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News News Feature

FALLING INTO DISGRACELAND

I moved to Memphis six months ago. I can’t say that I didn’t know a soul, because I knew about seven. Souls, that is. And while those seven came in handy when I was trying to rent an apartment, it wasn’t enough people to constitute a surrogate family or even a surrogate fa. I felt as if my whole life was beginning anew.

I’m not sure what I was expecting with my “rebirth.” Possibly (and please don’t laugh) enlightenment. Not necessarily spiritual enlightenment, but just enlightenment. Not only was I moving to a new town, in a new state, with new possibilities, but only months before I had graduated college and had been wondering about that mystical place called adulthood.

My friends at school and I used to joke about becoming “real people” after we graduated. “Real people” were people with careers, not jobs; they had serious relationships, not just flings after keggers; and probably their lives had more excitement, purpose, and meaning than any of ours did. We were just bullshitting our way through papers on economic growth in sub-Saharan Africa in a modern day global economy and art projects that required every choice to be made at random.

What have I discovered about adulthood so far?

Your ass spreads until it’s the size of the Serengeti. Okay, I take that back. My ass spreads to the size of the Serengeti. I’m not sure whether to attribute it to the millions of hours I sit down everyday, or the hours I spend on the glider at the gym trying to combat the sitting.

Other than that, I’m not sure how much more adult I’ve gotten. I live in an efficiency apartment. I still don’t make my bed in the morning. I own a puppy (although I got her more as an accessory than anything else. I had this strange delusion that she would just ride around in my purse calmly and lick cute boys on demand. Although she might still be small enough to ride around in my purse, I’m not sure she won’t poop while she’s in there, and I worried about ruining my credit cards, not to mention carrying around a purseful of poop). I’m not dating anyone (not that I’m opposed to the idea, it just hasn’t been proposed recently.) And the other day in the laundry room of my building, I got called on not having blinds in my apartment.

That was sort of shocking. Because as long as you keep your unmentionables to yourself and don’t steal anyone’s dryer, the laundry room can be a great place to meet people. But on this particular day, not so much.

One of my neighbors was doing his laundry and I was doing mine and he asked me if I lived in a certain apartment, describing it by where it was in the building. I’ll be honest, I had no idea what he was talking about. But Instead of saying that and asking him to clarify, though, I said no. I don’t live in that apartment.

“Yeah, you do, don’t you live in the one without any blinds?” he replied.

I froze, holding a small pile of clothes aloft. “Uh …” was all I managed. He had just recognized me after seeing me in MY APARTMENT.

And because of the large gaping yawn of space in which I was reeling, I think he realized that someone might be freaked out by, again, being recognized after being seen in their apartment.

“I mean, most of the other ones have shades and I always see your light on…” he trailed off.

I tried some false bravado, “Yeah, well, you know, I’m obviously not shy. Ha ha.”

Really I was thinking two things: 1) Damn it, my mother was right. And 2)What has he seen me doing? I try to keep embarrassing activities, such as picking my nose or dancing around like I’m in a rap video, on the down low.

At any rate, this is all to say that adulthood hasn’t caught up with me yet. I still haven’t ever dated a “real” person or gone to a charity ball. But I’m thinking it will, and soon. I’ve already opened a savings account. I pay car insurance every month. And this weekend, I’m going shopping for blinds.

Mary Cashiola writes about life every Friday @ www.memphisflyer.com. You’re invited to come along.

Categories
Cover Feature News

Satisfaction Guaranteed

Ahhhmstahdahm,” she says into the phone, her voice sounding
like a combination of cashmere and cosmopolitans.

Who would know that on the other end, Betty Lamar is standing
near racks of sexy dress-up outfits, 6-inch-high-heeled mules, and, in a back
room not far away, a 12-inch dildo known as the Conquistador.

Lamar is the Betty behind Betty’s Resale and Betty’s Amsterdam,
two shops on Madison Avenue near Overton Square. In 1995, she opened the
Resale store and, whereas once she only stocked used clothing, she later
branched out into selling new shoes, club wear, and most recently, at
Amsterdam, sex toys.

