2001-07-04 - 8:03 p.m.

first of all: No!!!!!!!! Don't do it lesotho!!!!!

secondly: happy independence day.

and finally: nate is really really awesome

-

�How is it,� Nate asks me, �that we can allow ourselves to own four coats when there are other people who are cold?�

He�s always asking hypothetical questions like this, questions that sometimes exasperate me despite my best efforts. It�s not his fault; he has Saint Francis on the brain. He thinks in terms of ideals, and sainthood is his latest hypothetical ideal. He�s decided to write a play about Saint Francis, show the people this hero. Then he�ll dedicate his life, or some piece thereof, to the people, bring theater to the uneducated masses, not the rich snobs who can afford today�s ticket prices.

He makes his plans from his favorite spot on the couch, imagining an idealized world and an idealized self, knowing his flaws and wishing there was something he could do...

Somehow I let myself get worked up by these things, though I don�t show it. I sit down for a few minutes during his favorite show, �Seventh Heaven,� and he asks me, �Why aren�t we feeding the hungry right now, and housing the homeless?� And I know that I�m trying my best, that I�m trying to feed the hungry and help people out, make a difference, but still I feel the need to justify myself. �I�m trying,� I say. �Only Carrie won�t call me back.� I feel that he�s judging me again, though he�s really not. So I must go out and find a new shelter to help out; I must be immune to every possible criticism.

It�s ridiculous, really, to want to prove myself to Nate, prove that I�m the doer and he�s the talker, prove my superiority by running around to protests and homeless shelters while he imagines the world from his couch, but I can�t help it. We�ve been sparring for nearly two years, neither ever conceding a point, and I�m not about to give one up now.

So many of us want to be heroes and saints. We don�t want to do the things that make one a saint � we just want to be saints. And we want disciples. We want people to say amen to whatever we say. We want our way to be considered the best way, we want to wield influence beyond our meager selves, get someone else to go out and preach the word. We want to be revered. This, I suppose, is what I�m doing by spewing out all these words, trying to create a gospel, to tell people everything I think because maybe they�ll be my disciples and spread the word. Only everyone else has their own gospel; Nate has his own that he's pushing in direct opposition to mine. Everyone has their own version of what's right. Everyone�s preaching and nobody�s listening.

We go through them one by one , separating the ones that I hate, the ill-fated Christmas presents, with the ones I actually wear. This one, I love the material, it�ll hold up seven men it�s so strong. This one, I�m embarrassed to wear; I only wear it when I�ll only be seen by immediate family all day. This one I�ve worn a lot, but never liked it much, in fact only ever wear it because it isn�t completely offensive, to give it a break from sitting up there in my closet, so lonely.

I come up with about a dozen, which I select out and bring right down to the drop-off bin. I jam them into that overflowing bin and feel self-satisfied again, like I have done something magnanimous, gone one up on Nate once again, who�s still in his apartment surrounded by his piles of clothes. This must be what it feels like to be a saint.

-

In the midst of her Sunday afternoon food shopping, Lydia rests her feet in Jake�s. She�s found a few bargains at the Jewel across the street � ground beef, ground turkey, chicken; filled a whole pushcart, which she brings with her. Soon, she�ll head to Aldi to see what she can find there. But for now she�ll sit at Jake�s and eat some bread, like she does every Sunday.

She�s been coming to Jake�s for about 10 years, and every year, thing seem to get better. In fact, she thinks, things always seem to get better. The neighborhood gets better � less dangerous, better stores. Life itself has improved about 90 percent since she moved here from Puerto Rico 52 years ago, she figures, from how we heat our homes to how we amuse ourselves.

Lydia just turned 79 yesterday. Her children have grown up and moved out, and her husband�s long gone, but she�s happy. She spends her days chatting with housebound elderly women as a Senior Companion, employed by the city of Chicago.

Lydia�s not afraid of death. She spends her life surrounded by people nearing the end of their lives, some older than her, some younger. They talk about the exploits of their youth, going on about that time when the world was theirs for the taking. Now it�s gone, and they yearn for an ear to tell the story of their lives to one more time before they leave the world for good. Lydia enjoys being that ear.

But isn�t it hard being so close to death, seeing so many of your friends die?

�You cannot be afraid. Let me tell you something,� she says. �You�re gonna die. Who is going to go first? Maybe me; maybe you.�

She has faced the facts of life and death. For her, it�s just another part of life, something one must accept in order to enjoy the rest of one�s life. She is ready when the time comes. She has purchased a cemetery plot, even picked out her favorite blue dress to be buried in.

She�s had a good life. She moved to Chicago from Puerto Rico 52 years ago in search of work and a better life, and found it. She�s long since passed on the baton to her children, who have grown up and moved out, and her 24-year-old grandson Michael, who just got a job and an apartment and is looking for a girlfriend. Life goes on, and you accept and appreciate it, she says with a smile.

