In England for the first time, to be a godmother to my friends’ new baby, I decided to take one day for myself to see London. Being from Chicago, I figured I could find my way around, and I was eager to experience it on my own.
So I did what any good tourist does, I got out the guidebooks, the pamphlets and the maps, and planned a route with my friends the night before.
They were very helpful, telling me about things I shouldn’t miss, as well as things I should. And I had some of my own ideas, like visiting Charing Cross Road. There was a wonderful book I’d read called “84 Charing Cross Road” about a bookstore there and a woman from New York who grew to love the store and all of the people in it as they exchanged letters about books she wanted to buy during World War II.
Neville thought I was crazy to go there. “You must see the Tower and you have to see St. Paul’s. Really Charing Cross Road is only a shadow of what it was. I don’t think you should waste your time.” Right. We marked out an itinerary that included as many of the tourist attractions as we could fit. If I kept very tightly to the schedule I’d have a full experience of London.
Morning, and I boarded the train. I was used to the whole commuter scene and tried to look very nonchalant as we whizzed by buildings and gardens and signs that were all totally different from home. All of the other people were bored and going to work, while I wanted to yell, “Yippee! I’m in London!”
First stop was Leicester Square to buy discounted same day theater tickets. I was standing on line and began chatting with the lady in front of me. We introduced ourselves, her name was Margie. We slowly began to suspect that we were in line for one of the “fake” booths, which don’t really offer the wonderful tickets to the smaller plays, but only slightly discounted tickets to the “Cats” variety. While she held my place I began to walk around and found the famous Leicester Square booth. I waved Margie over and she and I were having a fine time celebrating that we had avoided a tourist trap, talking and waiting for the booth to open.
In a few minutes, a man from Kentucky named Tony joined in. We compared notes about theater in general and what we would see that evening and in the end all got tickets for the same show. We said our goodbyes and agreed to meet again that evening at the theater.
Almost immediately on leaving them I started to feel very woozy. Enough to sit down on a park bench. Enough to start to worry about what to do. Down the bench from me was a man I hadn’t noticed.
Had I seen a tourist in trouble in Chicago, I’m quite sure that I would have helped. I see myself doing so in a very take-charge way. What was so different about this fellow was how he just sort of leaned in and very casually mentioned what a great day it was. This gave me the opportunity to say something about suddenly not feeling well.
He pointed out a “chemist” as they call drug stores, and suggested that perhaps I had a bit of a sinus problem. So after sitting for abit, he walked me there. Again, very understated, not Chicago style at all.
The chemist recommended a powder that you were to put into hot water. My next step was to find a café so I could order tea. Soon I was in a lovely little restaurant where I could sit outside and enjoy the weather and concentrate on feeling better.
Mentally I was cursing myself for wasting so much time. There went the tour at St. Paul’s Cathedral, and if I caught the next one, I would miss the Tower. But there wasn’t an alternative. I had to sit there and let the medicine do its work in order to salvage any of my day.
I’d brought along my travel journal, and so I dug it out and started to write about what I’d experienced so far, about Margie and Tony and the lovely Scotsman.
Then suddenly I saw myself sitting in the sun on a brilliant spring morning in a small café, sipping this medicine that tasted like peppermint tea, and munching on a lovely pastry. I was watching people go by, hearing snippets of conversation and writing as the inspiration hit.
This was my dream of being in London. Not the crazy rush to see attractions so that I could tick them off a list. But time to actually experience the city and feel its heartbeat. How had it happened? If I hadn’t gotten ill, I would have missed it all - trying to see it all.
After awhile I felt much better. I looked at my map, and realized that I was just a few blocks from Charing Cross Road. I saw the day stretch out in front of me – browsing for books, getting on a double decker bus and sitting upstairs while I watched the city go by, eating dinner in a pub and talking to and laughing with the bartender and then meeting my new friends for a lovely play.
The Tower of London would have to wait, today I wasn’t ready for prison. Today I wanted nothing more than the freedom to find this city on my own terms.
And so I did.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Walking Her Home
Remember walking someone home?
It is a sweet old concept that you don’t hear much anymore. Now we drive, drop off on our way, or catch a lift.
Walking someone home was a softer, gentler activity. First of all, you walked, so the pace of the leave-taking was slower. When you got to their home, you left your companion and make the return trip alone, giving you time to reflect. There weren’t cell phones, so the walk back wasn’t disturbed. You thought about your friend, of things you’d both said, and things you wanted to say when you met again.
When I was young, I walked people home frequently. Many times it was my brothers and sisters and I was picking them up from a ball game or swimming lesson, or a friend’s house. Picking up isn’t the same as walking home. I had to pick up my siblings to keep them safe and make sure they didn’t get distracted and end up at a friend’s house or stop to play in the park. Walking someone home is a choice, and in a way, a silly one. Because, after dropping off your friend, you had to walk home alone.
The walks I remember best were with my friends. They would come to my house after school, and when it got close to supper time I would walk them home.
Because these walks were the end of our visit, we dragged our feet. We didn’t want the afternoon to end and be forced to go on to our homework and chores and the like.
I remember walking my friend Mary home. She used to live a few blocks away from me but had moved across town. I would usually walk her half way home. Looking back on it now I think we argued a lot on our walks. I think we didn’t want the day to end, and the arguing gave us an excuse to stand on a streetcorner half way between where we’d been and where we were going and postpone the goodbyes.
I thought of this recently when my sister-in-law’s mother passed. Leane’s mom wasn’t an easy person and theirs wasn’t an easy relationship. But I watched Leane care for her mother during her long last illness. Sometimes she would be understandably frustrated and angry at her mother. It seemed like whatever she did wasn’t enough for her mother and they argued, or they sat in silence.
And, at the end, she never left her mother’s side. That’s when I had the image.
Leane had walked her mother home. Their time together was over, and they knew it. They’d fought on the streetcorner, not wanting it to end. And finally, they had to part.
Now, and for awhile, Leane will be walking alone and reflecting on her mom, on their relationship, and remembering things she wanted to say.
But always she will be able to remember that in the end, she gave her mother that sweet, loving gift. She walked her home.
