Living in the Chicago area in the post-Obama president-elect era is a little thrilling, I will admit, as it seems that everyone I talk to is one person removed from him or knows the man personally. Maybe it's a testament to how involved the Obamas really have been in the community or there's some wishful thinking going on or, maybe again, it's really that Chicago, despite it's massiveness, is still a pretty small town at heart. Think I'm exaggerating? Think again.
For example...
The woman who cuts my hair once sneezed and the next thing she knew, Barack Obama walked over and handed her a tissue. He was really cool about the whole thing, and it wasn't the scratchy kind of tissue either.
My neighbor met Barack Obama while they were both members of a Civil War reenactment group. Contrary to rumor, my neighbor was not part of an underground cell of enthusiasts who took things a little too far but if he was, he still makes no apologies for it. His book will be out in Spring 2009.
When I was selling peanuts at the Cubs game the summer before my sophomore year in college, Barack Obama bought three bags, reconsidered it, and returned one. He impressed me with his candor and willingness to dialog his decision through with me. He was very transparent about his process.
The guy who restocks dressings at the Whole Foods salad bar on North Avenue knows Barack Obama from this one time he pointed out the location of the restroom to him, and it was clear that he was not a dick despite what the guy in produce with all those tattoos said, who didn't even talk to him and is an anarchist or something.
My mother met Barack Obama when she hired him to babysit me as a child; he had a huge 'fro back then but she wasn't scared. She had watched The Jefferson’s in the past.
One of the other mothers at my son's school knows Barack Obama from interning together during the summer before he met Michelle. They dated briefly and it ended badly. She drove by his house one night to see if he was home - she admits she was a little unhinged - and when she drove past, he happened to be getting out of his car. They had direct eye contact and she was mortified. That was the last time she saw him face-to-face, but she still voted for him even though she was embarrassed somehow.
The barista at Barack Obama's favorite coffeeshop in Hyde Park says that for some reason, she has not been working when he's stopped in, but she has served a woman rumored to be Michelle Obama's pedicurist, and she apparently thinks she's hot shit or something and never, ever gets off her damn cell phone.
My son met Barack Obama when he was driving a bumper car at Kiddieland over the summer and the president-elect drove right by him, smiled, and shook his hand. My son thought the smiling man might have candy, so he was disappointed to drive away empty-handed.
Elizabeth Hasselbeck does not live in Chicago, but she did meet Barack Obama when he was on her television show and she questioned his character. Still does.
This guy who knows my friend through her neighbor's cousin met Barack Obama when they happened to be waiting at the DMV together, and he says that he took an astonishingly good driver's license photo. It looked like something created by God's personal airbrush.
My mail carrier met Barack Obama when their daughters took ballet together two years ago. He wasn't one of those obnoxious parents but he did accidentally take her seat at the recital when she got up to get some water. He didn't do it on purpose so she doesn't hold it against him, but she does hold it against her husband for not telling him that the seat was taken. It was just another example of his wimpishness.
My ex-boyfriend catered some sort of dinner he was speaking at a few years back at the Art Institute, and after he went back in the cooler to smoke a bowl with Raul, there was some kind of Powerpoint going on that was really trippy - he can't remember what it was about, something with cannonballs, he thinks - and he couldn't stop laughing. No one seemed to notice, thankfully, but, now that he thinks of it, he didn't get any new jobs from the company.
There is also the guy who drives the North Avenue bus, those three security guards at City Hall, my cousin in LaGrange, the woman in the really cool red coat deciding whether or not to buy arugula, my friend (the former Sikh), the guy who fixed my cable modem, Liz, and it’s rumored that tried to clean my windows when I was stopped at a red light (I said “no!” like twenty times) might know someone who knows him.
This is all just off the top of my head, too.
Shalom, everyone...
Monday, November 17, 2008
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Apparently my son sees ghosts. Oh! And Christmas is here! Tra la la!
As my grandmother would say, I need this like I need a hole in the head.
My son has been talking about ghosts and various other Halloween-related subjects since, well, late September. Typically, my end of the conversation has gone something like, "Oh, you saw a Grim Reaper in someone's yard? Was he scary looking? Neat. Hey, did you remember your backpack? Are you going pay attention at piano lesson? Good. Leave your seatbelt alone. Remember, your right hand is your toothbrushing hand. Hold up your right hand -- that's left, oh, wait, you were right... Oh, you want a skeleton for the front yard? We'll talk about it later. We can make one. We have cardboar - I said leave your seatbelt alone!" Hearing about the various sights has been a refreshing change from the child who ran in abject terror from the countless animatronic gadgets that peppered our neighborhood and, seemingly, every business we ventured into. Still, with Halloween on the brain so much, I have been eager for it to end. Now that it has, though, my son's preoccupation with ghosts has not abated even slightly. If anything, it's increased.
Tonight as I was chopping garlic and ginger for dinner, he and I were talking in the kitchen. One of the net results of Halloween has been that he is all over me like white on rice, and this reverting has reminded me, as I grind my teeth, that I am generally a much more sanguine mother to older children than babies and toddlers. I just get edgy when I don't have enough personal space and quiet time. I have been trying ever so hard to be patient, not a strength of mine to begin with, though, by reminding myself that this is temporary, that there will come a day when I will look back longingly on the time when my son craved my company and reassurances. [He has become fearful these past couple of months since he started school, of guns and violence and cruelty, things he never thought of, perhaps never really knew about, before. This has combined with all the fervor around Halloween to create a sort of generalized fear in him. Among other things, he is afraid that someone is going to shoot him. He asks me, probably around thirty times a day, "No one's going to shoot me, right?" He is afraid to walk to school with me because of this sketchy boogyman figure, every sound he hears outside the house - and there are many as we live near a major thoroughfare - causes alarm in my son. Today, I taught him a new, but very potent, incantation of protection: "Ooga, looga, shasta, shay: Make my fears go away," with a hand clap.]
About a dozen times a day lately, I take a deep breath and mine within for my last reserve of patience, always surprised to unearth a little more. Anyway, tonight wasn't so bad because we were talking and it was a relaxed, comfortable time together. As we talked, my son told me about the ghosts he has seen.
Apparently, there is a ghost who visits every night, a female ghost with seashells in her hair. From what I have gathered, she is not scary. She brings my son fossils to examine, then leaves with them as she departs. He does not know her name but has assured me that he will ask next time. He has drawn a stark rendition of her in purple crayon.
He also apparently saw - or, rather, sensed - ghosts when we were downtown Saturday. They were invisible, he said, but he could feel their presence. No matter how many times he said, "Criss cross applesauce, ghosts go away," something he learned in a book, they did not. They were a little more menacing to him but still nothing he felt threatened by. According to my son, they were everywhere.
So, this is the thing: I am likely going to just write all this off as my son's very active and vivid imagination, which he certainly has in spades. There is a part of me, though, that wonders. He is just the sort of cinematic child who would see spirits: saucer eyes, sensitive, sweet natured. If he is, in fact, seeing ghosts, I'm sort of at a loss for what to do about it. I don't think that that is part of Dr. Sears' canon (Attachment Parenting for Children Who Communicate With the Dead) so I'd probably have to put on some patchouli oil and take my skeptical self over to the Indigo Children section of the bookstore. I will be welcomed there by spacey-eyed, breathy women in diaphanous skirts and their 'shrooming spouses. Ay yi yi. Like many challenges my son and I have met together, I am hoping this one fades away really soon.
Two not-so-quick stories this brings up...