She believes she�s been blessed, and I believe it. Somehow, she�s managed to make it through life with enough idealism intact that she�s more than happy to chat with a stranger at Jake�s, just share a bit of her life with someone who�s interested. If you grow old, and your life�s been good, then when the time comes, you can say goodbye with a smile.

-

Three pieces of wheat toast go tumbling to the floor. I could feel it happening. I could sense them slipping off the plate, tried to correct the balance but was too late. Shouldn�t have gone so fast. I pick up the toast and toss it into the trash, then turn back to the cook.

�I dropped the toast for this order. Could you make some more?� Then I take the plate over to the man in the corner; he�s not at one of my tables, but I�ve been standing around for a while and my four assigned tables haven�t been filling up.

�I dropped your toast, sir. I�ll get you some new toast in a minute.�

He looks at the plate; three eggs over hard, hash browns, and some crumbs where the toast once sat.

�This don�t look good, does it?� he says to his companion. I apologize and ask him if there�s anything else I can get him.

�Hey, it�s all right, he don�t know,� his companion says. I tell him it�s my first day here. I�m trying to be as cheerful as possible serving these poor, hungry people; perhaps it�s more penance in the quest for forgiveness for my comfortable life.

The toast comes and I bring it to him. He asks for some more hash browns. I tell him I�ll see what I can do. But when I go back, my fellow waiter tells me they can�t give out seconds, they don�t have enough left.

I stall a minute, not relishing telling this man that he can�t have any more hash browns. And a minute later, his assigned server takes over, and tells him we�re very sorry, but breakfast is over.

-

Work comes and goes. Then I�m over at Loyola University, where a pep rally is under way. The entryway to the Alumni Gymnasium is mobbed, and inside, people file into folding chairs, representatives of dozens of north side communities, each marked off by a hanging banner. Onstage, a band jams to Bob Marley covers under the largest banner of them all � ONE. It�s the annual convention of the Organization of the North East, an umbrella group for advocacy groups in Uptown and its neighbors.

I wander through the gym, looking around, looking lost. A woman comes up to me through the chaos, hoping to steer me in the right direction.

�Hello. Which organization are you with?�

I mention COURAJ, but they�re not listed on her chart � they�re not official members. I guess I�m not with anybody, I say.

�Well, then you can just sit down wherever you can find a spot.�

I sit down, stand up, walk around some more, take whatever flyers they�re giving. I wonder what I should be doing or looking for. Then I spot the banner for the kitchen I started volunteering at this morning � its seats are empty. So I file in and wait for the ceremonies to begin, the lone representative of a group that was unknown to me just a few days ago.

Then a dozen people come down the aisle and stop at my row. They look at me, I look at them, and I move down a few spots. At first I don�t recognize anyone. Then the guy next to me and looks over.

�Didn�t I see you at breakfast this morning?�

It�s the man whose toast I dropped, of course. Name�s Jim.

�Yeah, that�s right. I dropped your toast,� I say.

�It�s all good,� he replies with a smile. He�s ready to be in a good mood, ready to get riled up by this convention. They�ve got a full agenda tonight, but mostly it�s about rallying the troops. He smiles, says, �I hope you�re ready to yell,� and sits back.

He�s right. This isn�t about debating issues; it�s about yelling. What matters is tone, not content, and even approving the evening�s agenda is a cause for celebration. The master of ceremonies introduces himself � �I Am the President of the Organization of the North East!� he announces, and the way he says it is incites a roar in the crowd. The speakers line up and make their cases. And when one of them asks, �Are you ready?� The crowd responds with another rendition of the ONE chant:

�We are ready. We have rights. We are many. We are one!�

And then there are congressmen, whose job it is to play the role of fellow fighters; when the president asks them to support affordable housing and immigration right; they announce that they would be happy to support a bill. The crowd cheers.

At one point the president is talking to someone off to his left, when a noise comes from the audience.

�Point of privilege, Mr. President!� It�s a man in the front row, who seems to have found a microphone somehow. He must urgently interject, spontaneously, his support for ONE�s affordable housing initiatives. The president listens politely to the man, pleading ignorance. And then someone else calls out, and another � each representing a different Chicago community, each making a pledge of support for the common cause.

Jim watches all of this with amusement. He cheers, chants, laughs to himself. He doesn�t ask for much. He knows he�ll agree, so he goes with the flow, happy to be a part of this.

He is a part of the ONE that they keep talking about, the many heads put together to build a greater whole. They don�t ask questions; that is not their role. They let the people on the stage come up with the agenda and do the organizing. All the foot soldiers have to do is cheer as loudly for it as they can.

They�ll feel the excitement of all the people gathered here, shouting and pounding their fists, hear the bold proclamation of the dignitaries. Some will take strength from this feeling as they fight in their own way for change; others will draw from it as they struggle through their lives, feeling that even when the world seems against them, someone somewhere is fighting for them.

previous - next