Kenspeckle.
I only learned the word this morning, but I already love it. It popped up in my email as part of the Oxford English Dictionary's "Word of the Day;" something I began a few months ago to prepare for the GRE. I feel like I have relationships with these words - each morning one arrives, and some are uninteresting, some grow on me, and others I'm drawn to instantly, repeating under my breath, practicing them in sentences, looking up synonyms and antonyms for them.
Kenspeckle. To be easily spotted or noticed. I like how it sounds, the word itself something you can't ignore, a gem of a word in a sentence of stones.
I think of this word as I walk half a block from my office to the liquor store to buy a Diet Coke after lunch. As usual, a handful of men are loitering outside, eyeing the security guard in the doorway. I often ponder the usefulness of the security guard, an Asian man well into his 60s and about the size of a 4th grade girl. Standing seems to be too much for him, and so he's usually hunched over in a chair, clad in his navy uniform and skimming the Penny Saver. Today, he beams at me, slurping Top Ramen from behind Aviator sunglasses. What exactly is secure in his presence? I wonder.
It's sunny again today, and I squint my eyes, forgetting that my sunglasses are on top of my head, keeping my curly hair off my face. Red tornadoes, my students in Korea used to say, pointing to my hair.
A pair of older men, their own white hair like puffs of Cumulus clouds, see me approaching and smile with yellowing teeth.
"My, my. Ain't you a sight?" says one of the men, sliding his sunglasses back and his eyes up and down.
"Yeah, but she Jewish!" the other hollers.
I'm momentarily confused, wondering how he could even tell such a thing. Besides, I think irritably, Natalie Portman is Jewish! And Bar Refaeli. Sure, I realize we've got Tori Spelling too, but there are plenty of pretty Jewish girls out there!
I ignore the strange comment, breezing past the pair and into the convenience store. The shop smells sweetly of barbecue coming from Phil's next door, and of the marijuana smoke from just outside. A handful of guys, the size of NFL linebackers, are buying Lotto tickets and bottles of Olde English near the front of the store.
"Hey sugar," says one, turning as I walk by.
"Oh heeeeey Red," says his friend, dime-sized diamond earrings sparkling in each ear. "You doing okay sweetheart?"
I pretend I don't hear, narrowing my eyes just a bit and scowling slightly. I picture Agent Sydney Bristow in my head, specifically the look on her face just before she performs a snap kick-hand jab-reverse punch on the bad guys. Don't mess with me, my look says.
Apparently these guys missed my look.
"Hey bitch! You hear me? I said Hey."
I deepen my scowl, only vaguely aware that my back is now to them.
"Snotty-ass white girl." They walk out, muttering.
I continue down the aisle, pass the Irish Spring soap and Arbor Mist sparkling wine. Next to the bacon and chocolate milk, I find a can of Diet Coke.
The Korean shopkeeper who usually checks me out is looking slightly terrified, as per usual. When he tells me the amount I owe, his voice is always muffled from behind the thick bullet-proof glass and I have to look at the register, to the numbers in bright green. I smile at him, but he looks back at me like he's just spotted a mouse scurrying near his feet. As I slide two quarters and a dime through the small hole in the glass, one of the older men from outside walks right up to me.
"Honey, what color yo' eyes?" he says loudly.
"Blue," I respond, waiting for my receipt to print out. It takes a few moments; the registers in this place look older than me.
"Look," he says, leaning in to me. "I really need to know. You Jewish?"
This guy could do with a Cotillion lesson or two, I think.
"Sir, that's usually not a question you go around asking strangers."
He pauses for a beat. "Yeah, well, you see. It's like I told ya earlier. My friend thinks you're a real looker, but I keeps telling him you Jewish. Am I right?"
I wonder briefly if I, in actual fact, woke up in Northern Idaho this morning and not in Los Angeles. California. In the year 2010.
"I'm sorry, I have to get going," I say. I can smell liquor on his breath.
I continue briskly to the door, smoothing down the front of my skirt and then raising my hand to wave at the security guard on his stool.
"Bye-bye!" he shouts.
"See you soon," I say, walking back out into the bright day. The Diet Coke can is already sweating in my left hand.
"Oh, honey."
I hear a voice, and look up to see a middle-aged man blocking the sidewalk in front of me. He is dressed in a purple pimp suit, complete with gold chain, a matching hat and a black cane.
Holy Snoop Dogg, I think. Now what?
He looks me up and down, his eyes stopping on my tan cowboy boots.
"Mmmm, mmmm, mmmm. You sure is fine." He shakes his head, and looks back up at me. "If them boots was snakeskin, I think I'd go ahead and marry you."
I smile. "Good thing I left my snakeskin boots at home today, then," I say. And then I nearly jog, cowboy boots be damned, all the way back to my office.