Sitting on a display at her new location one afternoon, Lamar is
at ease, joking with customers, answering the phone, and wearing an outfit
that consists of a sweatshirt, baseball cap, and a pair of black leather
pants.

When a woman in a low-cut blouse comes into the store to replace
a pair of fake eye lashes, she and Lamar talk about a sparkling cobweb of a
dress that she’s been lusting over. The customer says she’d accessorize it
with pasties and a little something “down there.”

“Ooh, girl, that would be on,” Lamar says.
“Yeah, that would be sharp.”

When the woman leaves, Lamar says, “I’ve known her since
before she got those breasts.” She waits to see if anyone’s shocked: The
woman wasn’t always a woman.

This is Lamar — fun-loving, frank, and frankly sexual. Mostly,
though, she seems a bundle of pure energy, punctuated by giggles and laughter.
She’s a slender, single 45 — but looks half her age — who has an ever-
present smile. She calls herself, alternately, a diva, a fighter, and an
exotic bird.

“I love to trip around at home in the 6-inch mules,”
Lamar says. “I won’t say what some people call them — come ‘blank’ me
shoes — but I like to walk around in the mules and some cute little
thing.”

“Every now and then I go out and everybody dresses up diva-
style. I might just put on my leather pants and corset.” As she talks she
mimes the shape of the clothes as if she were wearing them and pouts a little.
“I like that Gunsmoke look, you know, Miss Kitty, where the girls
wore the corsets and the big skirts and stuff. They could lift them up and
walk around in thigh-highs and it was so sexy.”

Lamar, who has lived in Memphis for much of her life, acts as if
she could just play all day. But as much as she jokes around, her business
here is very important to her.

“Even growing up, I knew she was very ambitious,” says
Lamar’s sister Linda Spann. “She wanted to conquer the world. In the time
we grew up, and the size of our family, we didn’t have a lot. Most girls
wanted to get a boyfriend and have kids, but that was never her
goal.”

Feeding the Need

In 1986, Lamar had just quit her job and the rent was due. To
make ends meet, she decided she would have to sell some of her belongings.

“I started from my closet. I invited my friends — they had
always liked my style in clothing — and they would come over and I would sell
my clothes,” says Lamar.

She then started buying clothes especially for resale. “My
house became completely engulfed with clothing to the point where my friends
were bringing their friends.”

She had never worked in retail before, but because she didn’t
want so many people coming into her home, she decided to rent a booth in a
Midtown flea market. Later she would get space in Southaven, Mississippi, and
in 1995, she opened Betty’s Resale in the current Amsterdam location on
Madison Avenue.

At some point, drag queens started frequenting her business and
she became “Betty’s — where the divas shop,” something she says she
owes to a national lingerie chain.

“Frederick’s of Hollywood got wind that I had heels. They
had discontinued heels in their store — you could still order them — but
there were so many women, men, whatever, looking for heels,” says Lamar.
Frederick’s called her store and asked for a stack of her business cards.
Then, any time a customer needed heels immediately, the lingerie retailer
would send them to Betty’s.

“They [customers] would tell me what they wanted so I
started getting high heels and thigh-high boots and stuff, and they said,
‘Betty, why don’t you get clothes for us? Now that you have the shoes, we can
come in and get our clothes and lingerie and all that stuff here,
too.'”

“So I said, Okay, cool, and I started shopping in markets,
getting on planes, and finding some unique things,” says Lamar. “It
went from one thing to another.”

Lamar says that Betty’s also became where the divas shop because
she’s always been very gay-friendly. Many retailers that carry formal dresses
have policies against letting men try on merchandise or returning anything
they buy for themselves.

“The word spread that you can go to this store, Betty’s, and
she’s really cool,” says Lamar. “She’ll actually let you try on her
clothes. The word spread: Go to Betty’s.”

Lamar takes that same attitude toward all her customers, and it’s
what she credits her success to. Whatever her customers want, whatever they
need, she’ll do her best to get it for them.

“They ask, ‘Do you have neon-colored wigs?’ ‘Well, no, but I
can get them.’ And then I get on the phone, get on the plane, and I find
some.

