way to oncoming traffic. The clumps of woods open onto beautiful rolling countryside, with farsighted views over fields of sheep. All the while, these narrow country roads pass house after house because in southeast England even the countryside is crowded. There are no billboards and many of the houses date back hundreds of years, and so, if you ignore the cars and the paved roads, one can imagine a trip to the country as an almost-successful trip back in time. My mother-in-law lives on a hillside, and the view from her back garden slopes away until reaching the flat Weald which spreads out below for miles. The fields are not like the square patchwork quilt of American farmland, but instead they are irregular shapes, with few straight lines and no right angles, and they are smaller than their American equivalents. England is green in a way that the States are not. Even in the middle of winter, when a Michigan forest is a dead grey-brown, southeast England maintains a bit of its color; the leaves may be gone, but there are lichen and patches of grass. This may seem a slight difference, but it is visible even from a plane. This Easter was cold and damp, and Easter morning the view was obscured by fog, but even then we were greeted by the English countryside as we stepped out into the trills and warbles and songs of dozens of birds.

Twirly dresses and Plush Baby Changing Rooms

I have to admit, on Saturday, when I felt like all of my week had either been spent looking after my son or working on my diss chapter, I hopped on a bus to Westfield East, the new shopping mall built for the Olympics. It was my third trip there, and the first one that I can't explain away as either necessary shopping or entertainment for my son. The mall is brand new, and its marble floors and sheets of glass shine as only something highly polished and barely used can. The ceilings are high, very high, there's lots of natural light, and scattered throughout the mall are faux living rooms, couches and chairs arranged to look like the perfect setting for cozy chats with friends, but instead put people in the awkward position of having to sit facing strangers.

I hated how antiseptic and cultureless it felt the first time we walked through the doors. The ceilings were so high I felt a bit dizzy, and the opulence was nauseating, especially after the bus ride. Stratford, the part of London holding the Olympics, is a deprived area of the city, and the games have been touted as a kind of revitalization of the area. I have no idea how effective this has been, but what I do know is that as you approach the Olympic building site, you can see in the distance construction work on all of these shiny new buildings, the oversized stadiums and the in-progress high rises that surround them, but in the foreground are desolate and dingy streets, seemingly untouched by Olympic money. The existing high street looks like a rundown version of our local shopping streets in Walthamstow, only much less crowded, perhaps having lost business to the new mall. The mall is part of a building project called Stratford City, and it has been plopped into an existing neighborhood and then sealed off from the community. So much so that the area is completely fenced off and my bus has to go through a security checkpoint to get in. Contained in Stratford City is the Stratford International Station, with great links into London, and, because of the high speed rail, quick connections to continental Europe, too. I think the idea is that you can live in a brand new high rise, with a shopping mall, complete with grocery stores and a faux high street, at your door. It doesn't matter if the surrounding area is impoverished, unless your view happens to overlook it, because you can hop on a train to more savory parts of the world without ever having to step into the less glamorous parts of Stratford. But, don't think I'm too damning, after all, on a sunny weekend day, I chose to head there, with no child or husband in tow and no shopping that urgently needed to be done.

At first it was the convenience of Westfield East that won me over. It's very close, a four or five mile bus ride away, but more importantly, I've never been to any public space so well laid out for parents and young children. At you enter, they'll rent you a stroller in the shape of a car, so that your child can pretend to drive from store to store. The baby changing tables are in large rooms, with a TV playing children's shows, a fenced-in small play area, high chairs, microwaves, and private breastfeeding cubicles. In addition, there are two very nice play areas in the mall, one of which is for soft play, and all the plastic-coated foam shapes are still in pristine condition. On a cold and rainy weekend morning, it's almost like having an under-fives amusement park around the corner. But, after a couple trips with my family, and having to prioritize presents, playing and naps, I decided that I wanted to shop for myself, and to actually try on the clothes that caught my eye. So I brought the front section of the Saturday Guardian, hopped on the bus and headed out.

The most indulgent part of my morning was in John Lewis, trying on a dress that I couldn't afford. It turns out that it ran big, and the size I brought into the dressing room swam on me, so I buzzed and asked for a smaller size. She asked me if she could bring shoes and a jacket to go with it. I tried on the whole outfit and twirled in front of the mirror. It was definitely a twirling dress.

I spent the rest of the morning browsing and occasionally trying on clothes that were lackluster in comparison to that dress, then I had lunch in the upscale “world” food court before heading home. The international flavor of east London is not ignored in Westfield East – it's translated into shopping mall terms. Ethnic food you might find on our high street is cleaned up, westernized and served by Westfield. So my neighbor doesn't own the shop - s/he just works there. I have to tell you that I didn't notice any stores selling saris, or shops that specialize in headscarves, but, true to east London, I did see headscarves on some of the store clerks and customers. I even saw a couple of women shopping in burqas. After all, no one has moved into the high rises yet, and so the crowded mall is primarily filled with my neighbors, from all their various racial, ethnic and religious backgrounds.

