Of Vacuums

Of Vacuums

The Vacuum Gleaner

I remember when my adolescent, I-shave-my-legs-behind-my-mom’s-back self absolutely repelled any parental demand of doing chores or cleaning my room. For a whole day I boycotted the vacuum until Mom gave me the “or else” talk, in which I crawled around my new blue carpet, picking up fuzz balls and lint because I still refused the handiness of modern technology. Within thirty seconds, I realized the convenience of such a machine and quickly swiped the carpet of its symbolic, chaotic sprinkles of life that grace the musty, 70s-style green shag of my apartment.
Vacuuming is still not my style, but I’m a big girl now and sometimes, necessary tidiness trumps convenient mess. Vacuuming is like any other domestic chore: it’s a pain in the ass to think about, it generally takes little time to accomplish, and the after result is quite pleasing until the mess re-deflowers the squeaky cleanness and fresh smell. However, I like the precision of cleaning; when I iron or vacuum, I always amaze myself at how careful I am to rid my shirts of creases and pick up each speck of white against the rustic darkness of the carpet.
Then again, the brown triangle is still burned into my white curtains, and I hate hearing my easily-misplaced bobby pins get sucked up into the hairy, lint-spun mess of the vacuum where my discarded harvest dwells in tightly-spun disarray.

Old Lady Houses

My grandmother pays me ten dollars for less than ten minutes of vacuuming wen I go home on rare occasions. I always feel guilty for accepting the money, not only because I’m her granddaughter and should do these favors voluntarily, but because the house is ultimately spotless. I walk in, make small talk, plug the vacuum into the wall, turn on the light switch (to power the plug), and follow the same push-and-pull dance throughout the house. I roll through the rooms with bare feet and swipe away Mema’s “tracks” from her black, old-lady Reeboks.
The job is easy, but I always leave dissatisfied. I love the therapeutic hum of the vacuum, but I also love the crackled melody and vibrations from crumbs and other discarded little sneaks that are snagged by the machine’s powerful suction and devoured by the old-school bag of her musty vacuum. In old lady houses, those crumbs and small bits only accumulate around holiday season when the whole family gathers, as everyone is silently aware that every Christmas is drawing closer to Mema’s last. Because of this, I try to ask her as many questions as possible to understand my grandmother as a person and not a familial label. It’s hard to uncover any complexity to her: she is a former homemaker/war-wife who loves all things female-fittin’ and frowns at progressive ways. I ask her for stories and she gives me recollections, but no feelings. Then, she asks me about school and I reply with convoluted life plans that, with each syllable, sprinkle into the spotless fibers beneath my feet of the stiff chair.


Dancing Domestics

In high school, my mother had to quit the dance team because it was too far for her parents to drive. I’m sure Mema preferred that my mom do more useful employment like sew her own clothes--which she did-- and learn to cook--which she did (and I appreciate). But it makes sense. Mema spent most of her life baking and sewing and planting and preparing things for their extensive farm. She was a housewife, but as I swipe and scoot over the surface of her new carpet, I cannot imagine her vacuuming. Maybe my terrible memory prohibits me from recanting a time before her back was hunched—a time before her steps were short, uncoordinated staccatos propelled forward by her robotic arm-pumping that stirs around her bony hips.
When I vacuum, I pattern a stiffly-rhythmical, organized dance. Push forward, step forward, pull back, ball change, step left, start over. It’s a slower, less intense version of the Cha-Cha slide, much like my mechanical middle school dances that lacked rhythm and were plagued with whiteness. I cannot imagine Mema dancing. I can’t imagine her snapping her fingers or clapping to a beat.
Mema becomes increasingly proud of me now that I can iron and vacuum and cook without scolded instructions. Maybe I’m more domestic now, but it’s because I enjoy the rhythm—the movement--the pattern to things. In the apartment, I fix quick meals on the stove or mix batter to quick bursts of powerful beats; at home, Mom and I rotate among pots and pans to the classics as she demonstrates old dance routines, I with my microphone spatula and the same rotating, happy hips.