“I ask, Is there a need for it out there. If they say,
‘Yeah, Betty, a lot of people are talking about it.’ Okay, so then I get
some.”

Memphis’ Red Light District

On a Friday night at Amsterdam, the store is closed, but four models
in formal dresses or club wear stand, dance, and lounge in the red-lit
windows. Passersby — college kids and middle-aged men and women — wave to
the girls through the windows or stop and stare. The girls just smile and keep
swaying to the music.

Lamar, watching from the back of the store, is dolled up with
ringlets in her hair, a short skirt, and, of course, high heels. Earlier in
the day, a few drag queens were trying on heels and Lamar decided to put on a
pair as well. “I told them, ‘You can’t beat me, I’m a real
girl.'”

She calls herself an Amsterdammer; she visits the European city
twice a year and would visit more often if she could because, she says simply,
she feels free there. It was after a trip last summer that she decided to
create her own Amsterdam.

“I told my friend, I’m going to do this sex shop. But I
don’t want it to be like the others; I want to create an ambience. I put
chandeliers in there and gave it a soft touch to make people feel like, it’s
okay, it’s clean, instead of a stereotypical adult store located on the side
of the highway.” To give the store a personal touch, she greets her
customers at the door and she makes sure to answer any questions people have
about her items. Amsterdam also has two entrances: an ornate one facing
Madison Avenue and a back door for anyone who doesn’t want to be seen going
in.

“I don’t like sleaze,” she says. “When I came up
with Amsterdam, I wanted to take the sleaze out of the business.”

She also wanted to make women feel comfortable.

“When women come in and women are running it [the store],
they feel better. They still feel a little uncomfortable, but once you mellow
them out a little bit, they’re okay.”

Of course, a sex shop in Overton Square didn’t go over
quietly.

During her grand opening party last September, which included
exotic dancers eating fire, the power mysteriously went out around 10 p.m. As
the revelers left, Lamar went across the street to wait. She wanted to make
sure her store would be okay. Shortly after everyone was gone, though, the
power came back on.

But Lamar’s problems didn’t stop there. Another nearby business
owner started a petition to get her removed. The words “nigger” and
“whore” were written on her front window in red lipstick.

Lamar shut down the store after city code enforcement came by and
told her that she was not zoned for sex toys and that she would be issued a
$50 citation every day she continued to sell them.

“We didn’t feel that [selling the sex toys] was
illegal,” says Lamar’s lawyer, Randall Songstad. “There were no
churches or schools around. We went to the city and had them upgrade our
license.” But because of harassment and what Lamar calls negativity
surrounding the location, she decided to move her operation a block west, to
the Gilmore building.

“But then the Gilmore said they’d have to add an addendum to
her lease and that she couldn’t sell the sex toys or the adult
entertainment,” says Songstad. “It was like, Now what am I going to
do?”

Near bankruptcy, Lamar and Songstad decided the best thing for
her to do was move Amsterdam back to Overton Square. The space was still set
up for Amsterdam, Lamar had the zoning from the city, and Songstad sent cease
and desist letters to parties Lamar felt had been harassing her.

“I’m a fighter,” says the former Army recruit,
“but at some point, I don’t want to fight. I have responsibilities,
things I care about that I don’t want to lose because I’m fighting
you.”

For Lamar, though, the conflict wasn’t about sex or sex toys or
drag queens and girls dancing in her windows, but another issue altogether:
after-hours parking.

“You know how people will try to make something out of
another thing? They made it about the girls in the window.”

“I’ve always been a good neighbor. I don’t bother anybody.
I’m still Betty.”

For now, though, the conflict with her neighbors appears to be
resolved. Amsterdam is open again and selling sex toys. Lamar threw herself a
Second Chance Party Saturday, March 10th; the electricity stayed on and
everybody seemed to have a good time.

People perused the sex toys, sat on couches and chatted, and
watched the windows. The models, wearing beaded formal dresses, white sheer
nighties, and slinky cocktail dresses, played to the crowd, some of them
lounging on chaises while others swung from poles and gyrated like kitchen
appliances.

