First day of kindergarten, you walked me to school and I got on a bus to come home. Afterwards in the kitchen you and mom, asking over and over again, WHY would you get on a bus? I walked you there, I told you I would pick you up - and you were both upset and I didn't know why I thought I should get on a bus. Finally you told me to go play. But, I thought I saw you smiling.
I thought I saw you smiling but when I turned around you were just looking at me and you said go on now, go play.
I got in trouble in 1st grade and knew I’d be in trouble with you and so I stopped at the candy store and bought you root beer penny candy and you said what is this for and I said nothing and you said what is this for and I said I love you and you said what is this for and I said I got in trouble today and you said we will talk about this later and I went to my room. But, I thought I saw you smiling.
You told me not to go down the Parkside stairs one at a time cuz they were cement stairs and I could go down them one at a time when I was big and I figured I was already big and I went down them one at a time and after you picked me up and after you put spoons on my head and after you bandaged my eye you told me that I should have listened to you. But, I thought I saw you smiling.
We were playing tent, or dress designer, and you flew upstairs and yelled at us WHY was the sheet off the bed and Get to sleep NOW and don’t let me hear another peep and Deb said peep and you came back and yelled again. But, I thought I saw you smiling.
It had been a day and we hadn’t been listening and we had been bickering and nothing seemed to slow us down and mom said wait till your father comes home and you came home and you called us all down from our rooms and made us stand in line and you made me get the phone book and you told us you were looking up orphanages because this kind of thing could not go on in your house and you sent us back upstairs while you thought about it and told us to think about it. And I’m sure I saw you smiling.
I was really mad that we moved from the city, really mad and really unhappy and I cried and whined and moaned and you promised to take me to the library in “town” wherever that was and finally one day you did and I saw that the whole bookmobile that used to come by our house could fit in the lobby of this new library and when we drove home you asked me if I liked it I said I guess so. Oh, yeah, you were smiling.
Plenty of times when I was a teenager we would fight for hours, or I would fight and you would read your newspaper until you couldn’t stand it anymore and neither one of us was laughing then. But there were some times where we would disagree and it felt like playing volleyball and we passed the ball back and forth for awhile until you got tired and getting in a good pass was exhilarating even tho you would slam it back twice as hard. And I think I saw you smiling.
That smile I’m talking about is the one that says you’re getting a kick out of something. It isn’t meant for anyone else to see and it comes with a slight shake of the head. It is equal parts amusement and amazement and it is really, really good and most of us have seen it when you are talking to one of us about another one of us.
I can make people laugh, and when it is just right, when I have put the timing and the words and the tone and the look together just right and everybody roars and I can hear people saying afterwards when they think I’m not listening, she is so funny, I look back. And …I know I see you smiling.
Happy Birthday, Dad.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Lucky
Some of my brothers and sisters may think of the old house as the one we lived in the longest, 1008 Pendleton, in Mt. Prospect. But for me, the old house will always be the bungalow at 2937 N. Parkside in Chicago, where we lived in the 50's.
Mom and Dad didn't own the house, they rented the first floor. There were two bedrooms, a back porch, living room, dining room and kitchen.
It's the first house I remember and we left there when I was ten. I think the quality of attention I paid to everything around me was much greater then, so I remember things very clearly. (At least I think I do. Others may remember it differently, but that's ok, that would be their memories.)
By the time we left that house, there were six of us kids, with one more on the way. (Actually there were five more on the way, who knew?) By this time the back porch had been turned into a bedroom to take the overflow from the kid's bedroom.
I am not sure how long she did it, but for awhile around 4:30 or 5 every day, after she made sure we had taken all of the toys out of the living room and dining room, Mom would stop making dinner for a few minutes and change her clothes. Then she would put on lipstick. And sometimes, she would put on a record of one of the shows that had recently come out. King and I, Flower Drum Song, My Fair Lady. I loved the music of King and I, but the cover of My Fair Lady always gave me the creeps with the god character in the clouds with the strings attached to the humans. Anyway, when Mom changed her clothes and put on the music, it felt like magic. I always thought Mom was revealing what she was really like, not just a Mom, but a beautiful woman who loved music and theater and talking and laughter.
Then Dad would come home and we would all eat dinner. Dad would talk about his day at work. One time he talked about someone getting fired and I thought it was terrible that they would put a man in an oven just for not working hard enough. My idea of the nice office Dad worked at was altered to a terrible dark furnace room. My father was a HERO to go there every day!
As I look back, they were so young. Not just compared to them now, but compared to ME now! I remember Dad on the floor, playing with us, letting us crawl all over him, telling us story after story.