1. Not too long ago, there was a series on A&E called Psychic Kids, which was 90% lame, 8% creepy and 2% neither here nor there. (That was its exact compositional make-up, by the way.) It was a documentary series (I guess a more highbrow way of saying reality show) about children who could apparently see and sense ghosts. The 8% that was creepy tapped into the square inch of my brain dedicated to being actively fearful of Danny-From-The-Shining-Plus-The-Kid-From-The-Sixth-Sense. I watched the series, which came complete with a melodramatically queeny ghost-huntin' adult and bizarre child psychologist who basically repeated the same refrain over and over ("So you're feeling very alone with this whole seeing dead people thing, aren't you?") because the novel I've written features an empath and there is some cross-over. My interest was strictly professional, I assure you. Anyway, I had just watched an episode and it was around 10:15 at night. I was finishing up on some email, and I heard a tapping on the window of the sunroom where I work. Mind you, the episode I had just watched featured a child who was tormented by a ghost who tapped at the window. I jumped about a foot in the air, screaming in terror, to see this shrouded figure on the other side of the glass. It was our family friend, Uncle P. with his gray sweatshirt hood over his head, who had come over to, I don't know, terrorize me. Either that or borrow the car. Anyway, even after it was clear to me that the figure on the other side of the glass was not, in fact, the ghost of Scatman Crothers and the word REDRUM was not scrawled on the window in a child's hand, I could not stop screaming. The funny thing was, just like in a comedy, as I started screaming, Uncle P. did as well, equally freaked out was he by my response, so for a good ten seconds, we stood on opposite sides of the window, staring at each other, shrieking uncontrollably.
2. When I was around 15, my parents bought a new house and the family moved. I don't know what it was that inspired us to do so, but one day while we were unpacking, my friend and I got a notion to freak out my mother, which, admittedly, is very, very easy to do. We wrote a note about how this new house was built on an Ancient Indian Burial Ground and any who should live here would be considered fair game for a good, old-fashioned cursing. It was written in the voice of a previous occupant who had been driven mad by the agitated Ancient Indian Burial Ground spirits. Not very original, I will admit: it was basically Poltergeist plus Amityville Horror. We burned the note around the edges to make it look old and yellow, and we immediately arranged for a co-conspirator in my mom's friend, the wonderfully playful and mischievous Mrs. Wasserman, who was over unpacking plates and vases and such. She called my mother over after allegedly putting some boxes in the crawl space and showed her the note she had discovered. My mother looked it over, and said with tears in her eyes, "Well, isn't this just my luck. The goddamn house is haunted. Great." We couldn't torture her for long given how she immediately accepted that she and her family were now cursed, but it was very funny at the time.
Onto an unghostly topic, but one that still chills me to the core.
This evening I was out buying tape at my local pharmaceutical-and-home supplies establishment (in case you have a burning desire to know, it was tape to make the pro-vegan message sign that goes on our front yard with the inflatable turkey every Thanksgiving) when what should hit my ears but the dulcet notes of "Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer," that catchy homage to Arctic deer-on-elder violence. That's right: the last of the plastic spiders and orange lights have been finally packed away, so now we need to get whacked upside the collective head with the Christmas spirit. Ho ho ho. Not wanted to lend my voice to the nagging chorus of complainers, I still do have to admit that that first tacky, oversized red velvet bow of the season always makes me cringe more than a little. My state of Christmas Hate typically ebbs-and-flows throughout the, what?, seven months preceding it, usually leaving me in a state of depleted, white flag waving acquiescence by the time December 25 finally decides to roll into town. Maybe it is the Jewess in me, maybe it is the cynical urbanite, but hot damn, the producers of bad Christmas music - and much is varying degrees of bad, from the merely annoying to the outright unholy, let's face it - and the red velvet bowmakers of America, conspire to make it really, really challenging for me to be my ebullient vegan, pagan self you've all come to know. Anyone not liking my disposition until New Years can take it up with them.
But I'm still happy that Obama got elected. No seashell-coiffed ghosts or Christmas-related obnoxiousness can take that away from me!
Shalom, everyone.
My son has been talking about ghosts and various other Halloween-related subjects since, well, late September. Typically, my end of the conversation has gone something like, "Oh, you saw a Grim Reaper in someone's yard? Was he scary looking? Neat. Hey, did you remember your backpack? Are you going pay attention at piano lesson? Good. Leave your seatbelt alone. Remember, your right hand is your toothbrushing hand. Hold up your right hand -- that's left, oh, wait, you were right... Oh, you want a skeleton for the front yard? We'll talk about it later. We can make one. We have cardboar - I said leave your seatbelt alone!" Hearing about the various sights has been a refreshing change from the child who ran in abject terror from the countless animatronic gadgets that peppered our neighborhood and, seemingly, every business we ventured into. Still, with Halloween on the brain so much, I have been eager for it to end. Now that it has, though, my son's preoccupation with ghosts has not abated even slightly. If anything, it's increased.
Tonight as I was chopping garlic and ginger for dinner, he and I were talking in the kitchen. One of the net results of Halloween has been that he is all over me like white on rice, and this reverting has reminded me, as I grind my teeth, that I am generally a much more sanguine mother to older children than babies and toddlers. I just get edgy when I don't have enough personal space and quiet time. I have been trying ever so hard to be patient, not a strength of mine to begin with, though, by reminding myself that this is temporary, that there will come a day when I will look back longingly on the time when my son craved my company and reassurances. [He has become fearful these past couple of months since he started school, of guns and violence and cruelty, things he never thought of, perhaps never really knew about, before. This has combined with all the fervor around Halloween to create a sort of generalized fear in him. Among other things, he is afraid that someone is going to shoot him. He asks me, probably around thirty times a day, "No one's going to shoot me, right?" He is afraid to walk to school with me because of this sketchy boogyman figure, every sound he hears outside the house - and there are many as we live near a major thoroughfare - causes alarm in my son. Today, I taught him a new, but very potent, incantation of protection: "Ooga, looga, shasta, shay: Make my fears go away," with a hand clap.]
About a dozen times a day lately, I take a deep breath and mine within for my last reserve of patience, always surprised to unearth a little more. Anyway, tonight wasn't so bad because we were talking and it was a relaxed, comfortable time together. As we talked, my son told me about the ghosts he has seen.
Apparently, there is a ghost who visits every night, a female ghost with seashells in her hair. From what I have gathered, she is not scary. She brings my son fossils to examine, then leaves with them as she departs. He does not know her name but has assured me that he will ask next time. He has drawn a stark rendition of her in purple crayon.
He also apparently saw - or, rather, sensed - ghosts when we were downtown Saturday. They were invisible, he said, but he could feel their presence. No matter how many times he said, "Criss cross applesauce, ghosts go away," something he learned in a book, they did not. They were a little more menacing to him but still nothing he felt threatened by. According to my son, they were everywhere.
So, this is the thing: I am likely going to just write all this off as my son's very active and vivid imagination, which he certainly has in spades. There is a part of me, though, that wonders. He is just the sort of cinematic child who would see spirits: saucer eyes, sensitive, sweet natured. If he is, in fact, seeing ghosts, I'm sort of at a loss for what to do about it. I don't think that that is part of Dr. Sears' canon (Attachment Parenting for Children Who Communicate With the Dead) so I'd probably have to put on some patchouli oil and take my skeptical self over to the Indigo Children section of the bookstore. I will be welcomed there by spacey-eyed, breathy women in diaphanous skirts and their 'shrooming spouses. Ay yi yi. Like many challenges my son and I have met together, I am hoping this one fades away really soon.
Two not-so-quick stories this brings up...