Outside, cars slowed to a halt on the street and two clean-cut
guys walking together on the sidewalk tripped into one another, obviously
captivated by the dancers.

“Adults need toys, too. After awhile we can’t play with
Barbie dolls anymore,” Lamar says.

And as always, the diva is looking after her customers. “The
toys are very much a part of Amsterdam. I saw a need for that in Midtown; my
customers expressed that need.”

Doing It For Yourself

After a controversial opening night, Betty says she’ll no
longer have dancers in her store windows.

At the Gilmore building, customers look for retro belts, vintage
furs, tuxedo pants, and all the other goodies Lamar’s professional buyers find
for the store.

After moving Amsterdam back into Overton Square, Lamar decided to
make the Gilmore location her high-end store, housing sexy party dresses,
thongs, and a female police officer’s “uniform” that even a cop
would get cited for wearing. At the Gilmore, she would sell her used items,
which she says makes it better all around.

“Sometimes it causes problems to have your old and your new
merchandise together,” she explains. “Like when things go on
sale.”

But because the original plan was to house both Amsterdam and
Resale in the Gilmore, she suddenly found herself with empty space in both
locations. So the woman who doesn’t like shopping for herself saw the extra
room in the Gilmore as an opportunity for her to start carrying antiques.

“I love furniture. I was taught a long time ago that you
will basically be successful in something that you like. Because if you don’t
like it, you’re not going to put everything into it,” Lamar says.

As a single black woman running a business, Lamar credits her
family and friends with helping her make it.

“I’m very fortunate because I have family support,” she
says. “They come out and help if I need them.”

Which sometimes she does. Lamar does a lot of work at her stores
herself — not just selling and stocking but cleaning out old storage closets
and hanging ceiling tile. And her support system is always there to lend a
hand. After she separated her new and used items, Lamar sent some of her drag
queen friends into the Gilmore to do some decorating, an idea she says worked
out great.

“It looks so good now.”

Lamar also tries to return the favor. Spann started working with
Lamar while she was between jobs. Spann’s son worked for Lamar when he needed
extra money to fix his car.

“She put my niece through school,” says Spann. “My
niece was working with her and Betty told her she needed to do something with
her life.” The niece now works as a surgery technician at Methodist
Hospital but sometimes still helps Lamar out on the weekends.

But in its own way, Lamar says that Betty’s lives on because of
women.

“I’m smart enough to know that men like women. Women will
always be a major commodity in this world. Even gay men like women, not in the
same way, but they still like to emulate women.”

She jokes that even when the cops were making regular visits to
Amsterdam, it wasn’t to bother her. It was to see the girls.

But if women are the commodity, they are also the consumers. Most
of the clothes, the accessories, and the other “accessories” are
geared toward women.

“I always knew that women would be a big factor in my
success in life. I’m so happy that I’m a woman who actually likes women. I
feel as long as I have women as a part of my business, somehow, that I’m going
to do well.”

Currently Lamar is planning on using the empty space in Amsterdam
as a late-night coffee bar, a place where people can lounge after they’ve been
out clubbing. After her Second Chance Party, she decided not to have models
dancing in the windows, opting for mannequins to convey the idea of Amsterdam
instead.

“I don’t want to misrepresent Amsterdam,” she says.
“I don’t want to misrepresent Betty.” She felt that the dancers
couldn’t see her vision of what Amsterdam was, where the girls sit in the
windows and are beautiful, but not lewd.

“I don’t want it to look sleazy.”

But that isn’t stopping her from moving forward. Lamar is
franchising Amsterdam fun parties, her own special variation of the Tupperware
party theme.

And maybe there will even be a higher office in her future.
“I need to be mayor of Memphis. Betty Lamar, mayor.”

Her sister says Lamar goes whichever way the wind blows, but
Lamar just laughs at that.

“When you don’t have a love life or any babies, you don’t
have anything to do but plan,” she says.

“I’m trying to find something that not everybody else is
doing. I don’t want to be everybody else.”

