Languages in LA

If plastic is a threat to the environment, it’s cards that will finally fill the landfills. I mean, cards like Visa, Mastercard, Discovery. They started a trend, I think, that has ballooned out of control. Now every business wants you to have their plastic card.

 
I’m sorting through my billfold this very moment. Let’s see. I have, in addition to above-mentioned credit cards, a plastic identification card for my job, which no one has ever  asked me to produce in order to identify myself. I have one from State Farm insurance. I am a member of the Vons Club since I once bought groceries there in 2004. My union sent me a card, the financial advisor who helped me set up a retirement account gave me a card. I don’t mean a flimsy laminated here’s-my-card-if-you-have-any-questions deal, I mean a bit of plastic fit for running through a strip-detector. My health insurer gave me a card. My video store, my gym… even Pet Co gave me a card!

 
Actually, this is not a bad thing. I just moved into a new place dangerously near the Pet Co, and since I have three cats, Pet Co is quickly becoming my Medina, my second-most holy destination (Home Depot being Mecca.)

 
But this card business is out of control. They’ve overwhelmed the seams of my wallet and I need a new one. I wonder if any enterprising college kids have developed a drinking game based on all these cards. I have almost enough cards to play poker. Visas would be Kings, we could have Mastercard Queens, and Discovery Jacks… gym memberships would outrank grocery stores, which would in turn outrank video stores. And Pet Co could be the wild card, because a store that will charge you $40 for an ingloo-shaped piece of plastic called the Booda Kitty Litter Box is capable of anything.

I notice that people here in L.A. say “nice” when they mean… well… I’m not exactly sure what they mean. It’s a stand-alone response. I say something that is perhaps not quite what was expected, and the reaction is a blink, a pause, and “Nice.” I can’t tell yet if it means “I don’t believe you just said that,” or “Oh, how the mighty have fallen,” or what.

For example: I am buying a red velvet footstool from a fine (sounding) young man who advertised it on craigslist for a very reasonable price. It’s beautiful, a glowing ruby red, not worn at all, just perfect for my cats.

Try to understand: everything I do, I do for them. I’m a cat lady. When I look at apartments to rent, I’m looking for wide windowsills for my cats to lie on, a backyard for my cats to sun in, closets for my cats to hide in, long wooden-floored hallways for my cats to run and slide on.

And when I hunt for furniture, I’m looking for something cheap enough that, when my cats shred it with their little ivory claws (and they will) I won’t have a coronary. I also look for little beds for them to rest on, baskets for them to curl up in, end tables for them to sit and squint upon.

So when I saw this footstool, I was enthusiastic. I called the young man and we set up a meeting. He assured me that this was a fine footstool, bought at a fashionable boutique, barely used. I said, “Wonderful! I’m buying it for my cats to lie on.”

Pause. “Nice,” he said dryly.

Now I’m paranoid. I think that “nice,” a perfectly good word that fell into disfavor back in the 1980s, has now fallen even further. Now it’s what you say when you find out that your taste in designer footstools is cat fodder.

Many people complain that political correctness curtails speech, but I’ve come to the conclusion that they are wrong: there is nothing you can’t say in America today. You just have to say it the right way.

I learned this in college and it’s come in very handy in the Los Angeles Public School system. You see, even if you are working with the least promising, most difficult children this side of open savagery, it is strictly verboten to confess that they seem hopeless and you have just about had it. You cannot say that.

But you can indicate that the students you are working with present a unique challenge.

You don’t say Gabriel is so hyper and uncontrollable that you would need a staple gun to keep him in his chair. You say he is a kinetic learner who is working to improve his impulse control, but is unfortunately suffering from ADHD. (Never mind that Gabriel isn’t the one suffering, you are.) Speak of his energy in an admiring voice, and all the other teachers in earshot know exactly what you really mean. “Oh yes,” they agree knowingly, “Gabriel has difficulty focusing during direct instruction.”

You cannot say that Jessica is the dimmest child you’ve ever seen. But you can indicate concern that she has difficulty processing auditory input, is dyslexic, and struggles with spatial relationships. In other words, she doesn’t understand anything she hears, reads, or sees. Add that she would benefit from learning compensating skills for her weak motor coordination and you can hint that she walks into walls as well.

Finally, do not say that you are barely holding on till the weekend. Smile and say that you look forward to coming back rested and restored on Monday, eager to seek new solutions and fresh strategies.

Then go home and quietly collapse.