1. Not too long ago, there was a series on A&E called Psychic Kids, which was 90% lame, 8% creepy and 2% neither here nor there. (That was its exact compositional make-up, by the way.) It was a documentary series (I guess a more highbrow way of saying reality show) about children who could apparently see and sense ghosts. The 8% that was creepy tapped into the square inch of my brain dedicated to being actively fearful of Danny-From-The-Shining-Plus-The-Kid-From-The-Sixth-Sense. I watched the series, which came complete with a melodramatically queeny ghost-huntin' adult and bizarre child psychologist who basically repeated the same refrain over and over ("So you're feeling very alone with this whole seeing dead people thing, aren't you?") because the novel I've written features an empath and there is some cross-over. My interest was strictly professional, I assure you. Anyway, I had just watched an episode and it was around 10:15 at night. I was finishing up on some email, and I heard a tapping on the window of the sunroom where I work. Mind you, the episode I had just watched featured a child who was tormented by a ghost who tapped at the window. I jumped about a foot in the air, screaming in terror, to see this shrouded figure on the other side of the glass. It was our family friend, Uncle P. with his gray sweatshirt hood over his head, who had come over to, I don't know, terrorize me. Either that or borrow the car. Anyway, even after it was clear to me that the figure on the other side of the glass was not, in fact, the ghost of Scatman Crothers and the word REDRUM was not scrawled on the window in a child's hand, I could not stop screaming. The funny thing was, just like in a comedy, as I started screaming, Uncle P. did as well, equally freaked out was he by my response, so for a good ten seconds, we stood on opposite sides of the window, staring at each other, shrieking uncontrollably.
2. When I was around 15, my parents bought a new house and the family moved. I don't know what it was that inspired us to do so, but one day while we were unpacking, my friend and I got a notion to freak out my mother, which, admittedly, is very, very easy to do. We wrote a note about how this new house was built on an Ancient Indian Burial Ground and any who should live here would be considered fair game for a good, old-fashioned cursing. It was written in the voice of a previous occupant who had been driven mad by the agitated Ancient Indian Burial Ground spirits. Not very original, I will admit: it was basically Poltergeist plus Amityville Horror. We burned the note around the edges to make it look old and yellow, and we immediately arranged for a co-conspirator in my mom's friend, the wonderfully playful and mischievous Mrs. Wasserman, who was over unpacking plates and vases and such. She called my mother over after allegedly putting some boxes in the crawl space and showed her the note she had discovered. My mother looked it over, and said with tears in her eyes, "Well, isn't this just my luck. The goddamn house is haunted. Great." We couldn't torture her for long given how she immediately accepted that she and her family were now cursed, but it was very funny at the time.
Onto an unghostly topic, but one that still chills me to the core.
This evening I was out buying tape at my local pharmaceutical-and-home supplies establishment (in case you have a burning desire to know, it was tape to make the pro-vegan message sign that goes on our front yard with the inflatable turkey every Thanksgiving) when what should hit my ears but the dulcet notes of "Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer," that catchy homage to Arctic deer-on-elder violence. That's right: the last of the plastic spiders and orange lights have been finally packed away, so now we need to get whacked upside the collective head with the Christmas spirit. Ho ho ho. Not wanted to lend my voice to the nagging chorus of complainers, I still do have to admit that that first tacky, oversized red velvet bow of the season always makes me cringe more than a little. My state of Christmas Hate typically ebbs-and-flows throughout the, what?, seven months preceding it, usually leaving me in a state of depleted, white flag waving acquiescence by the time December 25 finally decides to roll into town. Maybe it is the Jewess in me, maybe it is the cynical urbanite, but hot damn, the producers of bad Christmas music - and much is varying degrees of bad, from the merely annoying to the outright unholy, let's face it - and the red velvet bowmakers of America, conspire to make it really, really challenging for me to be my ebullient vegan, pagan self you've all come to know. Anyone not liking my disposition until New Years can take it up with them.
But I'm still happy that Obama got elected. No seashell-coiffed ghosts or Christmas-related obnoxiousness can take that away from me!
Shalom, everyone.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
My cat...
She is named Clover, because my son thought that name was pretty and we adopted her in the late springtime, when the pea family is abundant.
She is very confident. When my son has friends over, she does not run and hide, though it would often be in her best interest to do so. She also runs to the door to great new arrivals, much like a dog.
She has a little black spot on her nose, which is, of course, very endearing.
The mere sight of her will send my ailurophobic (cat phobic) mother shrieking in fear, clawing to get out of the room. My grandmother, who was otherwise a passionate animal lover, also was irrationally terrified of cats. My aunt, too.
She is mostly white with a few black areas. She has a little black spot on her right rear paw.
She is not the cat we had originally intended to adopt. We went in on the designated kitten adoption day and found a littermate of hers to adopt, and we did most of the paperwork but it was too late in the day to finalize the adoption. My son had just recovered from that heartbreak when I got a phone call from the shelter, apologizing that the cat we had put a hold on had been adopted earlier but had mistakenly not been identified as such. The next day, I raced to the shelter once my son was at school and picked out little Paige, soon to be renamed as Clover.
My son remarked when we went back to pick her up after school that he remembered her looking different, but I managed to distract him somehow. On the car ride home from the shelter, he sat with her temporary carrier next to him, singing.
I'm glad that she is our cat.
When we got home, I sang, "Crimson and Clover" to her. Over and over.
She likes to sleep between my legs if I'm on my back or stomach and pressed up against the back of my knees if I'm sleeping on my side.
We have several nicknames for her, none very interesting: Clo-Clo, Clove, and Clovie.
She is not scared of our dog. He barks at her and chases her, but she seems pretty unbothered by the whole thing.
Occasionally our dog smells like kitty litter and I really don't want to contemplate that much more than simply stating it as a fact.
We recently put up a second birdfeeder right next to our sunroom where she can watch the proceedings from her post next to our computer. Her tail swishes and twitches furiously and occasionally she has banged herself against the glass panes of a window.
If she were in kitty prison, she would have two teardrop tattoos for the two mice she has dispatched. A vegan should never have to encounter an inside-out rodent, but yet I have.
This is a lame post, yes, even Clover is looking at me all pitifully, but it is what I can manage at the moment.
Life is still happy. Shalom, everyone.
She is very confident. When my son has friends over, she does not run and hide, though it would often be in her best interest to do so. She also runs to the door to great new arrivals, much like a dog.
She has a little black spot on her nose, which is, of course, very endearing.
The mere sight of her will send my ailurophobic (cat phobic) mother shrieking in fear, clawing to get out of the room. My grandmother, who was otherwise a passionate animal lover, also was irrationally terrified of cats. My aunt, too.
She is mostly white with a few black areas. She has a little black spot on her right rear paw.
She is not the cat we had originally intended to adopt. We went in on the designated kitten adoption day and found a littermate of hers to adopt, and we did most of the paperwork but it was too late in the day to finalize the adoption. My son had just recovered from that heartbreak when I got a phone call from the shelter, apologizing that the cat we had put a hold on had been adopted earlier but had mistakenly not been identified as such. The next day, I raced to the shelter once my son was at school and picked out little Paige, soon to be renamed as Clover.
My son remarked when we went back to pick her up after school that he remembered her looking different, but I managed to distract him somehow. On the car ride home from the shelter, he sat with her temporary carrier next to him, singing.
I'm glad that she is our cat.
When we got home, I sang, "Crimson and Clover" to her. Over and over.
She likes to sleep between my legs if I'm on my back or stomach and pressed up against the back of my knees if I'm sleeping on my side.
We have several nicknames for her, none very interesting: Clo-Clo, Clove, and Clovie.
She is not scared of our dog. He barks at her and chases her, but she seems pretty unbothered by the whole thing.
Occasionally our dog smells like kitty litter and I really don't want to contemplate that much more than simply stating it as a fact.
We recently put up a second birdfeeder right next to our sunroom where she can watch the proceedings from her post next to our computer. Her tail swishes and twitches furiously and occasionally she has banged herself against the glass panes of a window.
If she were in kitty prison, she would have two teardrop tattoos for the two mice she has dispatched. A vegan should never have to encounter an inside-out rodent, but yet I have.
This is a lame post, yes, even Clover is looking at me all pitifully, but it is what I can manage at the moment.
Life is still happy. Shalom, everyone.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Tuesday night, Grant Park, Chicago....
Wow.