You can e-mail Mary Cashiola at cashiola@memphisflyer.com.

Categories
Opinion

Step By Step

They enter, arms akimbo, pink feathers flying. Three rosy boas dangle from each arm and silver rhinestones drip from each ear. On their faces are thousand-watt smiles; on their heads are fountains of feathers. Their bikinis sparkle as if woven with diamonds.

“I want to be a showgirl,” my friend whispers in the dark.

The seven women take the stage in a whirl of plumage, feather fans swishing furiously for the Isle of Capri Casino’s Las Vegas Nights show, a sampler platter of Vegas standards: magicians, comedians, singers, and stuntmen. They salsa to a Ricki Martin cover, tap like Lord of the Dance, perform the can-can.

I want to be up there, too.

Other women can get away with wearing bikinis (to the beach), gloves (black-tie functions), and fake eyelashes (um, around the house). But who else gets to wear tiaras or crowns on a daily basis, much less two-foot-tall trees of glitter and glitz on their heads? No one.

“Our lives are not like the movies,” one of the showgirls tells me after the show.

“No Gs,” a few of them say, almost in unison, referring to the Mississippi state law that forbids them from wearing a G-string on stage. They are seated around a table in the theater, still wearing their costumes from the finale, red bikini tops with silver studs and red trunks, talking about what a showgirl’s life is really like.

They work two shows a day, six days a week. They’re sore after every show; they’re always injured. They go to Wal-Mart after the show because their adrenaline is still pumping, and nothing else is open. Most shows run a couple of months — if that — so they almost literally live out of their suitcases.

“We all love dance,” says Chali Jennings, one of the featured dancers in the show. “You wouldn’t make it if you didn’t love it.”

As they speak, pieces of their costumes are taken off and discarded in a pile of finery in the middle of the table: red satin gloves, throat pieces adorned with beading, headdresses the size of small European countries. Even without the entire costumes, they have a uniform beauty: long, fake eyelashes, hair pulled back with wig caps, and rosy red cheeks.

“Everyday, we’re not glamorous,” they say. On their days off, they don’t wear makeup. They work out. They eat chocolate.

“There’s a minute when I feel glamorous,” one of them says. “When we get in the costumes, we are.”

And as much as it sounds like showgirling is hard work, I want to be glamorous, too. They show me and my friend how to turn the headdress upside down, hold the brim with both hands, lean our heads into the headdress, and scoop.

When I scoop, something is not quite right. An elastic strap is supposed to hang down from either side of the headdress and clasp underneath the chin to hold it in place. But somehow I’ve managed to get the whole thing on sideways. I take it off and try again. Again the elastic hangs down between my eyes like a limp noodle.

One of the dancers tucks the offending elastic into the band of the headdress and I totter a few steps in my sneakers. The few pounds of headdress wobble to and fro without the strap, keeping me off balance. The flash of my friend’s camera is not helping.

Balancing act: Kristi Rankin, left, and feathered friend.

“How in the heck do you dance in this thing?” I ask.

“Try it in three-inch heels,” Kristi Rankin, whose headdress I’m wearing, retorts.

Partly, they say, you just get used to it. But of course, there’re also years and years of dance training. All of the women, ages 19 to 26, have been dancing since before kindergarten. Which is a good thing, because they don’t get sick days.

“So if you have cramps you still have to dance?” my friend asks.

They giggle and Jennings says, “If you have a broken leg, you still have to dance.”

“The show must go on,” someone else adds.

When we get our photos back, well, my friend and I look like goobers. Goobers in big feather hats. Perhaps without the fake eyelashes and high heels, it just doesn’t work.

And then it hits me. The showgirls were the real magicians of the show. They were out there killing themselves and we didn’t see anything but the sparkle.

Categories
Opinion

Magic in a Digital Age

Millions of people fly across the country every year. We’ve made computers that can think faster than we do. We’ve mapped the human genome. But show us someone who can guess our card was the Ace of Spades and we still sit up in awe.

For Kevin Spencer, this is what makes magic worth performing.