I am uncertain about whether or not the community of Stratford will benefit from Westfield East. I fear that it hurts rather than helps the existing shopping streets in the area. It also seems hell bent on setting up a very clear dividing line between the haves and the have nots. It could be evil, but such a comfortable evil, with twirly dresses and plush baby changing rooms.

A Snowy Day in London Town

Today was the first truly snowy day of the winter. As soon as it was light, I saw chunks of wet, melting snow fall off trees behind our house, so there was no time to lose. After breakfast, my husband, our son and I all got dressed in our warmest clothes, and went out into the backyard to play in the snow that had fallen during the night. It was only three or four inches deep, but there was enough snow to cover everything in sight. My husband and I had a great time. The snow was easy to pack, and we made snow balls and even a small snow man. Our son, on the other hand, was a bit terrified of the stuff and refused to be set down in the snow, even after I had tamped down a circle for him. I guess that's what comes from being half Angelino, half Londoner. For him, the idea of a “c(h)ino” from a nearby coffee shop was much more appealing, so we bundled him into his pushchair and set out of our front door. (Living in a terraced house means that the back door only leads to a fenced-in garden, so everything from the backyard, grass clippings to sawed trees to us, must exit the property through the front door.) It was slow going down the sidewalk. No one had shovelled, and we thought we might have to carry our son, sedan-chair style. The streets, however, were carless, so we pushed the stroller through the tire tracks left by the few people who had driven down the unplowed roads. I'm not sure if the streets were so empty because it was early on a Sunday morning, or because the snow kept people inside. On our half mile walk, we only encountered two or three cars before we reached the main street.

For the most part, fresh snow makes the world more beautiful, hiding not only the grays and browns of winter, but also giving everything a pleasing uniformity. This was especially true of the terraced houses we passed, who (like ours) only have about 8 feet of fenced-in cement between their front doors and the sidewalk. The space is filled with wheelie bins. Even in a single-family house, there are three – one for the trash, one for recycling and another for yard waste. Flats have even more. Ugly sculptures, Christmas trees, and old toys collect in these cement areas. And the snow hid it all. Why is it that snowy days are often windless and even warmer than their snowless counterparts? And the sound is different. The world is quieter when covered in snow. I felt invigorated by our short walk, warmed by the effort of taking my turn pushing the stroller.

When we arrived, the coffee shop was open, (to our slight surprise) and there was already a man reading the Observer in the corner. We ordered our usual - “c(h)inos” and pains au chocolat. The coffee shop is run by Algerians who not only make good pastries, but a decent cup of coffee, too. Although we occasionally bump into other families with young children, the clientele are mostly gray-haired Guardian (or Observer) readers. Unlike the coffee shops who cater to “yummy mummies,” this one has no high chairs, and so my son gets his own armless leather chair. For some reason, (foamy milk sprinkled with cocoa powder?) it is one of the few times he will sit still. This morning, my husband and I even managed to have a five minute conversation about spliced commas and en dashes before we remembered that our son was sitting on his own, and with a full and very tippable mug in front of him.

When we left, we walked back past the farmers' market. The stalls were still being set up, and a man had a large, thin board that he was using as a shovel to clear a path for customers. I like how unprepared everyone here is for snow. I like that things have to shut down, that sidewalks can't be shovelled, that people need to invent makeshift ways of clearing paths. There's something to be said for a little inefficiency in the world.

Play Groups

Today is cloudless, but bone cold. My hands froze in my gloves as I pushed my son to our morning play group. Play groups are a wonderful feature of life in Walthamstow with a young child. Every morning and most afternoons, for a pound or so some church or school or children's center will open its doors to toddlers and parents for a couple of hours and provide the kids with lots of toys and usually a snack. If you're lucky there will be tea and cake for the grown ups, too. The kids enjoy the toys, and occasionally each other. For adults, it's a way out of the house, and a chance to talk with other grown ups. I've met most of my friends in Walthamstow either at play groups or playgrounds. And there's always common ground between parents. We can all talk about sleep deprivation or teething or first words. And it turns out that if the conversation goes on a little longer, you often learn that you're talking to a teacher, an academic, a speech writer, a psychotherapist, a publisher, or an artist. Sometimes you get to talk about your work, or at least your process, and everyone can commiserate about the lack of time we have to do our own things.
I only go to one play group a week, and it's a small one. It's in the multi-purpose room of a church. They have a kettle out so you can make your own tea and fruit for the kids on a big plastic folding table. It's actually the adults who sit around the table, drinking their tea, and handing bits of fruit down to the children who beg for it. Every play group has a few scoot-along cars that all the children want. There are several books, a corner for duplo, and another for baby gyms. Today there was a small table covered in paper for drawing. Mothers breastfeed their little ones wherever they are. No one is shy or uses a cover. No one is made up or dressed up. There is always a dad or two and sometimes several. Near the end, everyone cleans up and then there are ten or fifteen minutes of singalong. We all know the songs because they're the same at every play group, and our kids all have favorites that they request over and over at home. Now, in America I guess the next step would be to have a play date with the parents you like. In England, you ask your fellow parent over for tea. There are biscuits (cookies) and once again you try to carry on an adult conversation in between being pulled around to play with this toy or to read that book. One of the things I love about Walthamstow is that we all walk to play groups and to each other's houses. We are all neighbors. As a parent I live more in my neighborhood and more in my house than I ever did before.