It's sunk in for a couple of days now, and I am still grinning ear-to-ear like a loon, wanting to hug random strangers, feeling the sense of hope that had been absent for years. We have plodded along these past eight years, yes, we've survived, that is the human spirit. To have cause to celebrate, though, and to hold our heads high as a nation, to have hope for the future, this is something that has wasted away all these years, drained from us. Tuesday night, we got our fill again, and we cried, rejoiced, swooned at what was unfolding in front of our eyes. I know some of my lefty peers are decidedly reserved in their excitement about Obama: I understand this, and, living in Illinois, I felt I could play with my vote a little, so I voted for the candidate with the values and politics that are closer to reflecting my own. (Hint: it wasn't McCain, for chrissake, and it wasn't the libertarian.) Still, even if you take this other candidate's policies, Obama is the better one for the job: he is who we need on the world stage, starting as soon as possible, to help turn things around. (Really, Mr. Bush can take early leave if he wants and not let that White House door hit him on his ass on the way out. Actually, it's fine with me if the door hits him. Repeatedly.) Obama has the tact, diplomacy, confidence, intelligence and poise needed. A better candidate couldn't be created in a laboratory: he is genetically engineered for this job and, I believe, to do it well.
So, some recollections, observations and snapshots of Tuesday, from Grant Park in Chicago.
*My friend lives in a beautiful condo in the South Loop and rented out the party room of her building. Woo-hoo! John and I made our way downtown around 6:00 after dropping off our son at his grandma's place. Riding on a packed green line train, things looked eerily quiet downtown until we rounded the corner after State and Lake. Looking to the east as our train sped on, crowds had started massing.
We got off at the Roosevelt stop, bordering the southern end of Grant Park, and we immediately looked in the direction of Lake Michigan: crowds were gathering. CTA workers in uniform and police officers assembled around the train station in full force. Out on the street, we passed three officers on the short walk to my friend's place, they (very uncharacteristically) smiled at us; I instinctively reached into my tray and handed them each a vegan mini-cupcake with Obama topper, which they cheerfully accepted. One smiled at his buddies and said, "See? This is what I'm talking about!"
* In the party room at my friend's condo, it was a festive mood to be sure. When we had arrived, the very first returns were up and in McCain's favor. It didn't dampen anyone's spirit. As we helped ourselves to some very good election night victuals, the picture we were all expecting started to emerge: state after state, boom-boom-boom!, started being called for Obama. These were big states, small states, battleground states, all contributing to his burgeoning electoral lead, one after another. We cheered and cried and hugged and ate more cupcakes.
* For me, the turning point was not Ohio but Pennsylvania. I know that it was expected to go in Obama's favor, but it seemed to be such a divided state, I was unsure which side would prevail. Hearing that PA was being called for Obama gave me a huge surge of optimism, almost making me fearful that I would just explode right there like a light bulb with too much energy shot through it.
* With all the new gadgetry, people at the party were also busy texting and receiving messages from their home states (we had Missouri, Ohio, Maryland, Minnesota and others representing). It was an unforgettable moment having one woman breathlessly read from her device (I-Phone? BlackBerry?) that Ohio had been called for Obama and then, three seconds later, Charles Gibson announced that there was breaking news: Ohio had just been called for Obama. Again, we screamed, whooped, hollered, cried, hugged. Even those of us who expected this victory were in disbelief at the rawness of what we felt as tears streamed down our faces: we were witness to a miracle unfolding in real-time. It was time to hit the streets!
* Outside, a couple blocks to our east on Chicago's storied Michigan Avenue, the energy was absolutely palpable. There was a huge line of people still waiting to get past the checkpoints into the ticketed area of Grant Park, and many, many more in every direction, just there to be a part of the experience. People were crying, singing and slapping hands together everywhere around me.
* A voice called out my name and it was my friend, Linda. We hugged and jumped and ran in a happy bunch of circles together. This is my friend who is a vegan raw foods chef and a world traveler; she is also an activist, and we have met up many times in the bitterest of Chicago winters to raise our voices together and march against war. We were breathless and ecstatic at the reality of it: finally our side had amassed for a celebration rather than a protest. Finally, after eight long, wretched years.
* Right when we were in front of the Chicago Hilton Tower on Michigan, a new wave of euphoria passed through the crowd, and people started screaming again, hugging, crying. What? What? John and I turned to the people around us - what happened? CNN had called it for Obama right as we stood in front of the hotel where activists had rioted forty years before. Again, tears, embracing and unbelievable gratitude.
* We finally found a place for ourselves between Jumbotrons where we had decent (though distant) sightlines and could hear the speakers, which was a little discombobulating because we were between two or three and there was a delay. Still, the essence of what was said got through to us loud and clear: this was a historic, remarkable day, one that would certainly be remembered. We were actively participating in an historic event, something that was not lost on us, something we felt very deeply.
* After the acceptance speech, another electrifying experience, I was depleted but in a good way. We, along with hundreds of thousands of others, started walking west. There was this overarching sense of afterglow, of cuddly, post-coital embrace and peace. In talking to my friends there, we all felt the same way: perfectly unified, calm, just right after such an exciting night. As we filed past the vendors with buttons and t-shirts, a peaceful, happy crowd of every imaginable creed, that catchy old Schoolhouse Rock song, The Great American Melting Pot, kept playing in my head. Never had I seen it so clearly in front of me. From the jubilant African American teenagers to the gray-haired lefties with their buttons, young couples kissing and Indians in saris, it was one beautiful, beaming, tear-streaked face after the next. Truly, it was the sort of thing that turns a writer into a Hallmark card sentimentalist. I think I may need an edgy experience just to put add a little angst back into my internal stew but I have a feeling that life will just do that on its own soon enough without my seeking it out. In any case, it is very much a healing thing and I'm enjoying it very much.
* We made our way back to my friend's place to reboot a little, clean and gather our belongings. We shared our stories and basked in the collective euphoria. Some friends - not big crowd lovers - had stayed behind and straightened up. I am thankful to know such good people.
* On the train back home, we ran into my son's gym teacher. It was around 1:15 in the morning. Everyone on our train car was smiling, friendly, warm.
* We finally collapsed into bed, happy and content. I slept hard that night, I think, without dreams and woke in the morning to a lingering sense of contented peacefulness, something I haven't felt in ages.
And so now I must again go to sleep. It is 3:30 in the morning and my son has to be at school at 8:30 for his class picture. Life goes on. (Very sweetly, though, every time I am on the phone with a friend, my son wants to get on the line and let him or her know that Obama won.) But I will say this: life has changed from just a couple of days ago. We have a sense of hope again, finally. We have been liberated. We must now take this dream and make it a reality. All is not perfect, of course: the bigots prevailed and gay marriage was roundly rejected. We still have troops in the Middle East, and we must demand their withdrawal and phase into rebuilding efforts, a new consciousness of peace work. Even with Obama, we must work hard to create the sort of country we want to live in, a more compassionate, truly diverse country that can send ripples in all directions. At least now we are at a good starting point. I truly believe that this good work does not so much originate in Washington but in our home communities: this is how it vibrates out. Let's go into this next administration ready to roll up our sleeves and get to work. But for a moment, let's rest and dream.
We deserve this.
Shalom, everyone.
It's sunk in for a couple of days now, and I am still grinning ear-to-ear like a loon, wanting to hug random strangers, feeling the sense of hope that had been absent for years. We have plodded along these past eight years, yes, we've survived, that is the human spirit. To have cause to celebrate, though, and to hold our heads high as a nation, to have hope for the future, this is something that has wasted away all these years, drained from us. Tuesday night, we got our fill again, and we cried, rejoiced, swooned at what was unfolding in front of our eyes. I know some of my lefty peers are decidedly reserved in their excitement about Obama: I understand this, and, living in Illinois, I felt I could play with my vote a little, so I voted for the candidate with the values and politics that are closer to reflecting my own. (Hint: it wasn't McCain, for chrissake, and it wasn't the libertarian.) Still, even if you take this other candidate's policies, Obama is the better one for the job: he is who we need on the world stage, starting as soon as possible, to help turn things around. (Really, Mr. Bush can take early leave if he wants and not let that White House door hit him on his ass on the way out. Actually, it's fine with me if the door hits him. Repeatedly.) Obama has the tact, diplomacy, confidence, intelligence and poise needed. A better candidate couldn't be created in a laboratory: he is genetically engineered for this job and, I believe, to do it well.