It is a sweet old concept that you don’t hear much anymore. Now we drive, drop off on our way, or catch a lift.
Walking someone home was a softer, gentler activity. First of all, you walked, so the pace of the leave-taking was slower. When you got to their home, you left your companion and make the return trip alone, giving you time to reflect. There weren’t cell phones, so the walk back wasn’t disturbed. You thought about your friend, of things you’d both said, and things you wanted to say when you met again.
When I was young, I walked people home frequently. Many times it was my brothers and sisters and I was picking them up from a ball game or swimming lesson, or a friend’s house. Picking up isn’t the same as walking home. I had to pick up my siblings to keep them safe and make sure they didn’t get distracted and end up at a friend’s house or stop to play in the park. Walking someone home is a choice, and in a way, a silly one. Because, after dropping off your friend, you had to walk home alone.
The walks I remember best were with my friends. They would come to my house after school, and when it got close to supper time I would walk them home.
Because these walks were the end of our visit, we dragged our feet. We didn’t want the afternoon to end and be forced to go on to our homework and chores and the like.
I remember walking my friend Mary home. She used to live a few blocks away from me but had moved across town. I would usually walk her half way home. Looking back on it now I think we argued a lot on our walks. I think we didn’t want the day to end, and the arguing gave us an excuse to stand on a streetcorner half way between where we’d been and where we were going and postpone the goodbyes.
I thought of this recently when my sister-in-law’s mother passed. Leane’s mom wasn’t an easy person and theirs wasn’t an easy relationship. But I watched Leane care for her mother during her long last illness. Sometimes she would be understandably frustrated and angry at her mother. It seemed like whatever she did wasn’t enough for her mother and they argued, or they sat in silence.
And, at the end, she never left her mother’s side. That’s when I had the image.
Leane had walked her mother home. Their time together was over, and they knew it. They’d fought on the streetcorner, not wanting it to end. And finally, they had to part.
Now, and for awhile, Leane will be walking alone and reflecting on her mom, on their relationship, and remembering things she wanted to say.
But always she will be able to remember that in the end, she gave her mother that sweet, loving gift. She walked her home.
Father Pfleger
Ok, let me say from the beginning that I know I come at this Father Pfleger controversy from a different place than a lot of people. I was married to an African American, my son is African American, and I have many friends –real friends, not just acquaintances – and family members who are African American. I have worshipped at churches, ate at BBQs and danced at clubs where I was the only white person in attendance. Most white people I know haven’t had those experiences, which isn’t a problem.
But I do think my experiences give me a vantage point from which I see things differently. I think there is something important going on here that goes beyond what we are seeing in the media.
I look at the Father Pfleger video and I do see him making fun of Hillary. I do. And as he started his comments, he indicated that this was probably not the place to do that.
If you look at the video of that morning, there was a context that had nothing to do with Presidential politics. He was talking about white entitlement. The fact that being white in our society is an advantage is very clear to anyone who is not white.
But here is the disconnect that keeps us talking and arguing about the wrong thing. Most white people would not agree that they are entitled, that their color gives them any special privileges.
If Father Pfleger had simply made fun of Hillary, or George Bush, or Barack Obama for that matter, this would have been a matter between Father and his congregation and his pastor. But he broached the subject we dare not speak of, he did it in public, and he told the truth.
Before he talked about Hillary, he talked about facing “the one who says ‘Don’t hold me responsible for what my ancestors did.’ But you have enjoyed the benefits of what your ancestors did, and unless you are ready to give up the benefits…then you must be responsible for what was done in your generation because you are the beneficiary of this insurance policy.”
I think that many whites feel that since all laws discriminating against minorities, and African Americans in specific, have been struck down, everyone is equal. And in some cases like Affirmative Action, some folks may even feel that they have been victims of reverse racism.
Most white folks I know are not trying to hold anyone else back and are not conscious of any benefits due to color. We are too busy living, trying to hang on to our job or find another one, send our kids to school and keep them out of trouble, fighting to put something together that we can leave when we are gone, too busy with all of that to consider what life is like on the other side of the street.
There is, however, another side of the street.
When my son was small and we would walk to school, I would point to the policeman on the corner and tell him that if anything was wrong or if anyone tried to hurt him he should go to the policeman. The policeman would help, I told him.
When his tall, well-built, well-dressed African American father walked him to school, they passed the same policeman. His father would tighten his hold on my son’s hand, walk a bit faster and try not to attract any attention. His father has never been accused of any criminal activity greater than a speeding ticket, but, even so, he had been made to assume the position many times while on his own northside block, keys to his apartment in his hand.
Which one of us gave my son the right message?
This is where I think the entitlement disconnect comes in to play. A tall, well-built, well-dressed white man walking to his northside home will not be ordered to assume the position for no apparent reason. The possibility would never occur to him.
So he gets two entitlement points. He won’t be stopped. And he doesn’t have to worry about it.
My son’s father on the other hand, loses three points. He may be stopped. He does have to think about it. And he knows that there are other men walking in the same neighborhood who never have to worry about it.
Everyone is equal under the law. But clearly we are not all having the same experience.
One thing I can tell you about attending African American church services. They tell the truth. And when appropriate, there is lots of laughter. Father Pfleger was ministering to a congregation who deal with the their lack of entitlement points every day. He was talking about it loud and clear and he was telling the truth.
He may have used poor judgment in bringing Presidential politics to the pulpit. But he is being punished by the white media for something else entirely.
But I do think my experiences give me a vantage point from which I see things differently. I think there is something important going on here that goes beyond what we are seeing in the media.
I look at the Father Pfleger video and I do see him making fun of Hillary. I do. And as he started his comments, he indicated that this was probably not the place to do that.
If you look at the video of that morning, there was a context that had nothing to do with Presidential politics. He was talking about white entitlement. The fact that being white in our society is an advantage is very clear to anyone who is not white.
But here is the disconnect that keeps us talking and arguing about the wrong thing. Most white people would not agree that they are entitled, that their color gives them any special privileges.