“To be in this age of technology and to still be able to bring wonder to anything, to be able to create that emotion in people, is great,” says the magician and illusionist. Spencer is a performer in the escape tradition of Houdini or Harry Blackstone Jr. But neither of them shared the stage with his wife.

“The fact that my wife and I work as a team makes it a better show,” says Spencer. “We know each other so well and so many of those things are expressed on the stage. Who we are together works well on the stage.”

Cindy Spencer got involved in magic through Kevin. She was working as a diamond consultant and dating Kevin’s roommate when the three of them started performing together. After the roommate left the act, Cindy and Kevin continued to work together and eventually fell in love. They’ve been married for 18 years.

Spencer, on the other hand, has wanted to be a magician ever since he was very young.

“I was 5 or 6 when I saw my first magic show. It was so completely fascinating.” After getting a magic kit for Christmas, he started putting on shows, eventually doing them for local civic groups during junior high and high school.

“I lived in a farm town in Indiana. Everybody knew I was the little boy who did magic.”

During college, he majored in clinical psychology and worked his way through by continuing to give magic shows.

“I was going into it to help people with their minds,” Spencer says and laughs. “Now all I do is mess with them.”

It was around this time he saw Doug Henning perform, talked to him backstage after the show for over an hour, and decided that he was going to do magic for a living. But Spencer says his show is a little different from most of the magic shows you see in live venues or on television.

For one thing, the Spencers perform with a lot of audience participation.

“That’s the most exciting part, when people can experience it for themselves,” says Spencer. “When they can be close to it, it becomes incredible.” But it also lends credibility to the show. After an audience member comes off the stage, his friends and neighbors can ask him what exactly happened.

But the main difference, Spencer thinks, is that they try to present the show with a theatrical twist.

“A lot of times when you see magicians perform, they bring the illusion onto the stage and then they carry the box off after they’re through.” This is not the way the Spencers work. Using elements from the theater — music, lighting, scenery, special effects — the duo tries to bring a sense of heightened tension and fluidity to the production.

“Like any good play or musical, the audience experiences a wide variety of emotions,” says Spencer. “There are light-hearted tricks and then there are very dramatic moments.”

But all that sleight of hand is building toward one key moment.

“Each illusion is a kind of act on its own. They are each dressed differently until we get to the finale.” The Spencers try to tailor each show to the stage on which they’re performing. On the stage of the Bartlett Performing Arts Center, that means Houdini’s water trick: A milk tank is filled to the brim with 50 gallons of water, and Spencer is chained and padlocked inside the tank.

“And I have to get out,” says Spencer. “It’s pretty intense. Not many people do it anymore. I’m not sure if that’s because of skill or stupidity.”

He laughs and decides it’s a question of skill.

The Spencers: Theatre of Illusion

8 p.m., Friday, February 23rd

$15

Bartlett Performing Arts and Conference Center

Categories
News News Feature

HIGH SCHOOL HELPFUL

She doesn’t consider herself a typical teenager. And maybe she shouldn’t — at the Help for Hope House 5K on Saturday (November 25th), she’ll be the one wearing the “Race Director” t-shirt.

Caitlin Steiger, a 16-year-old White Station High School student, started the Help for Hope House 5K last year.

Steiger, who has been running since she was in eighth grade, was participating in road races almost every weekend when she decided it might be fun to put on her own race. It was while she was in the girls’ service club at White Station Middle School that she was introduced to Hope House.

“Do you know about Hope House?” she asks, exuberantly. “It’s amazing.”

Hope House is a daycare for children infected or affected by HIV/AIDS. Started by the Junior League in 1995, Hope House picks the children up from the homes, feeds them two meals a day, plus a snack, and tries to help their families through education and better written perhaps.

“When I decided I thought it would be really neat to direct a race,” says Steiger, “it just kind of fit in perfectly that Hope House needed publicity.”

She says her parents thought she would get discouraged when she saw how much work she’d have to do. But she didn’t. Instead she started sending out letters to corporations asking for sponsorship.

“I followed all the letters up with phone calls, lots and lots of phone calls.”

Steiger is modest about her accomplishments. She shrugs and pushes a lock of shoulder length brown hair behind her ear. Anyone can do a race.