So, some recollections, observations and snapshots of Tuesday, from Grant Park in Chicago.
*My friend lives in a beautiful condo in the South Loop and rented out the party room of her building. Woo-hoo! John and I made our way downtown around 6:00 after dropping off our son at his grandma's place. Riding on a packed green line train, things looked eerily quiet downtown until we rounded the corner after State and Lake. Looking to the east as our train sped on, crowds had started massing.
We got off at the Roosevelt stop, bordering the southern end of Grant Park, and we immediately looked in the direction of Lake Michigan: crowds were gathering. CTA workers in uniform and police officers assembled around the train station in full force. Out on the street, we passed three officers on the short walk to my friend's place, they (very uncharacteristically) smiled at us; I instinctively reached into my tray and handed them each a vegan mini-cupcake with Obama topper, which they cheerfully accepted. One smiled at his buddies and said, "See? This is what I'm talking about!"
* In the party room at my friend's condo, it was a festive mood to be sure. When we had arrived, the very first returns were up and in McCain's favor. It didn't dampen anyone's spirit. As we helped ourselves to some very good election night victuals, the picture we were all expecting started to emerge: state after state, boom-boom-boom!, started being called for Obama. These were big states, small states, battleground states, all contributing to his burgeoning electoral lead, one after another. We cheered and cried and hugged and ate more cupcakes.
* For me, the turning point was not Ohio but Pennsylvania. I know that it was expected to go in Obama's favor, but it seemed to be such a divided state, I was unsure which side would prevail. Hearing that PA was being called for Obama gave me a huge surge of optimism, almost making me fearful that I would just explode right there like a light bulb with too much energy shot through it.
* With all the new gadgetry, people at the party were also busy texting and receiving messages from their home states (we had Missouri, Ohio, Maryland, Minnesota and others representing). It was an unforgettable moment having one woman breathlessly read from her device (I-Phone? BlackBerry?) that Ohio had been called for Obama and then, three seconds later, Charles Gibson announced that there was breaking news: Ohio had just been called for Obama. Again, we screamed, whooped, hollered, cried, hugged. Even those of us who expected this victory were in disbelief at the rawness of what we felt as tears streamed down our faces: we were witness to a miracle unfolding in real-time. It was time to hit the streets!
* Outside, a couple blocks to our east on Chicago's storied Michigan Avenue, the energy was absolutely palpable. There was a huge line of people still waiting to get past the checkpoints into the ticketed area of Grant Park, and many, many more in every direction, just there to be a part of the experience. People were crying, singing and slapping hands together everywhere around me.
* A voice called out my name and it was my friend, Linda. We hugged and jumped and ran in a happy bunch of circles together. This is my friend who is a vegan raw foods chef and a world traveler; she is also an activist, and we have met up many times in the bitterest of Chicago winters to raise our voices together and march against war. We were breathless and ecstatic at the reality of it: finally our side had amassed for a celebration rather than a protest. Finally, after eight long, wretched years.
* Right when we were in front of the Chicago Hilton Tower on Michigan, a new wave of euphoria passed through the crowd, and people started screaming again, hugging, crying. What? What? John and I turned to the people around us - what happened? CNN had called it for Obama right as we stood in front of the hotel where activists had rioted forty years before. Again, tears, embracing and unbelievable gratitude.
* We finally found a place for ourselves between Jumbotrons where we had decent (though distant) sightlines and could hear the speakers, which was a little discombobulating because we were between two or three and there was a delay. Still, the essence of what was said got through to us loud and clear: this was a historic, remarkable day, one that would certainly be remembered. We were actively participating in an historic event, something that was not lost on us, something we felt very deeply.
* After the acceptance speech, another electrifying experience, I was depleted but in a good way. We, along with hundreds of thousands of others, started walking west. There was this overarching sense of afterglow, of cuddly, post-coital embrace and peace. In talking to my friends there, we all felt the same way: perfectly unified, calm, just right after such an exciting night. As we filed past the vendors with buttons and t-shirts, a peaceful, happy crowd of every imaginable creed, that catchy old Schoolhouse Rock song, The Great American Melting Pot, kept playing in my head. Never had I seen it so clearly in front of me. From the jubilant African American teenagers to the gray-haired lefties with their buttons, young couples kissing and Indians in saris, it was one beautiful, beaming, tear-streaked face after the next. Truly, it was the sort of thing that turns a writer into a Hallmark card sentimentalist. I think I may need an edgy experience just to put add a little angst back into my internal stew but I have a feeling that life will just do that on its own soon enough without my seeking it out. In any case, it is very much a healing thing and I'm enjoying it very much.
* We made our way back to my friend's place to reboot a little, clean and gather our belongings. We shared our stories and basked in the collective euphoria. Some friends - not big crowd lovers - had stayed behind and straightened up. I am thankful to know such good people.
* On the train back home, we ran into my son's gym teacher. It was around 1:15 in the morning. Everyone on our train car was smiling, friendly, warm.
* We finally collapsed into bed, happy and content. I slept hard that night, I think, without dreams and woke in the morning to a lingering sense of contented peacefulness, something I haven't felt in ages.
And so now I must again go to sleep. It is 3:30 in the morning and my son has to be at school at 8:30 for his class picture. Life goes on. (Very sweetly, though, every time I am on the phone with a friend, my son wants to get on the line and let him or her know that Obama won.) But I will say this: life has changed from just a couple of days ago. We have a sense of hope again, finally. We have been liberated. We must now take this dream and make it a reality. All is not perfect, of course: the bigots prevailed and gay marriage was roundly rejected. We still have troops in the Middle East, and we must demand their withdrawal and phase into rebuilding efforts, a new consciousness of peace work. Even with Obama, we must work hard to create the sort of country we want to live in, a more compassionate, truly diverse country that can send ripples in all directions. At least now we are at a good starting point. I truly believe that this good work does not so much originate in Washington but in our home communities: this is how it vibrates out. Let's go into this next administration ready to roll up our sleeves and get to work. But for a moment, let's rest and dream.
We deserve this.
Shalom, everyone.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Subliminal election day (vote!)...
Today is the day (vote!) when I go down to my son's school (vote!) and cast my ballot (vote!), which is something I've been looking forward to (vote!) for eight interminably (vote!) long (vote!) years (vote!) during which time I didn't know if we'd still have an election process in 2008 (vote!) or some sort of edict handed down by that disgustingly offensive biomass known as Karl Rove (vote!) to determine who would be in office (vote!). In any case (vote!), it does appear that we've managed to survive the Bush Doctrine (vote!), though many Iraqis, Afghanis and U.S. soldiers did not (vote!), and so later today (vote!), I will go in and indicate my preferred candidates (vote!) and while I wish that I could fuse Obama's statesmanship, demeanor and poise (vote!) with Nader's policies and politics (vote!), I am not feeling too bad about things either (vote!). So tomorrow morning I will be voting (vote!), then plant some last spring tulip bulbs to pacify my need for symbolic integrity (vote!), then I will be heading downtown to celebrate with friends (vote!) and hand out vegan mini-cupcakes with homemade Obama toppers on 'em (vote!) and leftover Halloween candy to my fellow revelers (vote!). It's going to be like New Year's Eve multiplied by a thousand in Chicago tonight (vote!) and, oh my... It's going to be huge.
So go out and vote (vote!) today if you haven't already (vote!) and remember, McCain (don't vote!) hates rainbows and puppies and dark chocolate and all things that are good in the world. Sarah Palin hates 'em even more and would riddle them with Uzi bullets if she could (don't vote!). Next time you hear from me (vote!), we'll have a new president-elect (vote!), one with a funny name (vote!) who will bring a new skin tone to the Oval Office (vote!). Finally, I can breathe again (vote!).