If Father Pfleger had simply made fun of Hillary, or George Bush, or Barack Obama for that matter, this would have been a matter between Father and his congregation and his pastor. But he broached the subject we dare not speak of, he did it in public, and he told the truth.
Before he talked about Hillary, he talked about facing “the one who says ‘Don’t hold me responsible for what my ancestors did.’ But you have enjoyed the benefits of what your ancestors did, and unless you are ready to give up the benefits…then you must be responsible for what was done in your generation because you are the beneficiary of this insurance policy.”
I think that many whites feel that since all laws discriminating against minorities, and African Americans in specific, have been struck down, everyone is equal. And in some cases like Affirmative Action, some folks may even feel that they have been victims of reverse racism.
Most white folks I know are not trying to hold anyone else back and are not conscious of any benefits due to color. We are too busy living, trying to hang on to our job or find another one, send our kids to school and keep them out of trouble, fighting to put something together that we can leave when we are gone, too busy with all of that to consider what life is like on the other side of the street.
There is, however, another side of the street.
When my son was small and we would walk to school, I would point to the policeman on the corner and tell him that if anything was wrong or if anyone tried to hurt him he should go to the policeman. The policeman would help, I told him.
When his tall, well-built, well-dressed African American father walked him to school, they passed the same policeman. His father would tighten his hold on my son’s hand, walk a bit faster and try not to attract any attention. His father has never been accused of any criminal activity greater than a speeding ticket, but, even so, he had been made to assume the position many times while on his own northside block, keys to his apartment in his hand.
Which one of us gave my son the right message?
This is where I think the entitlement disconnect comes in to play. A tall, well-built, well-dressed white man walking to his northside home will not be ordered to assume the position for no apparent reason. The possibility would never occur to him.
So he gets two entitlement points. He won’t be stopped. And he doesn’t have to worry about it.
My son’s father on the other hand, loses three points. He may be stopped. He does have to think about it. And he knows that there are other men walking in the same neighborhood who never have to worry about it.
Everyone is equal under the law. But clearly we are not all having the same experience.
One thing I can tell you about attending African American church services. They tell the truth. And when appropriate, there is lots of laughter. Father Pfleger was ministering to a congregation who deal with the their lack of entitlement points every day. He was talking about it loud and clear and he was telling the truth.
He may have used poor judgment in bringing Presidential politics to the pulpit. But he is being punished by the white media for something else entirely.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
Spring in January
Spring weather in January does strange things to Chicagoans. It’s not just odd, it’s wrong and we all know it. We know we will pay for it sometime when we are least expecting it, like a bad check we are writing to weather central. We use up any extra energy we might gain from the unseasonable warmth fighting the seductive idea that winter is not coming at all, that it just passed us by this year. Denial is much more dangerous than the cold.
So, even tho we are enjoying the weather, we are irritated at the same time. I wouldn’t be surprised to find the crime rate goes up. Usually even the criminals stay indoors this time of year.
Anyway, one fine January spring day, I was driving along Wabash Avenue, underneath the el tracks. I was headed to the Washington Library to do more research on my family tree. Parking can be difficult there because of the el train supports. The city has done away with all free parking anywhere downtown, and people are now fighting for the few $6 spots on the street rather than the $15 – 20 spots in the parking lots.
I remember when you put a nickel in one of the meters that lined the streets and that was that. You’d stay too long, get a ticket and paper your bathroom with it. No one ever actually paid their parking tickets. That was before computers and databases. I just got a letter the other day for a ticket from 3 cars and seven years ago. I really can’t remember owning a 4x4 truck and I lived out of state that year, but hey, no problem, I’ll pay it! I’ll pay it twice to avoid that lovely little item of footwear they can now attach to your tire. It’s Dante’s fourth level of hell you enter then, my friend. And no one can help you. It’s just you and the parking gods at the junk yard.
Back on the street, the guy in front of me suddenly pulled over, he’d found an empty spot. I was happy for him. “Good eyes,” I thought. “I have to start watching over here.” Just then, two things happened at the same time. A man who was panhandling on the street began waving at the man to warn him that the spot he’d found was illegal. And I saw another spot a few yards ahead.
I pulled over to the right and put the car in reverse. Suddenly, the other car pulls up alongside my spot. He is trying to take my spot - now that he knows his original spot is illegal.
The panhandling guy has moved back onto the sidewalk to watch. I’m looking in my rear view mirror. I put both hands in the air, palms up in the universal sign for “Whaddya think you’re doing?” He has an intense look on his face, and indicates that he is now the owner of this spot. Only problem is that he is right next to the spot and unless his car has a gear called SlideOver, he needs to move up in order to back into it.
I quickly decide I am not driving away. Now, this is the kind of thing that used to drive my ex nuts. I would take these stands and he would feel that he had to back them up. I never looked at it that way. If I took a stand, it was because I was ready to defend it myself. (Evidently, according to my mother, this basic misunderstanding of the male ego may have contributed to the reasons why he is my ex. Another story for another day.)
Sitting alone in the car that day I did actually think to myself, “I wonder if this guy is dangerous?” This is why I stayed in the car, rather than giving in to my impulse to storm over to his window and wag my finger right in his face.
The whole wagging of the finger thing? As I write it now I can see that it doesn’t sound very threatening. But if your face has ever caught the full force of a wagging finger that belonged to either an old nun, your grandmother or anyone who has just put you on a scale, you know that a simple finger wag can stay with you for years.
Wagging is different than pointing. Pointing indicates that the pointer has made a judgment and the pointee has been found guilty. The pointee then has the opportunity to point back. The conversation goes like this:
Pointer: “YOU! YOU are wrong!!”
Pointee: “NO, YOU, YOU are wrong!!”
These conversations usually do not end well; in fact, in many cases they do not end at all but repeat into infinity.
Wagging means that not only has a judgment been made, but also that the sentence is shame. The conversation goes like this:
Wagger: “SHAME ON YOU!! Is this the way your mother brought you up?”
Waggee:
In this case it doesn’t matter what the response is because the waggee is now thinking about their mother, who would surely not approve of stealing a parking space. You see? The Republicans have taught me something.