I only learned the word this morning, but I already love it. It popped up in my email as part of the Oxford English Dictionary's "Word of the Day;" something I began a few months ago to prepare for the GRE. I feel like I have relationships with these words - each morning one arrives, and some are uninteresting, some grow on me, and others I'm drawn to instantly, repeating under my breath, practicing them in sentences, looking up synonyms and antonyms for them.
Kenspeckle. To be easily spotted or noticed. I like how it sounds, the word itself something you can't ignore, a gem of a word in a sentence of stones.
I think of this word as I walk half a block from my office to the liquor store to buy a Diet Coke after lunch. As usual, a handful of men are loitering outside, eyeing the security guard in the doorway. I often ponder the usefulness of the security guard, an Asian man well into his 60s and about the size of a 4th grade girl. Standing seems to be too much for him, and so he's usually hunched over in a chair, clad in his navy uniform and skimming the Penny Saver. Today, he beams at me, slurping Top Ramen from behind Aviator sunglasses. What exactly is secure in his presence? I wonder.
It's sunny again today, and I squint my eyes, forgetting that my sunglasses are on top of my head, keeping my curly hair off my face. Red tornadoes, my students in Korea used to say, pointing to my hair.
A pair of older men, their own white hair like puffs of Cumulus clouds, see me approaching and smile with yellowing teeth.
"My, my. Ain't you a sight?" says one of the men, sliding his sunglasses back and his eyes up and down.
"Yeah, but she Jewish!" the other hollers.
I'm momentarily confused, wondering how he could even tell such a thing. Besides, I think irritably, Natalie Portman is Jewish! And Bar Refaeli. Sure, I realize we've got Tori Spelling too, but there are plenty of pretty Jewish girls out there!
I ignore the strange comment, breezing past the pair and into the convenience store. The shop smells sweetly of barbecue coming from Phil's next door, and of the marijuana smoke from just outside. A handful of guys, the size of NFL linebackers, are buying Lotto tickets and bottles of Olde English near the front of the store.
"Hey sugar," says one, turning as I walk by.
"Oh heeeeey Red," says his friend, dime-sized diamond earrings sparkling in each ear. "You doing okay sweetheart?"
I pretend I don't hear, narrowing my eyes just a bit and scowling slightly. I picture Agent Sydney Bristow in my head, specifically the look on her face just before she performs a snap kick-hand jab-reverse punch on the bad guys. Don't mess with me, my look says.
Apparently these guys missed my look.
"Hey bitch! You hear me? I said Hey."
I deepen my scowl, only vaguely aware that my back is now to them.
"Snotty-ass white girl." They walk out, muttering.
I continue down the aisle, pass the Irish Spring soap and Arbor Mist sparkling wine. Next to the bacon and chocolate milk, I find a can of Diet Coke.
The Korean shopkeeper who usually checks me out is looking slightly terrified, as per usual. When he tells me the amount I owe, his voice is always muffled from behind the thick bullet-proof glass and I have to look at the register, to the numbers in bright green. I smile at him, but he looks back at me like he's just spotted a mouse scurrying near his feet. As I slide two quarters and a dime through the small hole in the glass, one of the older men from outside walks right up to me.
"Honey, what color yo' eyes?" he says loudly.
"Blue," I respond, waiting for my receipt to print out. It takes a few moments; the registers in this place look older than me.
"Look," he says, leaning in to me. "I really need to know. You Jewish?"
This guy could do with a Cotillion lesson or two, I think.
"Sir, that's usually not a question you go around asking strangers."
He pauses for a beat. "Yeah, well, you see. It's like I told ya earlier. My friend thinks you're a real looker, but I keeps telling him you Jewish. Am I right?"
I wonder briefly if I, in actual fact, woke up in Northern Idaho this morning and not in Los Angeles. California. In the year 2010.
"I'm sorry, I have to get going," I say. I can smell liquor on his breath.
I continue briskly to the door, smoothing down the front of my skirt and then raising my hand to wave at the security guard on his stool.
"Bye-bye!" he shouts.
"See you soon," I say, walking back out into the bright day. The Diet Coke can is already sweating in my left hand.
"Oh, honey."
I hear a voice, and look up to see a middle-aged man blocking the sidewalk in front of me. He is dressed in a purple pimp suit, complete with gold chain, a matching hat and a black cane.
Holy Snoop Dogg, I think. Now what?
He looks me up and down, his eyes stopping on my tan cowboy boots.
"Mmmm, mmmm, mmmm. You sure is fine." He shakes his head, and looks back up at me. "If them boots was snakeskin, I think I'd go ahead and marry you."
I smile. "Good thing I left my snakeskin boots at home today, then," I say. And then I nearly jog, cowboy boots be damned, all the way back to my office.
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1 comment:
Just another day in Leimert. I miss your stories!
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