Shalom, everyone (and remember to vote!)...
So go out and vote (vote!) today if you haven't already (vote!) and remember, McCain (don't vote!) hates rainbows and puppies and dark chocolate and all things that are good in the world. Sarah Palin hates 'em even more and would riddle them with Uzi bullets if she could (don't vote!). Next time you hear from me (vote!), we'll have a new president-elect (vote!), one with a funny name (vote!) who will bring a new skin tone to the Oval Office (vote!). Finally, I can breathe again (vote!).
Shalom, everyone (and remember to vote!)...
Saturday, November 1, 2008
Rest in peace, Studs Terkel...
Well, it was inevitable.
Even forces of nature must pass. Tornadoes eventually wind down, tsunamis settle, fires are subdued and then, finally, diminish into a few burning embers and then - sssst - out. Something that you could not imagine ever ceasing - so powerful and vital and brimming with swaggering, stunning force - eventually defies our expectations and fades away, either in an extended rumble or a final flash of raw potency. In any case, it is gone, and so, now, is Studs. Like a force of nature, he left us marveling at his abilities, his prowess, his performance. Unlike a force of nature, we watched with smiles on our faces. (I would say that unlike a force of nature, he did not leave destruction in his path, but that's not true: he punched his tough fist through pomposity, ripped holes through bigotry, tore into hypocrisy. More than anything, he chewed up and spit out misanthropy. So he did indeed have a role in destruction, but it was of that very worthwhile kind, something I would be proud to take a few bites out of myself.)
Studs Terkel...First of all, that voice was a reverie for me each time I would hear it. That slightly clipped, nasally, whispering then loud, deeply resonant, words-tumbling-out, words-slowly-and-carefully-chosen, muscular, unique and exquisite force of nature was a marvel to me, something I could never turn off no matter what subject on which it was gloriously pontificating. (I'm sorry if this seems overly dramatic, but, truly, this is what he meant to me.) His voice was also a vehicle that transported me in an instant back to my Eastern European grandfather, who did not sound like Studs, but he was of Studs, if that makes any sense. My grandfather was also hardscrabble, a working class lover of humanity in all its various walks, and, like Studs, did not give a good goddamn about appearances or pretenses. When I would see Studs with his flannel checkered shirt, shuffling, flat-footed gait and unadulterated enthusiasm for the wonder of it all - that this child of immigrants could flesh out ideas with Big Thinkers, that he could hold court with opera divas and shopkeepers and civil rights workers and Method actors for a living - I would think of my grandfather. My papa was not famous and he never wrote a book (perhaps never even read one), but he had what Studs had: that spark, that voracious enthusiasm for life, that unquenchable thirst for understanding. When I would see footage of Studs on the number 147 bus - he never drove - talking with his fellow passengers, flirting with the women, making them blush and laugh, I couldn't help but imagine my much more soft-spoken grandfather in his little gray wool cap alongside Studs, smiling in camaraderie. Studs kept my grandfather alive for me that much longer (he's been gone more than twenty years), which is, by itself, a gift to me.
But back to that voice. Listening to his old recordings on WFMT is like going back in a time machine, to the halcyon Edward R. Murrow days of journalism and radio, and it is a reminder of the pure immediacy and intimacy of that voice in a box, just you and that person on the other side of the box. I rarely listen to the radio these days. When I'm writing, I can't listen to anything, and when I'm in the car, my son and I both go more than a little batty at the sound of a commercial, let alone a whole stream of them, and I can't bear for him to hear the news about car bombs and terrorism, so NPR is out as well. Because my days are most often radio-free, I cannot speak to the medium's current state but listening to Studs' recordings is probably like comparing an excellent dark chocolate with a Hershey bar: infinitely more rich, more satisfying, almost a completely different substance. The way he didn't settle for the superficial, the way he gently helped his guests dive deeper, the way he never took the easy way out, how he was respectful but never reverent, always passionate, this, sadly, I think is a thing of the past. Virtually all media these days are enraptured with the quick soundbite, the pat homily, the scatological teaser that debases us all. For someone with the quick wit, compassionate heart and indefatigable curiosity like Mr. Terkel possessed, radio, at least when he came of age, was the perfect fit with that voice. What a luxury those hours he spent delving into the heart of a subject were for all involved. I hope and pray that we will find a way back to such civilized, honest and challenging discourse again.
Last, two stories about Studs and me.
When my son was about six months old, I was at City Hall at the request of some friends who had organized a press conference on a building, the old Wiebolt's department store on Broadway, they were trying to develop into mixed-income, multi-use property. (They lost and it was turned into a Borders, leeching on my lovely Women and Children First feminist bookstore on Clark Street.) They wanted someone with a child there and I was happy to help out. I didn't realize that Studs Terkel had also been invited and when I saw him, he was sitting on a bench in the marble hall, his fedora on his lap, by himself but with people fanning out around him. I gathered up my courage and sat down next to him, my son in my lap. I usually try to give celebrities space - not that encountering them is such a common occurrence for me - but having touched my mortality a short time prior with the birth of my son (another story for another day), I realized that I did not have time to waste. I also didn't know how long Studs would be around and when I'd have another opportunity. So I sat down next to him and I thanked him for all his work, mentioning in particular a radio interview I'd heard of him that had really touched me (detailed below). He was very hard of hearing at this point, it would have been 2002, so he asked me to repeat myself a few times and seemed a little grumpy about his hearing loss, understandably. Then he turned his attention to my son. At that precise moment, my son reached over and took his famous fedora from his lap, and he placed it on his own head, causing Studs to laugh in delight. (My son never did anything like this again in his babyhood.) He asked me for my son's name, which I am avoiding telling here for my various reasons, and he told me that was a great name, that his friend, Helen Schiller, a liberal Chicago alderwoman, had a grandchild with the same name. Then he took my son's hand and said, "He's got a hell of a grip. Look at this kid," looking up at his admirers around him with a big grin. I handed him back his hat and I thanked him again, then he was promptly whisked off to speak. I was touched in a way that I could only imagine a handful of famous people affecting me and it is something I will always be grateful to have experienced.
Second, an experience with him in a box, on the radio in my car. I had gone to the grocery store, unaware that I was newly pregnant, a few days after September 11th, that bleary-eyed, hazy, horrible time. I was listening to him speak with Richard Steele on Chicago's WBEZ on the terrorist attacks. I sat there for twenty minutes, crying and deeply inspired by his voice, his words and wisdom. In the days when the lunatics of this country were standing out on the streets chanting, "U!S!A! U!S!A!," the letters painted across their cheeks like we were in some kind of goddamn football game, calling for blood, demanding that we bomb Them, of "our country, right or wrong," he called for circumspection and intelligence, to take this grave situation and use it as a time to turn ourselves as a nation around, into a nation of peacekeepers, of humanitarians. In the last few minutes of the interview, he said something that, honest to goodness, I had to gasp out loud at and I jumped to jot down in my cookbook, it meant so much to me. He said, "Dissent, honest dissent, is a natural American attribute." I hold this deeply in my heart and even today when the pull to maintain the status quo starts circling above me like a hungry buzzard (it isn't often, but it happens), I remember his words and think to myself, Hell no! The buzzard always disappears in a flash.
No, curiosity did not kill that cat. May this next journey for Studs be as rich and deep and marvelous as his earthly one. Right now, he's probably lining up the best interviews imaginable: Einstein, Gandhi, Emma Goldman, Plato, Michelangelo, Proust, Joan of Arc, Jesus. Not to mention more fascinating common folk than you can shake a stick at.
For tonight, I will sign off as Studs did on his radio show: Take it easy, but take it. I'll take it, Studs. Thank you.