Anyway, this is all moot, because I didn’t get out of my car or wag any fingers. (By the way, this is the correct spelling of the word moot. It is not mute. Mute means one cannot speak. Moot means one doesn’t have to speak. One may remain mute. I’m just sayin’.)
We are now both fuming in our respective cars. He is sending really tough looks my way and I am shaking my head. So I turn around in my seat and wave my hands around. I am thinking “Hey! You had the other spot!” Just as I realize there is no way he is going to understand my psychotic sign language, he suddenly points to the panhandling guy. I understand that he is saying, “Yeah, but he told me it is illegal! And I still need to park!”
Since we seem to have a telepathy thing going, I shrug and point back to the original spot, thinking at him, “How does that give you permission to take MY spot?” And I have to admit it, I am wagging a mental finger at him and saying, “What would your mother say?”
He ducks his head, and a small guilty smile plays on his lips for just a second. And then he does the miraculous. He puts his car in reverse. I won! He has to wait for me to clear the lane before he can move, so I begin to back up. But of course, this is when I crack. I hit the curb 326 times before I am safely parked. I think I will wave at him; gracious in victory, but when I look up he is gone.
I get out of the car and walk around to feed the meter my credit card. The panhandling guy looks nervous. He starts to stammer, “I didn’t tell him to take that spot…I only told him the other one was illegal…I didn’t see you…”
For a minute I think about using my telepathic wagging power to suggest that he get a job. After all, what would his mother think?
But then I change my mind. I walk over and smile, stuff a dollar in his cup, and ask him to watch my car. There are a lot of crazy people walking around in this warm January city.
So, even tho we are enjoying the weather, we are irritated at the same time. I wouldn’t be surprised to find the crime rate goes up. Usually even the criminals stay indoors this time of year.
Anyway, one fine January spring day, I was driving along Wabash Avenue, underneath the el tracks. I was headed to the Washington Library to do more research on my family tree. Parking can be difficult there because of the el train supports. The city has done away with all free parking anywhere downtown, and people are now fighting for the few $6 spots on the street rather than the $15 – 20 spots in the parking lots.
I remember when you put a nickel in one of the meters that lined the streets and that was that. You’d stay too long, get a ticket and paper your bathroom with it. No one ever actually paid their parking tickets. That was before computers and databases. I just got a letter the other day for a ticket from 3 cars and seven years ago. I really can’t remember owning a 4x4 truck and I lived out of state that year, but hey, no problem, I’ll pay it! I’ll pay it twice to avoid that lovely little item of footwear they can now attach to your tire. It’s Dante’s fourth level of hell you enter then, my friend. And no one can help you. It’s just you and the parking gods at the junk yard.
Back on the street, the guy in front of me suddenly pulled over, he’d found an empty spot. I was happy for him. “Good eyes,” I thought. “I have to start watching over here.” Just then, two things happened at the same time. A man who was panhandling on the street began waving at the man to warn him that the spot he’d found was illegal. And I saw another spot a few yards ahead.
I pulled over to the right and put the car in reverse. Suddenly, the other car pulls up alongside my spot. He is trying to take my spot - now that he knows his original spot is illegal.
The panhandling guy has moved back onto the sidewalk to watch. I’m looking in my rear view mirror. I put both hands in the air, palms up in the universal sign for “Whaddya think you’re doing?” He has an intense look on his face, and indicates that he is now the owner of this spot. Only problem is that he is right next to the spot and unless his car has a gear called SlideOver, he needs to move up in order to back into it.
I quickly decide I am not driving away. Now, this is the kind of thing that used to drive my ex nuts. I would take these stands and he would feel that he had to back them up. I never looked at it that way. If I took a stand, it was because I was ready to defend it myself. (Evidently, according to my mother, this basic misunderstanding of the male ego may have contributed to the reasons why he is my ex. Another story for another day.)
Sitting alone in the car that day I did actually think to myself, “I wonder if this guy is dangerous?” This is why I stayed in the car, rather than giving in to my impulse to storm over to his window and wag my finger right in his face.
The whole wagging of the finger thing? As I write it now I can see that it doesn’t sound very threatening. But if your face has ever caught the full force of a wagging finger that belonged to either an old nun, your grandmother or anyone who has just put you on a scale, you know that a simple finger wag can stay with you for years.
Wagging is different than pointing. Pointing indicates that the pointer has made a judgment and the pointee has been found guilty. The pointee then has the opportunity to point back. The conversation goes like this:
Pointer: “YOU! YOU are wrong!!”
Pointee: “NO, YOU, YOU are wrong!!”
These conversations usually do not end well; in fact, in many cases they do not end at all but repeat into infinity.
Wagging means that not only has a judgment been made, but also that the sentence is shame. The conversation goes like this:
Wagger: “SHAME ON YOU!! Is this the way your mother brought you up?”
Waggee:
In this case it doesn’t matter what the response is because the waggee is now thinking about their mother, who would surely not approve of stealing a parking space. You see? The Republicans have taught me something.
Anyway, this is all moot, because I didn’t get out of my car or wag any fingers. (By the way, this is the correct spelling of the word moot. It is not mute. Mute means one cannot speak. Moot means one doesn’t have to speak. One may remain mute. I’m just sayin’.)
We are now both fuming in our respective cars. He is sending really tough looks my way and I am shaking my head. So I turn around in my seat and wave my hands around. I am thinking “Hey! You had the other spot!” Just as I realize there is no way he is going to understand my psychotic sign language, he suddenly points to the panhandling guy. I understand that he is saying, “Yeah, but he told me it is illegal! And I still need to park!”
Since we seem to have a telepathy thing going, I shrug and point back to the original spot, thinking at him, “How does that give you permission to take MY spot?” And I have to admit it, I am wagging a mental finger at him and saying, “What would your mother say?”
He ducks his head, and a small guilty smile plays on his lips for just a second. And then he does the miraculous. He puts his car in reverse. I won! He has to wait for me to clear the lane before he can move, so I begin to back up. But of course, this is when I crack. I hit the curb 326 times before I am safely parked. I think I will wave at him; gracious in victory, but when I look up he is gone.