Monday Morning

I took my son to the doctor this morning. We walked the usual way, down the high street and then cut through the train station parking lot. On any other weekday, the market would be on, and the high street would be lined with stalls. Sellers would be hawking their wares, some in cockney accents acquired locally, but many in accents from eastern Europe or south east Asia. Our market is not precious, and people do not go there for the exotic or the handmade. Almost nothing there is fair trade or organic. Despite that, in between the undergarment stalls with cheap boxers, thick socks, and bras for a pound, and those filled with household goods, including giant, thin pots, mops and dusters, and those that can unlock your cell phone or replace your watch battery, there are beautiful stalls. Most of the food stalls, for instance, are piled with fresh fruit and vegetables, all a pound for a large plastic bowl full. Like in any market, from open air vegetable markets in France, to Borough Market, to the farmers market in Grand Rapids, to Walthamstow, heaps of red peppers, of deep purple eggplants and of brussels sprouts on the stem, are beautiful because of their bountifulness, their bright colors and the varieties and repetitions of shapes. Here, they stand out in a sea of cheap plastic toys and gadgets. Also remarkable are the stalls with ethnic clothing, some selling garments with bold African prints, while others sell head scarves and on occasion, one may find a black burqa flapping in the wind. Again, these are not high quality, and not meant to be exotic, but are bought and worn as everyday dress. On a market day, the streets are packed and any journey, especially with a stroller, is slow. Today, I have most of the pedestrianized street to myself, and I only have to weave around the construction crews that are taking advantage of the lull to replace the street lights.
The doctor's office itself is dingy. The grass is long, despite it being winter, and it is dotted with trash, mostly food wrappings and old styrofoam cups, but I don't look too closely. I glance at the double doors before opening them, and see a sign that says the senior citizen group has been cancelled indefinitely due to lack of participation. As always, there is a plaque that says buggies and pushchairs must be left outside, but the flyer that says a buggy thief is operating in the area means that I, and every other parent, disregard the rules and wheel our children into the doctor's office. I check in on a computer touch screen and sit down in the waiting room. I am a few minutes early, but the appointments here are short, so you can often get in before your slot. The waiting room is shabby. It needs paint, a few ceiling tiles, and new chairs. There is a sign on the men's toilet that says, "Closed due to Misuse". The one toy, a table covered in roller coasters of bright wooden beads, is broken, and I'm afraid my son might poke himself with the exposed bit of metal. Instead, he tells all the other children “No!” when they try to play, and then climbs on top of the table.
We're called into see the doctor almost exactly on time. Rather than the pristine examining rooms I'm used to as an American, these are decorated in dark colors that blend in with the dirt. They are also half office. The doctors sit there and type away on their computers, before, after and during appointments. I knock at the door and she tells me to come in. So far, in the four or five appointments for either me or my son, all the doctors have been women of color. They do not wear white coats, or any coats, actually, and although they are always friendly, they move the appointment along at a fast pace. After a quick examination that makes my son sob with fear, she says he's fine, I shouldn't worry about his cough, and to come back if his condition worsens. I put him back in his coat, fasten him into the pushchair, and zip up his muff. I've promised him a 'cino from a coffee shop on the high street.
This particular coffee shop is run by eastern Europeans. I have seen the girl behind the counter before, and I start to think about how, in such a diverse community, I speak mostly to people who I think are like me – similar age, similar education, similar interests. Like me, they all have partners, children, and overflowing book shelves. I need to branch out. So I ask the barista where she's from, and it turns out that she's a law student in Lithuania, who is only in London for a year. The woman at the table next to me starts talking to us, too, and she's from Turkey, but has lived in London for 15 years. While drinking her cappuccino, she is pricing bracelets to sell wholesale at trade shows. I ask her if they are sold locally and she says, no, only in areas like Chelsea – they are too pricey for Walthamstow. When I say goodbye, the Turkish woman says that we'll meet again, because she's always in the coffee shop. I go home, and once I put my son down for his nap, I quickly run next door, to apologize to my neighbor for being gone this morning when she and her five month old were supposed to stop by. We reschedule for tomorrow, and as I walk back to my house, I run into a friend from down the street, pushing her two-year-old daughter. “My hand is covered in snot,” she says. “My son is in the house alone,” I say. “Well, then, you're off.”