Even forces of nature must pass. Tornadoes eventually wind down, tsunamis settle, fires are subdued and then, finally, diminish into a few burning embers and then - sssst - out. Something that you could not imagine ever ceasing - so powerful and vital and brimming with swaggering, stunning force - eventually defies our expectations and fades away, either in an extended rumble or a final flash of raw potency. In any case, it is gone, and so, now, is Studs. Like a force of nature, he left us marveling at his abilities, his prowess, his performance. Unlike a force of nature, we watched with smiles on our faces. (I would say that unlike a force of nature, he did not leave destruction in his path, but that's not true: he punched his tough fist through pomposity, ripped holes through bigotry, tore into hypocrisy. More than anything, he chewed up and spit out misanthropy. So he did indeed have a role in destruction, but it was of that very worthwhile kind, something I would be proud to take a few bites out of myself.)
Studs Terkel...First of all, that voice was a reverie for me each time I would hear it. That slightly clipped, nasally, whispering then loud, deeply resonant, words-tumbling-out, words-slowly-and-carefully-chosen, muscular, unique and exquisite force of nature was a marvel to me, something I could never turn off no matter what subject on which it was gloriously pontificating. (I'm sorry if this seems overly dramatic, but, truly, this is what he meant to me.) His voice was also a vehicle that transported me in an instant back to my Eastern European grandfather, who did not sound like Studs, but he was of Studs, if that makes any sense. My grandfather was also hardscrabble, a working class lover of humanity in all its various walks, and, like Studs, did not give a good goddamn about appearances or pretenses. When I would see Studs with his flannel checkered shirt, shuffling, flat-footed gait and unadulterated enthusiasm for the wonder of it all - that this child of immigrants could flesh out ideas with Big Thinkers, that he could hold court with opera divas and shopkeepers and civil rights workers and Method actors for a living - I would think of my grandfather. My papa was not famous and he never wrote a book (perhaps never even read one), but he had what Studs had: that spark, that voracious enthusiasm for life, that unquenchable thirst for understanding. When I would see footage of Studs on the number 147 bus - he never drove - talking with his fellow passengers, flirting with the women, making them blush and laugh, I couldn't help but imagine my much more soft-spoken grandfather in his little gray wool cap alongside Studs, smiling in camaraderie. Studs kept my grandfather alive for me that much longer (he's been gone more than twenty years), which is, by itself, a gift to me.
But back to that voice. Listening to his old recordings on WFMT is like going back in a time machine, to the halcyon Edward R. Murrow days of journalism and radio, and it is a reminder of the pure immediacy and intimacy of that voice in a box, just you and that person on the other side of the box. I rarely listen to the radio these days. When I'm writing, I can't listen to anything, and when I'm in the car, my son and I both go more than a little batty at the sound of a commercial, let alone a whole stream of them, and I can't bear for him to hear the news about car bombs and terrorism, so NPR is out as well. Because my days are most often radio-free, I cannot speak to the medium's current state but listening to Studs' recordings is probably like comparing an excellent dark chocolate with a Hershey bar: infinitely more rich, more satisfying, almost a completely different substance. The way he didn't settle for the superficial, the way he gently helped his guests dive deeper, the way he never took the easy way out, how he was respectful but never reverent, always passionate, this, sadly, I think is a thing of the past. Virtually all media these days are enraptured with the quick soundbite, the pat homily, the scatological teaser that debases us all. For someone with the quick wit, compassionate heart and indefatigable curiosity like Mr. Terkel possessed, radio, at least when he came of age, was the perfect fit with that voice. What a luxury those hours he spent delving into the heart of a subject were for all involved. I hope and pray that we will find a way back to such civilized, honest and challenging discourse again.
Last, two stories about Studs and me.
When my son was about six months old, I was at City Hall at the request of some friends who had organized a press conference on a building, the old Wiebolt's department store on Broadway, they were trying to develop into mixed-income, multi-use property. (They lost and it was turned into a Borders, leeching on my lovely Women and Children First feminist bookstore on Clark Street.) They wanted someone with a child there and I was happy to help out. I didn't realize that Studs Terkel had also been invited and when I saw him, he was sitting on a bench in the marble hall, his fedora on his lap, by himself but with people fanning out around him. I gathered up my courage and sat down next to him, my son in my lap. I usually try to give celebrities space - not that encountering them is such a common occurrence for me - but having touched my mortality a short time prior with the birth of my son (another story for another day), I realized that I did not have time to waste. I also didn't know how long Studs would be around and when I'd have another opportunity. So I sat down next to him and I thanked him for all his work, mentioning in particular a radio interview I'd heard of him that had really touched me (detailed below). He was very hard of hearing at this point, it would have been 2002, so he asked me to repeat myself a few times and seemed a little grumpy about his hearing loss, understandably. Then he turned his attention to my son. At that precise moment, my son reached over and took his famous fedora from his lap, and he placed it on his own head, causing Studs to laugh in delight. (My son never did anything like this again in his babyhood.) He asked me for my son's name, which I am avoiding telling here for my various reasons, and he told me that was a great name, that his friend, Helen Schiller, a liberal Chicago alderwoman, had a grandchild with the same name. Then he took my son's hand and said, "He's got a hell of a grip. Look at this kid," looking up at his admirers around him with a big grin. I handed him back his hat and I thanked him again, then he was promptly whisked off to speak. I was touched in a way that I could only imagine a handful of famous people affecting me and it is something I will always be grateful to have experienced.
Second, an experience with him in a box, on the radio in my car. I had gone to the grocery store, unaware that I was newly pregnant, a few days after September 11th, that bleary-eyed, hazy, horrible time. I was listening to him speak with Richard Steele on Chicago's WBEZ on the terrorist attacks. I sat there for twenty minutes, crying and deeply inspired by his voice, his words and wisdom. In the days when the lunatics of this country were standing out on the streets chanting, "U!S!A! U!S!A!," the letters painted across their cheeks like we were in some kind of goddamn football game, calling for blood, demanding that we bomb Them, of "our country, right or wrong," he called for circumspection and intelligence, to take this grave situation and use it as a time to turn ourselves as a nation around, into a nation of peacekeepers, of humanitarians. In the last few minutes of the interview, he said something that, honest to goodness, I had to gasp out loud at and I jumped to jot down in my cookbook, it meant so much to me. He said, "Dissent, honest dissent, is a natural American attribute." I hold this deeply in my heart and even today when the pull to maintain the status quo starts circling above me like a hungry buzzard (it isn't often, but it happens), I remember his words and think to myself, Hell no! The buzzard always disappears in a flash.
No, curiosity did not kill that cat. May this next journey for Studs be as rich and deep and marvelous as his earthly one. Right now, he's probably lining up the best interviews imaginable: Einstein, Gandhi, Emma Goldman, Plato, Michelangelo, Proust, Joan of Arc, Jesus. Not to mention more fascinating common folk than you can shake a stick at.
For tonight, I will sign off as Studs did on his radio show: Take it easy, but take it. I'll take it, Studs. Thank you.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
All the news you could use...
I had a dream I awoke from about an hour ago in which Scooby Doo and Shaggy were being chased by a Frankenstein-like monster. Besides the fact that Hanna-Barbera clearly cleaved significant in-roads into my psyche at a critical time in my life, this is notable for the fact that it was a truly scary dream.
Which reminds me that when I was a child, I had an aspiration to "program" my dreams, much like a Tivo: each night before I went to bed, I would tell myself, "First, I'm going to watch a Banana Splits episode, then The Flintstones, then Zoom!, then The Jetson's..." As the last vestiges of the Scooby dream faded from my unconscious mind, I realized that I had finally achieved what I had wanted all those years ago. Better late than never! Now I've got to work on that second dream: being the lone female member of the Monkees. I will probably need a time machine for such an endeavor, but, whatever. (The Monkees was (were?) in reruns when I was a child, but that didn't stop me from my indulging in my fantasies. I wore a yellow pajama top around the top of my head as my long, blonde hair and watched on my parent's good color TV after school with the door shut. One day, my brother and one of his friends busted in on me, sitting rapt on the shag carpet with the pajama top on my head - he must have said something to the effect of, "My sister watches The Monkees with a pajama top on her head. Come on, I'll show you!" - and that was the end of my innocent but bizarre habit. Still, I cannot hear Daydream Believer without feeling the elastic neckline of my pajama top around my head.)