I get out of the car and walk around to feed the meter my credit card. The panhandling guy looks nervous. He starts to stammer, “I didn’t tell him to take that spot…I only told him the other one was illegal…I didn’t see you…”
For a minute I think about using my telepathic wagging power to suggest that he get a job. After all, what would his mother think?
But then I change my mind. I walk over and smile, stuff a dollar in his cup, and ask him to watch my car. There are a lot of crazy people walking around in this warm January city.
Dirt
A funny thing happened to me as I researched my family tree. I was having lots of luck. I was the center of attention at family reunions with all of the family history I’d found. I was researching church and school records, old family letters and pictures, census rolls and public records in order to dig up all the information I could. And I found lots of interesting information, also known as dirt. I was having a blast.
But just today I remembered a conversation with my sister Diane from some time ago that stopped me in my tracks. She was working on my mother’s family tree. We didn’t have a lot of reliable information, but she wanted to record what she had found and present it to my mom as a surprise. There were a few dates she didn’t have. Could I tell her the date of my divorce?
No. I could not.
Did I know the date? No. I did not.
Would I look it up? No. I would not.
She was exasperated. Why not? She needed the date to make everything complete. Would I think about it? No. I thanked her for calling.
It was just too personal. Five solid years and at least one serious relationship had passed since my divorce. Still. No. I would not even consider it.
I have to face facts. I am obviously a hypocrite. I am delighted to jump into someone else’s life and stir up all manner of dirt in the name of “finding out what their lives were like” but I won’t even give my sister a date that she needs for basic record-keeping.
I’m not trying to keep my divorce a secret. There is no reason to, everyone knows I was married for years and have a wonderful 19-year-old son as a reminder. There aren’t lingering hard feelings. In fact, my ex sometimes shows up for holidays (to my family’s never-ending confusion) and he and I are in constant communication about our son. I’m willing to talk about my marriage and breakup with anyone who asks. In fact, I’ve been known to talk about it to people who have heard the story many times and wouldn’t mind changing the subject once and for all.
And what does a date tell you anyway? Nothing about what really happened, that’s for sure. Nothing about the agonizing years that it took to understand that it needed to end and then to make the move to end it. Nothing about the long painful process of the actual proceedings or about being held captive in a judge’s chambers while she reviewed our financials between taking phone calls and shout outs from people walking by the office. Nothing about how on the day, after it was over, my ex and I ended up in the same elevator, and all I could think about was the day we started. Or about how I went to lunch alone at a diner near the courthouse and called my mother to let her know it was over, like a surgery that had been successful in cutting out the cancer but was only the beginning of the healing.
Giving her the date seemed like giving up control of the story, making it part of the public domain when I wasn’t finished with it yet. It isn’t some funny anecdote; it is a powerfully charged, defining moment in my life. I couldn’t bear to reduce it to a date on a piece of paper where someone might look at it and find it slightly interesting or, worse yet, of no importance whatsoever. It’s water under the bridge, but it is still my bridge.
As my mother says, “You might want to look at that.”
I know. She’s right. I’ve obviously got unfinished business. Frankly, I’m not sure I will ever finish that particular business. Like everything else having to do with the breakup of my marriage, it will take as long as it takes for me to let it go. The dreams and regret and promises and pain are still closer to the surface than I like to admit. It wasn’t until my sister called that I realized how close it still is.
So, I’m thinking about these relatives whose vital statistics I am brandishing as if I created these characters in a novel. What facts have I uncovered that would have caused them pain to reveal? Do I have any right to violate their privacy in the name of “Tracing My Roots”? It’s all very respectable until you realize that I am simply a nosy private detective who happens to be related to these people.
I can’t kid myself. I’m addicted. There is no way I could stop this work now, even if my grandmother came back from the dead and threatened to disown me in the hereafter.
I’m not looking for gossip. I am truly looking for stories about who they were and what life was like. I can be respectful and resist the temptation to jump to conclusions about what I find and how they felt. And maybe I can give them something in return.
My divorce was final on December 20, 1999.
Go ahead, Diane. Add it to the tree.
But just today I remembered a conversation with my sister Diane from some time ago that stopped me in my tracks. She was working on my mother’s family tree. We didn’t have a lot of reliable information, but she wanted to record what she had found and present it to my mom as a surprise. There were a few dates she didn’t have. Could I tell her the date of my divorce?
No. I could not.
Did I know the date? No. I did not.
Would I look it up? No. I would not.
She was exasperated. Why not? She needed the date to make everything complete. Would I think about it? No. I thanked her for calling.
It was just too personal. Five solid years and at least one serious relationship had passed since my divorce. Still. No. I would not even consider it.
I have to face facts. I am obviously a hypocrite. I am delighted to jump into someone else’s life and stir up all manner of dirt in the name of “finding out what their lives were like” but I won’t even give my sister a date that she needs for basic record-keeping.
I’m not trying to keep my divorce a secret. There is no reason to, everyone knows I was married for years and have a wonderful 19-year-old son as a reminder. There aren’t lingering hard feelings. In fact, my ex sometimes shows up for holidays (to my family’s never-ending confusion) and he and I are in constant communication about our son. I’m willing to talk about my marriage and breakup with anyone who asks. In fact, I’ve been known to talk about it to people who have heard the story many times and wouldn’t mind changing the subject once and for all.
And what does a date tell you anyway? Nothing about what really happened, that’s for sure. Nothing about the agonizing years that it took to understand that it needed to end and then to make the move to end it. Nothing about the long painful process of the actual proceedings or about being held captive in a judge’s chambers while she reviewed our financials between taking phone calls and shout outs from people walking by the office. Nothing about how on the day, after it was over, my ex and I ended up in the same elevator, and all I could think about was the day we started. Or about how I went to lunch alone at a diner near the courthouse and called my mother to let her know it was over, like a surgery that had been successful in cutting out the cancer but was only the beginning of the healing.