She says her experiences at road races paved the way for her to direct the race. “It’s really easy to see what to do and what not to do when you’ve gone as a runner.”

Steiger also gives credit to her parents for their support, driving her places before she got her license. “They help a lot with the whole thing. And I always ask their opinions on things.”

Last year, the fundraiser took in about $22,000 before expenses, and netted about $13,000. So far, this year’s total before expenses is $19,000.

As for how much money she wants to raise this year, she laughs and says, “As much as possible. We’re hoping to get more than last year.”

Right now, Steiger is keeping a sharp eye on the weather. “If we have bad weather, our expectations drop dramatically,” she says. So far, the weather forecast looks good; it’s supposed to warm up a little, which Steiger says will be perfect.

“Last year, we couldn’t have asked for a better day.”

Steiger, who began planning for the 5K about five or six weeks after the last one finished, says that it wasn’t easier to direct the race just because she had done it once before.

“The logistics part was easier, because we knew from last year. Plus I’m not as nervous. But money raising this year was really hard.”

The race lost a $5,000 corporate sponsor, as well as some smaller donors.

“We didn’t gain a $5,000 sponsor this year,” says Steiger. “So even though I’ve raised more than I had last year, it took a lot more work. I guess we were expecting it to be all the people from last year, and then some. That was really hard, realizing it wasn’t going to be that way.”

But Steiger’s used to challenging herself. This past summer, she was a counselor at Camp Dream, a camp for underprivileged, special needs children. After that, she spent two weeks in the Minnesota Boundary Waters with Outward Bound, being bitten by tiny bugs and carrying a heavy canoe over her head. All of which she described as fun.

In some ways, she is a typical teenager. She loves music, although not pop fare. She likes older stuff. Her eyes light up when she talks about the David Grisman Quintet, the Grateful Dead, and Dar Williams.

And she’s gotten her friends involved, passing out brochures and working at Shelby Farms the day of. The phone rings and she talks to one of them briefly about running the 5K.

But this will be her last year directing the race.

“I’ll always be involved with Hope House at some level, but I’ll be applying to college at this time next year,” says Steiger, “I just don’t think It’d be possible time-wise.”

Not that she’s going to let the race die. Not after all her hard work.

“It’s established. It’d be a shame for Hope House to lose this fundraiser. We’re definitely going to find someone to take it over.”

(You can write Mary Cashiola at cashiola@memphisflyer.com

Categories
News News Feature

Why I Am Not Going To Vote

Are we there yet?

There used to be this car game I played as a kid. I’m not sure if it had a name or how exactly it started. There was no scoring, no points. There was no winning; it just occupied the time. This is how it went:

“Would you rather eat brussel sprouts for dinner every day for the rest of your life or stand outside the school naked for an hour?”

“Would you rather eat a worm or kiss a band nerd for five minutes?”

“Would you rather be stung by a million bees or never be allowed to talk again?

None of these choices ever sounded very appealing, but you had to choose. No matter what. That was the game. You had to say, I would stand naked in front of the school for an hour. I would kiss a band nerd. I would learn sign language. And then everyone else would squeal with laughter at your choice.

I guess I am what you would call an undecided voter. I’m sure that’s what all the poll takers and politicos would say. And I want to make a choice, I do. But I just can’t.

“Would you rather have a noxious know it all or the class clown for president?”

“Would you rather align yourself with a well-off white guy who pretends to care or a well-off white guy who pretends to care?”

“Do you vote for someone who you literally cannot stomach or the guy who scares the crap out of you?”

It’s the game all over again. I thought about going third party, an out never allowed in the car game, but I feel like my hands are tied. A vote for Perot was once a vote for Clinton; in Tennessee, a vote for Nader seems to be a vote for Bush. While I like the idea of helping the Green Party, I simply cannot bring myself to vote for a major party candidate, even in a de facto way. No thank you.

I suppose it’s my fault. I, like many voters, didn’t wake up during the primaries. I wasn’t ready for the election. Bush? McCain? Sure. Okay. Whatever. I remember hearing someone say that the major political parties had chosen their candidates for this election years ago and that fact was going to come back and bite the American people in the butt when they realized it.