What else? We're getting ready for Halloween around here, and my son has broken out his spinosaurus costume about fifty times since the beginning of October, when John first constructed it (out of all the actively discouraged camouflage* my mother keeps buying for my pacifist child - seriously: a sweatshirt, pants and a t-shirt) and I'm just trying to hold that poor safety-pinned creation together for two more days. It has marinara stains on it and the tail has certainly seen better, more jubilant days, and I'm pretty sure that, if challenged, that costume could pretty much go trick-or-treating by itself at this point but we and it will soldier on, in true camouflage-y spirit.
I'm always a little conflicted about the whole candy windfall that occurs for my son every Halloween. (Of course, we separate out the non-vegan candy and he understands this ahead of time so it does not cause any sort of meltdown.) I understand the parents who take all the candy and leave a nice toy in its stead, but, really, no really, that would not work for my son, not without resentment and a subsequent memoir detailing our various misguided cruelties toward him. In raising a vegan child, you have to juggle what you are willing to accept from mainstream culture and what you absolutely cannot abide. It is important for my son to participate in certain activities and I am fine with Halloween being one of them. Nearly all our decorations have been DIY and it's been a fun and creative experience for him to contribute his ideas and craftiness this year. Though Halloween means junk of epic proportion (corn syrup, artificial dyes, and all that other garbage that is verboten the rest of the year), I remember how exciting and thrilling trick-or-treating was for me as a child and I cannot deny him that. Exchanging his candy for a toy would have worked when he was three, but not now that he's six. We all do what works best for our children, and allowing one evening of purely bacchinalian excess a year is something that I can accept. We've got our organic lollipops for giving out - we had fair trade dark chocolates, but, sorry, we ate them all as they were like the size of 1/4 a square each - and we're set to go.
On a different topic, I think we're going to do early voting tomorrow because I just can't put it off any longer. I cannot wait to cast that ballot (although I think doing it the day of the election would also be fantastic). I got a very heartfelt message from a friend who voted earlier today and wrote of how historic and meaningful and, yes, emotional it felt. I feel it in my bones that things will turn out wonderfully for us next week, and, like the Munchkins after Dorothy's house landed on the Wicked Witch of the East, we will be celebrating out in the streets, especially, perhaps, here in Chicago. We'll be watching the returns from my friend's condo in the South Loop, which is very close to Grant Park, where the officially sanctioned Obama celebration will be taking place. Moments after it was announced that it would be an event requiring tickets, my husband responded and was put on the waiting list. Fifty thousand tickets had already been claimed. Ah, well. It is certain to be a boisterous night all around, so I'm not disappointed.
Off to bed...
Shalom, everyone.
*My son rather likes camouflage because he is into dinosaurs and evolution and natural selection and all that other godless, science-y stuff. I, on the other hand, know of it's association with war and violence (furthermore, aesthetically, it's ugly) but I don't really want to explain all that to my very innocent boy. He does have this particular pair of camouflage pants that somehow ended up in one of his drawers (from my mom, of course, but I can't figure out how it wasn't intercepted by me) and he calls these his "fossil digging pants," which is really what he wears when he digs for nautiloids and such. The problem is that he likes to wear them other days as well and though he does so without knowledge of the dark side of camouflage, I know that to the average lefty he probably looks like some violent, TV-addled miscreant. What is an anti-war, progressive mama to do?
Which reminds me that when I was a child, I had an aspiration to "program" my dreams, much like a Tivo: each night before I went to bed, I would tell myself, "First, I'm going to watch a Banana Splits episode, then The Flintstones, then Zoom!, then The Jetson's..." As the last vestiges of the Scooby dream faded from my unconscious mind, I realized that I had finally achieved what I had wanted all those years ago. Better late than never! Now I've got to work on that second dream: being the lone female member of the Monkees. I will probably need a time machine for such an endeavor, but, whatever. (The Monkees was (were?) in reruns when I was a child, but that didn't stop me from my indulging in my fantasies. I wore a yellow pajama top around the top of my head as my long, blonde hair and watched on my parent's good color TV after school with the door shut. One day, my brother and one of his friends busted in on me, sitting rapt on the shag carpet with the pajama top on my head - he must have said something to the effect of, "My sister watches The Monkees with a pajama top on her head. Come on, I'll show you!" - and that was the end of my innocent but bizarre habit. Still, I cannot hear Daydream Believer without feeling the elastic neckline of my pajama top around my head.)
What else? We're getting ready for Halloween around here, and my son has broken out his spinosaurus costume about fifty times since the beginning of October, when John first constructed it (out of all the actively discouraged camouflage* my mother keeps buying for my pacifist child - seriously: a sweatshirt, pants and a t-shirt) and I'm just trying to hold that poor safety-pinned creation together for two more days. It has marinara stains on it and the tail has certainly seen better, more jubilant days, and I'm pretty sure that, if challenged, that costume could pretty much go trick-or-treating by itself at this point but we and it will soldier on, in true camouflage-y spirit.
I'm always a little conflicted about the whole candy windfall that occurs for my son every Halloween. (Of course, we separate out the non-vegan candy and he understands this ahead of time so it does not cause any sort of meltdown.) I understand the parents who take all the candy and leave a nice toy in its stead, but, really, no really, that would not work for my son, not without resentment and a subsequent memoir detailing our various misguided cruelties toward him. In raising a vegan child, you have to juggle what you are willing to accept from mainstream culture and what you absolutely cannot abide. It is important for my son to participate in certain activities and I am fine with Halloween being one of them. Nearly all our decorations have been DIY and it's been a fun and creative experience for him to contribute his ideas and craftiness this year. Though Halloween means junk of epic proportion (corn syrup, artificial dyes, and all that other garbage that is verboten the rest of the year), I remember how exciting and thrilling trick-or-treating was for me as a child and I cannot deny him that. Exchanging his candy for a toy would have worked when he was three, but not now that he's six. We all do what works best for our children, and allowing one evening of purely bacchinalian excess a year is something that I can accept. We've got our organic lollipops for giving out - we had fair trade dark chocolates, but, sorry, we ate them all as they were like the size of 1/4 a square each - and we're set to go.
On a different topic, I think we're going to do early voting tomorrow because I just can't put it off any longer. I cannot wait to cast that ballot (although I think doing it the day of the election would also be fantastic). I got a very heartfelt message from a friend who voted earlier today and wrote of how historic and meaningful and, yes, emotional it felt. I feel it in my bones that things will turn out wonderfully for us next week, and, like the Munchkins after Dorothy's house landed on the Wicked Witch of the East, we will be celebrating out in the streets, especially, perhaps, here in Chicago. We'll be watching the returns from my friend's condo in the South Loop, which is very close to Grant Park, where the officially sanctioned Obama celebration will be taking place. Moments after it was announced that it would be an event requiring tickets, my husband responded and was put on the waiting list. Fifty thousand tickets had already been claimed. Ah, well. It is certain to be a boisterous night all around, so I'm not disappointed.
Off to bed...
Shalom, everyone.
*My son rather likes camouflage because he is into dinosaurs and evolution and natural selection and all that other godless, science-y stuff. I, on the other hand, know of it's association with war and violence (furthermore, aesthetically, it's ugly) but I don't really want to explain all that to my very innocent boy. He does have this particular pair of camouflage pants that somehow ended up in one of his drawers (from my mom, of course, but I can't figure out how it wasn't intercepted by me) and he calls these his "fossil digging pants," which is really what he wears when he digs for nautiloids and such. The problem is that he likes to wear them other days as well and though he does so without knowledge of the dark side of camouflage, I know that to the average lefty he probably looks like some violent, TV-addled miscreant. What is an anti-war, progressive mama to do?
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