Giving her the date seemed like giving up control of the story, making it part of the public domain when I wasn’t finished with it yet. It isn’t some funny anecdote; it is a powerfully charged, defining moment in my life. I couldn’t bear to reduce it to a date on a piece of paper where someone might look at it and find it slightly interesting or, worse yet, of no importance whatsoever. It’s water under the bridge, but it is still my bridge.
As my mother says, “You might want to look at that.”
I know. She’s right. I’ve obviously got unfinished business. Frankly, I’m not sure I will ever finish that particular business. Like everything else having to do with the breakup of my marriage, it will take as long as it takes for me to let it go. The dreams and regret and promises and pain are still closer to the surface than I like to admit. It wasn’t until my sister called that I realized how close it still is.
So, I’m thinking about these relatives whose vital statistics I am brandishing as if I created these characters in a novel. What facts have I uncovered that would have caused them pain to reveal? Do I have any right to violate their privacy in the name of “Tracing My Roots”? It’s all very respectable until you realize that I am simply a nosy private detective who happens to be related to these people.
I can’t kid myself. I’m addicted. There is no way I could stop this work now, even if my grandmother came back from the dead and threatened to disown me in the hereafter.
I’m not looking for gossip. I am truly looking for stories about who they were and what life was like. I can be respectful and resist the temptation to jump to conclusions about what I find and how they felt. And maybe I can give them something in return.
My divorce was final on December 20, 1999.
Go ahead, Diane. Add it to the tree.
The Horse Race
I am looking back a hundred years at my great-great uncle. There is a picture of him in the Chicago Daily News Archives from 1907. The caption is “John A. Rogers, Gambler.” He is standing outside with his bowler hat, three-piece suit and bow tie. He looks confident and prosperous in the photo, his shoulders back and his chin raised. It isn’t a posed photo – you can’t be sure that he even knew it was being taken. He looks as if he is about to say something, maybe respond to a reporter’s questions.
I have another picture of him that is in pretty bad shape, but I love to look at it. This one comes from my Grandmother’s album, and it shows John A. sitting on a bench in his three-piece suit. I can see his shoes in this one, they are the tall ones that lace up and again he wears a bow tie.
He is not alone; there are four other men with him. I know one of them is his brother, my great grandfather. I wonder if the other men were also brothers and brothers-in-law. They are sitting on a fake log cabin set of some kind, two of the men standing inside the cabin and poking their heads out of the window and three of them sitting on this log bench. A white paper tag hangs from a string on each suit coat – maybe an admission ticket. They are smiling easily, not a care in the world have these guys.
Another picture brings me back to the real world of today. This one is of all of my nieces and nephews at the family gathering on Christmas at my brother’s house. There are six boys in our family of eleven children. We all have a lot of fun when we are together, but I am always struck by how close my brothers are. Every Christmas we open presents for hours and for most of that time my brothers are making us laugh.
Christmas is an intimate gathering of 40 now that most of us are married with children and even two grandchildren, so the gifts go on and on. Until a few years ago, we all still bought each person a gift. We would gather at my Mom and Dad’s, and the presents would run from one end of our 20’ family room to the other, waist high. Opening the gifts took so long that we had to take breaks. Friends think I am joking when I tell them that for years, as we took a break to grab a plate of cookies or pour a Kahlua and Cream, my Mom would raffle off afghans she’d made that year.
By the time we finally decided to pick names so the number of gifts would be reduced, we had waited too long. What with marriages and children being born, the number of people had increased, so somehow we were still basically stuck with the four-hour ordeal.
The thing that keeps this bearable is that we all sincerely enjoy being together. And as the afternoon fades into evening, we are silly with laughter. My brothers are dangerously funny one on one, but when they get together it is an experience. My son Tim still talks about one wedding dinner when he was seated with five of the brothers. He laughed so hard, for so long, that his stomach muscles hurt for days.
It is a joy to watch them crack each other up. They know each other so well that they move seamlessly from straight man to funny man to unwitting victim to slapstick expert. Their competitiveness feeds the fire, each trying to outdo the other. And while they don’t mind that others are there to watch, they are doing it for their own pleasure. They are playing now, as they did when they were small, and having as much fun. I watch them as someone makes a comment, there is a sudden glint in their eyes and there they go - like horses running a race, except these horses are running together and daring each other to keep up.
I am looking once more at the picture of John A. and his brother, my great grandfather. I notice a familiar look in their smiling eyes.
The man behind the camera better watch out. I have a feeling his stomach will hurt tomorrow.
I have another picture of him that is in pretty bad shape, but I love to look at it. This one comes from my Grandmother’s album, and it shows John A. sitting on a bench in his three-piece suit. I can see his shoes in this one, they are the tall ones that lace up and again he wears a bow tie.
He is not alone; there are four other men with him. I know one of them is his brother, my great grandfather. I wonder if the other men were also brothers and brothers-in-law. They are sitting on a fake log cabin set of some kind, two of the men standing inside the cabin and poking their heads out of the window and three of them sitting on this log bench. A white paper tag hangs from a string on each suit coat – maybe an admission ticket. They are smiling easily, not a care in the world have these guys.
Another picture brings me back to the real world of today. This one is of all of my nieces and nephews at the family gathering on Christmas at my brother’s house. There are six boys in our family of eleven children. We all have a lot of fun when we are together, but I am always struck by how close my brothers are. Every Christmas we open presents for hours and for most of that time my brothers are making us laugh.
Christmas is an intimate gathering of 40 now that most of us are married with children and even two grandchildren, so the gifts go on and on. Until a few years ago, we all still bought each person a gift. We would gather at my Mom and Dad’s, and the presents would run from one end of our 20’ family room to the other, waist high. Opening the gifts took so long that we had to take breaks. Friends think I am joking when I tell them that for years, as we took a break to grab a plate of cookies or pour a Kahlua and Cream, my Mom would raffle off afghans she’d made that year.
By the time we finally decided to pick names so the number of gifts would be reduced, we had waited too long. What with marriages and children being born, the number of people had increased, so somehow we were still basically stuck with the four-hour ordeal.