In the car game, you were supposed to come up with horrible choices, the worse the better. That was the point. And I’m hoping it isn’t the point here, but are we really supposed to believe that these were the best people the Democrats and Republicans could come up with? If that is the case, our country is in some serious trouble.

Because of that, I can’t bring myself to the polls. My vote will languish unused. Analysts will say the American people are disenfranchised because we are apathetic, and we don’t know enough about the issues. I can’t speak for anyone else not voting, but me, I’m not voting because there’s not anyone worth voting for. Only people worth voting against but you only get one vote.

The car game was merely a way to pass the time. No one won, no one lost. But this is the election. And someone is going to win, and America is going to lose.

(You can write Mary Cashiola at cashiola@memphisflyer.com)

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Blaming a Name

My name is Mary Elizabeth Cashiola. Probably that means nothing to you, I don’t expect it to. It’s not the name of anyone famous, or anything special. It’s just my name, the one I was given at birth and the one I have hated since shortly thereafter.

I’ve always thought names carry a weight — even though the Bard said that a rose by any other would smell as sweet, I don’t buy it. At the same price, most people would choose the label over the generic. Teenagers forming their first band pick the name before they write the songs, sometimes even before they learn the instruments. Names carry clues as to what something is, what is does, what it wants, where its going.

In my case, I don’t think my parents were foisting off any of their intentions on me, no dreams for unparalleled greatness or any hopes for a certain type of person. They simply took my grandmother’s name, her having died many years before I was born, and honoring her, gave it to me. As simple as that.

But that simple decision, while not anything of consequence, has made its impact on my life. I’ve always felt constrained by Mary, like because of it, I was boxed into a way of being or a certain type of personality. Maybe this seems silly, but every name has a mythology. Mine means “Mother of Christ.” I know people aren’t consciously thinking about it, but there are certain things associated with Mary: Catholic, virgin mother. It’s like when they hear my last name and automatically say, “That’s Italian, right?”

When I was younger, I felt I had a duty to be religious. I feigned an increased piety because I thought my Sunday school teachers expected it of a girl named Mary. (In an ironic twist of sins, I lied and told them I liked church.)

My name in particular connotates Catholicism and Christianity, but every name has its own history. For some names, someone so special used them that the name will forever be associated with that person. In America, the name George sounds regal and political and is someone who can be counted upon in times of crisis.

Other names are associated with different time periods: Ethel and Mabel are ladies who quilt; Joan is a woman of integrity and maturity and Jennifer is almost every female under 30. Haven’t you ever met someone and heard them say, “You don’t look like a Michelle.” Or a Herbert or a John or a Trina. Names conjure up certain images in people’s minds, depending on race and culture and age.

Besides all the Bible characters, Mary has two nursery rhymes (and you better believe I heard them all the time on the school bus), plus a whole legendry in popular culture: Mary Tyler Moore, Giligan’s Island’s Mary Ann, Mary Lou Retton, all your run of the mill good girls, except for Mother Goose’s contrary gardener. It’s not that I’ve ever wanted to live a life of crime or run rampage across the country. And had I wanted to do those things, I would have, whether my name was Mary or Bonnie or Bella.

But Mary sounds to me mealy-mouthed and docile, a name for someone good and sweet and innocent. Someone nice. And I don’t want to be any of those things. I want to be worldly and in charge and screw the other guy.

And I know that I can change the connotation of my name; I can be whomever I want. Just sometimes I wonder, is there a name that is more fitting for the person I’ve become? Would it have made a difference, really, had my name been Alex or Pagan? If my name had been Tatiana, would I become a world traveler? If I had been called Ruby or Starr, would I have still gotten straight A’s?

In the end, I know that names really don’t mean all that much. Names merely conjure expectations while the real factors in who a person is are genetics, location, and experiences. But when I told you my name earlier, who did you think I was?

(You can write Mary — we call her Tatiana — Cashiola at cashiola@memphisflyer.com)