The main feeling I have about Dad back then was that he was sure that he was lucky. I don't know if it was the Dale Carnegie course, or his success at work, or his family or all of it. But he acted as if he felt he were lucky - good things were on the way. He made me feel that way too.
On summer evenings, I remember Mom giving us baths and us getting into our pajamas. I can remember what a great feeling it was to be clean and fresh, ready for bed with the sun still up. As I remember one night, Mom was giving someone a bath when a big pink car pulled up in front of the house. We didn't have a car, Dad took the bus to work. (He also walked huge bags of stinking dirty diapers down the block to the laundromat.) The driver of the pink car was honking and it took me a few minutes to see it was Dad leaning out of the car, saying, "Go get your mother!" We tore into the bathroom to tell Mom. I think this was one of Dad's classic surprises.
The bungalow had cement stairs leading up to the front door. However old I was, and however big, the stairs were too deep and I was not allowed to take them one by one. Eventually I wanted to go down the "grown-up way".
Of course I fell, and got a gash above my eye. Dad was right there, it must have been a weekend day. After the cleanup and the bandaid, Dad sat next to me on the couch. He said that the cut had come very close to my eye. And then he looked and me and smiled and said, "You were very lucky." I remember thinking yup, that 's us. We are very lucky.
I look back now at our family's life. I look at Dad watching his great grand-daughters playing and flash back to that young man rolling around the floor with us, tickling us and telling us stories. I look at Mom's beautiful face, that still reveals who she really is.
No doubt we all have all had our challenges, disappointments and even tragedies. But I still think Dad was right. We're very lucky.
Mom and Dad didn't own the house, they rented the first floor. There were two bedrooms, a back porch, living room, dining room and kitchen.
It's the first house I remember and we left there when I was ten. I think the quality of attention I paid to everything around me was much greater then, so I remember things very clearly. (At least I think I do. Others may remember it differently, but that's ok, that would be their memories.)
By the time we left that house, there were six of us kids, with one more on the way. (Actually there were five more on the way, who knew?) By this time the back porch had been turned into a bedroom to take the overflow from the kid's bedroom.
I am not sure how long she did it, but for awhile around 4:30 or 5 every day, after she made sure we had taken all of the toys out of the living room and dining room, Mom would stop making dinner for a few minutes and change her clothes. Then she would put on lipstick. And sometimes, she would put on a record of one of the shows that had recently come out. King and I, Flower Drum Song, My Fair Lady. I loved the music of King and I, but the cover of My Fair Lady always gave me the creeps with the god character in the clouds with the strings attached to the humans. Anyway, when Mom changed her clothes and put on the music, it felt like magic. I always thought Mom was revealing what she was really like, not just a Mom, but a beautiful woman who loved music and theater and talking and laughter.
Then Dad would come home and we would all eat dinner. Dad would talk about his day at work. One time he talked about someone getting fired and I thought it was terrible that they would put a man in an oven just for not working hard enough. My idea of the nice office Dad worked at was altered to a terrible dark furnace room. My father was a HERO to go there every day!
As I look back, they were so young. Not just compared to them now, but compared to ME now! I remember Dad on the floor, playing with us, letting us crawl all over him, telling us story after story.
The main feeling I have about Dad back then was that he was sure that he was lucky. I don't know if it was the Dale Carnegie course, or his success at work, or his family or all of it. But he acted as if he felt he were lucky - good things were on the way. He made me feel that way too.
On summer evenings, I remember Mom giving us baths and us getting into our pajamas. I can remember what a great feeling it was to be clean and fresh, ready for bed with the sun still up. As I remember one night, Mom was giving someone a bath when a big pink car pulled up in front of the house. We didn't have a car, Dad took the bus to work. (He also walked huge bags of stinking dirty diapers down the block to the laundromat.) The driver of the pink car was honking and it took me a few minutes to see it was Dad leaning out of the car, saying, "Go get your mother!" We tore into the bathroom to tell Mom. I think this was one of Dad's classic surprises.
The bungalow had cement stairs leading up to the front door. However old I was, and however big, the stairs were too deep and I was not allowed to take them one by one. Eventually I wanted to go down the "grown-up way".
Of course I fell, and got a gash above my eye. Dad was right there, it must have been a weekend day. After the cleanup and the bandaid, Dad sat next to me on the couch. He said that the cut had come very close to my eye. And then he looked and me and smiled and said, "You were very lucky." I remember thinking yup, that 's us. We are very lucky.
I look back now at our family's life. I look at Dad watching his great grand-daughters playing and flash back to that young man rolling around the floor with us, tickling us and telling us stories. I look at Mom's beautiful face, that still reveals who she really is.
No doubt we all have all had our challenges, disappointments and even tragedies. But I still think Dad was right. We're very lucky.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
How I Learned To Travel
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.
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.
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.
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