The thing that keeps this bearable is that we all sincerely enjoy being together. And as the afternoon fades into evening, we are silly with laughter. My brothers are dangerously funny one on one, but when they get together it is an experience. My son Tim still talks about one wedding dinner when he was seated with five of the brothers. He laughed so hard, for so long, that his stomach muscles hurt for days.
It is a joy to watch them crack each other up. They know each other so well that they move seamlessly from straight man to funny man to unwitting victim to slapstick expert. Their competitiveness feeds the fire, each trying to outdo the other. And while they don’t mind that others are there to watch, they are doing it for their own pleasure. They are playing now, as they did when they were small, and having as much fun. I watch them as someone makes a comment, there is a sudden glint in their eyes and there they go - like horses running a race, except these horses are running together and daring each other to keep up.
I am looking once more at the picture of John A. and his brother, my great grandfather. I notice a familiar look in their smiling eyes.
The man behind the camera better watch out. I have a feeling his stomach will hurt tomorrow.
Nanie
My mother says I get along with my dead relatives better than the ones who are living. I don’t disagree. It’s not even close.
I began doing serious research into my family tree about two years ago – though I’d been interested for a lot longer than that. I was lucky to start with John A. Rogers, my great, great uncle who was a Chicago alderman back at the turn of the twentieth century. My research unearthed lots of great information – gambling, money and murder. Just what every genealogist hopes for, notoriety. There were Chicago City Council records, newspaper articles, obits – he was a character, and John A. Rogers got me hooked.
My favorite is a Chicago Tribune article, titled:
I started to go back 10 years at a time in the national census to trace my great grandmother’s life. I got back as far as 1920, but couldn’t find her in 1910. I knew she was there somewhere. I became obsessed and started looking block by block in the south side neighborhood I thought she might have lived in.
Finally, there was her name. I was surprised to find her living with her married sister in April of 1910. She should have been living with her husband because she was pregnant with my grandmother. Oh! It finally dawned on me that she was pregnant and unmarried that day when the census taker came to call. Now I had a picture of the young woman I had known so well when she was old. Had she been nauseous with morning sickness that day? Did anyone else know? Her sister? Did my great grandfather know yet? I pictured her scared and excited, listening to her sister give the census information and trying not to panic at what the next year would bring.
My eyes drifted up one line on the census sheet. The next-door neighbors. Wait, that was another sister and her family. I’d given them up for lost because I couldn’t find them, and I’d spelled their name everyway I could think of. But here they were – a huge family living just next door. I felt like they had all just looked up and started waving at me – “You found us! Hello!”
So, I look at my great grandmother, 20 in 1910, single and pregnant, living with her sister, parents long dead, soon to be married to my great grandfather. They would divorce after just a few years. She would live to be old and tell me wonderful stories, watch my sister get married and hold her first great great grandchild. She would watch the world change from horse and buggy to man on the moon.
But on that day she only knew that the census taker had come and taken her name. And that she was pregnant. I know how her story ended – it ended with me, my brothers, sisters, cousins and our children. Now I could see how it began.
I swear for a moment she sees me. I’m a daydream she has that day about her future and for a moment we catch sight of each other – she looking forward, me looking back. Then the census taker gets up to leave, they close the door and she’s gone.
I began doing serious research into my family tree about two years ago – though I’d been interested for a lot longer than that. I was lucky to start with John A. Rogers, my great, great uncle who was a Chicago alderman back at the turn of the twentieth century. My research unearthed lots of great information – gambling, money and murder. Just what every genealogist hopes for, notoriety. There were Chicago City Council records, newspaper articles, obits – he was a character, and John A. Rogers got me hooked.
My favorite is a Chicago Tribune article, titled:
John Rogers Says, “I’m Cold”He was sick with a fever and the doctor ordered him packed in ice. Of course he was the envy of the non-air conditioned city on that blistering July 4th. His personality came through as he joked: “First time I ever had cold feet.” Or when they quoted his response to allegations of running illegal gambling in his saloon.
“Yes, I’ve run a gambling house.” he admitted when the charge was made against him in his campaign for alderman. “But I’ve always run a square game.”The Chicago Tribune was a gold mine for info on Johnnie Rogers, but I found many of the less notorious members of my family in the census lists on Ancestry.com. I discovered to my surprise that 80 years ago, my maternal grandmother and great grandmother lived three blocks from where I live now. I walked by the building and wondered what their life was like then.
I started to go back 10 years at a time in the national census to trace my great grandmother’s life. I got back as far as 1920, but couldn’t find her in 1910. I knew she was there somewhere. I became obsessed and started looking block by block in the south side neighborhood I thought she might have lived in.
Finally, there was her name. I was surprised to find her living with her married sister in April of 1910. She should have been living with her husband because she was pregnant with my grandmother. Oh! It finally dawned on me that she was pregnant and unmarried that day when the census taker came to call. Now I had a picture of the young woman I had known so well when she was old. Had she been nauseous with morning sickness that day? Did anyone else know? Her sister? Did my great grandfather know yet? I pictured her scared and excited, listening to her sister give the census information and trying not to panic at what the next year would bring.
My eyes drifted up one line on the census sheet. The next-door neighbors. Wait, that was another sister and her family. I’d given them up for lost because I couldn’t find them, and I’d spelled their name everyway I could think of. But here they were – a huge family living just next door. I felt like they had all just looked up and started waving at me – “You found us! Hello!”
So, I look at my great grandmother, 20 in 1910, single and pregnant, living with her sister, parents long dead, soon to be married to my great grandfather. They would divorce after just a few years. She would live to be old and tell me wonderful stories, watch my sister get married and hold her first great great grandchild. She would watch the world change from horse and buggy to man on the moon.
But on that day she only knew that the census taker had come and taken her name. And that she was pregnant. I know how her story ended – it ended with me, my brothers, sisters, cousins and our children. Now I could see how it began.
I swear for a moment she sees me. I’m a daydream she has that day about her future and for a moment we catch sight of each other – she looking forward, me looking back. Then the census taker gets up to leave, they close the door and she’s gone.
