Starlings in the Slipstream

The Starling’s lived 7 houses from us, and next to a house that boasts 52 five-star reviews on Yelp for their Christmas light display. The house even has its own name: Widmer World.

 Before Widmer World and Yelp, the Starling house was where we gathered afterschool and on the weekends.  A large catholic family with more kids than the Brady Bunch, all the boys had names starting with “B” and the girls with “L,” except for the youngest boy whose name started with a “T.” Because of this, you could say all their names seamlessly in one breath. It was something we did to pass time — that and inane chanting of “car, car, c-a-r,” when cars passed. Simpler times.

 

Mrs. Starling was heavyset with porcelain white skin and was always in a non-descript dress and lace-up shoes with a small heel. She didn’t move much from the living room, preferring a Lazy Boy situated next to their fireplace and a direct line to the TV. She was always kind. Due to the amount of pre-teens and teens in the house, Mrs. Starling took a hands-off approach and let us be feral. We were very good at being feral.

 

Mr. Starling got off work at 3 p.m. I always imagined him clocking out of his South City factory job, walking to his car and driving home, arriving at exactly 4 pm. Regardless of traffic and weather, he always seemed to be on time. When we heard his car pulling into the garage, we gathered at the front door, waiting for the sound of a closing car door. When we heard the slam of the door, we went out the front door and he entered through the garage. He always entered through the garage. We were afraid of Mr. Starling. So were the Bs and probably the Ls and definitely the T.

 

One day after school a handful of us were in the Starling’s kitchen playing with a litter of eight 10-week old kittens.  We loosely set up 7 of the kittens in a triangle formation of bowling pins, scrambling to put rogue kittens back in place when they immediately scattered.  The remaining kitten would be used as the “ball” to knockdown the kitten-pins. One person would slide a kitten across the linoleum kitchen floor, their spindly body slowing spinning in circles, careening into an unsuspecting kitten. The kittens would scramble and we’d scatter after them, yelling in delight of the chase. If a kitten proved hard to get, we’d let out an onslaught of “pussy, fag and dick” upon the person that couldn’t catch them. Pussy, fag and dick were staples of our language, using them liberally for all occasions.

 

As we set up a new round kitten-pins, our friend Dave was still trying to capture a lone kitten that hid under their sofa. We called Dave a pussy and a fag. And we continued saying the words until he retrieved the kitchen.

 

Out of the blue, Mrs. Starling spoke:

 

“I don’t like that word, don’t use it.”

 

“Pussy?”

 

“Yes. I don’t like that word.”

 

“What about fag?”

 

“That one is ok.”

 

“Sorry, Mrs. Starling.”

 

A little jarred from the admonishment, we quickly left and went to the park, where we were free to use the language we wanted.

 

As innocuous as Mrs. Starlings scolding was, it stuck with me through decades. It was probably the first time someone said they were offended by the words that I used.  Instead of pushing back, I quietly accepted her criticism and eventually stopped using the word. Maybe it was age or maturity that pushed the change, but it was probably the simple act of Mrs. Starling telling me she didn’t like it. Up until then, I was the center of the universe.

 

6 years later, I was 20 years old and in Des Moines, IA talking to a pretty young woman on a street outside a club where we just played a matinee show. In the decade since the pussy incident, I’d found punk rock and then anarchism and then college rock. I was enlightened.  For the most part, all were insulated communities of affected white kids dabbling in radical and liberal politics, hipster music and pseudo-intellectual pursuits. Pussy, fag and dick were replaced with vulnerable, homosexual and penis. We weren’t that formal, but we were definitely early PC.

 

The pretty woman talked about her desire to move away from Des Moines. She described her predicament in clichés: this town is boring, there’s nothing to do; too many jocks and rednecks, the cops always harass me — tropes that are still relevant today for misfits living in small towns. We encountered kids from all over the US wanting to move from their small towns and cities. This was not uncommon. They were the best and brightest misfits in the their communities. It was never a question of if they’d leave, more like when they’d leave. They had to leave. Many of them wanted to get in our van and come back with us to SF. Unlike them, we had already made the move and were living examples of the so-called good life. It wasn’t always good.

 

My new friend talked about her parents and brought up race: mom white, dad black. I took this opening to ask about her race.

 

“Are you mulatto?”

 

She looked down, smiled and slowly raised her head.

 

“We don’t use the word mulatto. We call it bi-racial.”

 

You could tell that she was used to this; her wry smile reeked of disappointment in me. Regardless of being from a big city and traveling around the country playing music, I was a fraud. Just another culturally ignorant small town mind living in a big city. I think John Cougar sang that. Oooh yeah!

 

Blood rushed to my head and my face turned pink:

 

“I’m so sorry. There’s a band in SF called Tragic Mulatto and I just thought…I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

 

She comforted my ignorance with grace and dignity. I comforted her with apologies and an excuse to leave.