My Sister Was Going to Ireland
My sister was going to Ireland. So, naturally, my father gave her an address. Years ago, his mother had written to someone at this address in Ireland and we were somehow related. That’s all we knew. Others had taken the same address on their trips to Ireland with little success. But, my father said, she should take it again. Try to make a connection with family in Ireland.
My great grandmother, Margaret Coleman, left Ireland alone in her early 20’s. She came to Chicago to meet her brothers, James and John, who worked on the railroad, but she never found them. So, like millions of other Irish immigrants who came to America, she built a life.
I often wonder if her family held a funeral for Margaret the night before her departure. They often did that back then for those who were leaving for America. Everyone knew that their lives were over as they had known them. The idea of the funerals makes me think how sad and scared she must have been to leave all she knew. We hardly think of it today as we can take a plane across the world in a matter of hours. Even if we can’t get home we can hear each other’s voices over the phone and even see one another with a webcam or a video. Those who left back then knew they were leaving for good.
And when they came here as my great grandmother did, they didn’t have time to look backwards. Surviving in Chicago in those days took all you had. So the sadness had to be pressed down and the energy used to make a successful life. Maybe that is why an Irish tenor in those days could make everyone cry – he reminded them of the enormity of their loss.
There was one sister who stayed in Ireland. Margaret wrote to her, and to her daughter, Alice. And when Margaret was gone, my grandmother kept up the communication. We have one letter from Alice. That was the letter my sister Deb was taking back. Alice would be gone, but maybe the address would lead them to someone else.
When Deb and her husband got to the small town of Enniscorthy, they stopped at a pub. Deb asked the bartender if he knew of anyone related to an Alice Murphy who had lived at the address. “Sure, Sean Murphy, he lives right across the road.” “Would he welcome a knock at the door?” she asked. “Mmmm well, now, I don’t know…”
Deb was abit taken aback. But she did cross the road and knock at the door. A man answered the door. “Yes?”
And yes, it was himself and yes that was his mother’s handwriting. Would she come in? Yes, she would, yes.
Tea was made, as were telephone calls. “You’ll never guess who is standing in this room but your American cousin” said Sean when he called his sister, Bridie. She thought he was putting her on…she didn’t even know they had an American cousin. “Here” he said, “I’ll let you talk to her.” “Not till I heard your voice,” Bridie said later, “did I even begin to think he wasn’t joking.”
The next two days were filled with meetings and meals and visits to an old graveyard. Deb met three of Alice’s children on her trip. They were all delighted with each other, and with the connection.
The day that Deb and her husband were to leave they stopped by Sean Murphy’s house one more time. She wanted to give him a copy of the letter his mother had written 30 years ago. He invited her in and she resisted as they had to get on the road but Sean wouldn’t take no for an answer. “I have to show you something,” he said.
He pulled out a photo album. There were pictures of his mother and his brother and sisters. Then he turned the page. “I don’t know who these people are…but I thought you might know.”
“Yes, I do know.” Deb looked at the pictures. “That’s my mother and father, my grandmother and grandfather. Those are some of my sisters and brothers.”
And there we were. It seems my grandmother was sending pictures with the letters she wrote, to keep the family alive even though she had never met her Irish cousins. To keep us connected to that world that Margaret Coleman had left. And to welcome us, when finally, we went home.
My great grandmother, Margaret Coleman, left Ireland alone in her early 20’s. She came to Chicago to meet her brothers, James and John, who worked on the railroad, but she never found them. So, like millions of other Irish immigrants who came to America, she built a life.
I often wonder if her family held a funeral for Margaret the night before her departure. They often did that back then for those who were leaving for America. Everyone knew that their lives were over as they had known them. The idea of the funerals makes me think how sad and scared she must have been to leave all she knew. We hardly think of it today as we can take a plane across the world in a matter of hours. Even if we can’t get home we can hear each other’s voices over the phone and even see one another with a webcam or a video. Those who left back then knew they were leaving for good.
And when they came here as my great grandmother did, they didn’t have time to look backwards. Surviving in Chicago in those days took all you had. So the sadness had to be pressed down and the energy used to make a successful life. Maybe that is why an Irish tenor in those days could make everyone cry – he reminded them of the enormity of their loss.
There was one sister who stayed in Ireland. Margaret wrote to her, and to her daughter, Alice. And when Margaret was gone, my grandmother kept up the communication. We have one letter from Alice. That was the letter my sister Deb was taking back. Alice would be gone, but maybe the address would lead them to someone else.
When Deb and her husband got to the small town of Enniscorthy, they stopped at a pub. Deb asked the bartender if he knew of anyone related to an Alice Murphy who had lived at the address. “Sure, Sean Murphy, he lives right across the road.” “Would he welcome a knock at the door?” she asked. “Mmmm well, now, I don’t know…”
Deb was abit taken aback. But she did cross the road and knock at the door. A man answered the door. “Yes?”
And yes, it was himself and yes that was his mother’s handwriting. Would she come in? Yes, she would, yes.
Tea was made, as were telephone calls. “You’ll never guess who is standing in this room but your American cousin” said Sean when he called his sister, Bridie. She thought he was putting her on…she didn’t even know they had an American cousin. “Here” he said, “I’ll let you talk to her.” “Not till I heard your voice,” Bridie said later, “did I even begin to think he wasn’t joking.”
The next two days were filled with meetings and meals and visits to an old graveyard. Deb met three of Alice’s children on her trip. They were all delighted with each other, and with the connection.
The day that Deb and her husband were to leave they stopped by Sean Murphy’s house one more time. She wanted to give him a copy of the letter his mother had written 30 years ago. He invited her in and she resisted as they had to get on the road but Sean wouldn’t take no for an answer. “I have to show you something,” he said.
He pulled out a photo album. There were pictures of his mother and his brother and sisters. Then he turned the page. “I don’t know who these people are…but I thought you might know.”
“Yes, I do know.” Deb looked at the pictures. “That’s my mother and father, my grandmother and grandfather. Those are some of my sisters and brothers.”
And there we were. It seems my grandmother was sending pictures with the letters she wrote, to keep the family alive even though she had never met her Irish cousins. To keep us connected to that world that Margaret Coleman had left. And to welcome us, when finally, we went home.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
