Passages of Time

Goddamn, it's dusty around here these days.

That's my own fault, really. Between continuing to stay gainfully employed in journalism, watching the country slide into fascism, white knuckling through existence because we elected a complete and utter moron as president, and seeing the havoc that man and his cadre of confident mediocre white people can wreak in just four short years, I've been preoccupied. 

I've wanted to return to this space for a while. I also thought about joining all the cool kids on the newsletter bandwagon, but it looks like the Overton window for that has passed. And my therapist repeatedly asks if I've done any personal writing during our sessions, so I'm certain she spotted a thread she thinks I should pull. 

The truth is, I haven't wanted to sit down and write anything, especially in the past 18 months. We're still living in the middle of a fucking pandemic fueled by disinformation and toxic politics, and what happened at the Capitol on January 6 wasn't proof of the strength of America's governmental institutions as much as it was a test for weaknesses — and we're lacking.

Like many of us, I've found solace in the routine and narrowed that to the basics. These days are a "lather rinse repeat" cycle of wake up, video calls, work, care for the dog, exercise, chat with friends, eat, sleep, and do it all over again. I'm like Desmond in Lost, starting every day playing Shotgun Willie on vinyl, eating some vile canned food, pressing a button every 108 minutes, and longing for Penny.

There have been some good things to come out of this. Friendships are stronger. I'll come out of this with virtually no credit card debt. I'm told by people who haven't seen me in a year that I've lost weight. My freezer is consistently full of soup. I can bake a hell of a loaf of sandwich bread. My Criterion Channel queue is nearly empty. And the White Sox are in first place knockonwood.

Oh, and I recommitted to bicycling as my primary mode of transportation. I have a weeklong bike tour of the Natchez Trace Parkway I completed in pre-pandemic times to thank for that. I'm letting my curiosity guide me on the longer rides, which is steering me west. Back to the Chicago of my youth: Hermosa, Logan Square, Belmont Cragin, Six Corners, Portage Park, Austin, and Galewood. Just today, I mapped out and rode a mellow bike route to Gene & Jude's in River Grove that avoids the busiest streets.

Augusta Boulevard and Bloomingdale Avenue are the gateways to any trip to the West Side and the near west suburbs. The latter, in particular, allows me to get to Oak Park, Elmwood Park, River Forest and River Grove with minimal fear of being struck down by some patronage worker trying to be first in line at Johnnie's Beef when it opens. In a hyper-segregated city, Bloomingdale blends the haves and have-nots in a delicate balance; the 606 exemplifies this divide, but the street itself is a continuation of the tension the further west you bike. Bloomingdale, notably, blurs Austin, Cragin, and Galewood.

At the intersection of Bloomingdale and Central Avenues is a bridge that, a couple generations ago, spanned Metra routes and freight rail. From 1977 to 1979, I rode a leased CTA bus — the notorious "green limousines" — over that bridge five days a week, ferried with other kids in the neighborhood from John Hay Elementary in Austin to Prussing Elementary in Jefferson Park. In the afternoons, with the sun in descent, I would turn my head east and marvel at the downtown skyline eight miles away, the Sears Tower, John Hancock Center and Standard Oil Building, three buildings that no longer carry those names in official capacities, rising to the heavens. In the summers, I would tell my mother that I would bike to La Follette Park, then pedal beyond the park to that Central Avenue overpass on my Schwinn Sting Ray, and bike on the sidewalk up that bridge to its acme and stare more at the skyline.

Today, I sated the curiosity of my eight-year-old self and pedaled up that bridge to get a view at the skyline. It's denser these days. The three giant skyscrapers of my youth joined by 150 North Riverside, River Point, the St. Regis Chicago (formerly Wanda Vista Tower and now the city's third-tallest building), the under construction Bank of America Tower and One Chicago, and Trump Tower — a beautiful building worthy of inclusion in Chicago's rich architectural history, marred by a filthy name.

On this unseasonably cool July day, fog clouds obscured the top floors of 875 North Michigan, the St. Regis, and Trump Tower. It was beautiful and, in my opinion, rivals the south lakefront as the premier vantage point for viewing the skyline.

My middle age self, on the other hand, took in the changes within my immediate vicinity. The Metra line is still there, but on either side of the bridge the freight rail site gave way to the inevitability of commercial real estate development. To the west rose charter schools, warehouses and other buildings. To the east, town homes and single family residences complemented the two- and three-flats built during the previous century.

And directly below me stood an AMC multiplex, reawakening after 18 months in deep sleep. I wrote about this vantage point seven years ago for the launch of The Frunchroom, Scott Smith's storytelling series in Beverly. The crux of that story centered on how my curiosity about Chicago shifted from the macro to the micro; from a downtown that felt a world away to the changes happening in the neighborhoods we pass through every day that we don't recognize until the landmarks we recall fondly are suddenly gone, and all that is left for us are memories of what used to be.

I'm 52, entering the stage in life where I say "back in my day" without irony or sarcasm. I never expected to be my mother or my aunts and uncles, reflecting on their younger days with such clarity, especially when presented with concrete evidence of progress. Now that I'm at an age where I can, I understand why they did, and sometimes still do.

I've often said that I've burned through my twenties, learned in my thirties, and earned in my forties. So far, my fifties have seemed like a continuation of my forties — until we entered our Plague Year. 

I'm coming around to the belief that our fifties are a time of yearning: for those simpler times when we had an entire lifetime ahead of us; for the chance to go back and tell our younger adult selves to get it together; and to not fritter away the short lengths of road that remain for us, because the journey will inevitably come to an end.

That is a gift most unexpected.

This is 51 ... For Better or Worse

I’m not sure what I want to express at the start of this new solar rotation. I certainly didn’t expect to celebrate my 51st birthday under quarantine and curfew, with protests in the streets and a lazy, cowardly dullard in the White House prattling on about sending American troops against the people he swore to protect three-and-a-half years ago.

But life comes at you fast.


And we aren’t in the clear yet. Shelter-in-place orders across the country, along with post-traumatic stress stemming from the violence during these riots, will likely result in a massive mental health crisis for which the nation is unprepared.

2020 has laid bare the rot at the foundation of our society: massive wealth inequality; the limitations of a privatized healthcare system; systemic, institutionalized racism; police departments across the country brutalizing people of color with impunity and little accountability; and a performative show of leadership from a president* who still commands strong support from 40 percent of the country despite presiding over the largest number of job losses since the Great Depression, a middling (at best) response to a global pandemic, the worst riots in at least a generation, and being impeached.

I’ve been thinking a lot about allyship this year. I’ve not always been a good one, or even one. In my life I’ve been racist, sexist, misogynistic, ableist, ageist, classist, prejudiced of other religions and xenophobic.

But if you get popped in the mouth enough times for using a racial epithet against someone, you can do one of two things. You either gravitate toward like-minded people who confirm your biases. Or you stop the bleeding, question why people keep popping you in the mouth for “speaking your mind” and work on changing that.

Conservatism or progress.

One choice is easy. Conservatism, to me, means that things are fine as they are and there is no need to adapt to the changing times. It’s about protecting your gains — regardless of how they were acquired — and not acknowledging that you might have had advantages to get to where you are.

Progressivism, on the other hand, requires showing up and doing the work. And the work is never-ending. The people taking to the streets to protests police brutality the past two weeks are doing the work. The people who are donating to bail funds across the country, and recording the scores of incidents of police attacking protesters and reporters are doing the work.

Conservatives love to tell everyone to pull themselves up by their bootstraps, while never stopping to ask some people why they are walking around barefoot.

To paraphrase Roxane Gay, being a good ally requires us to take on then problems borne of oppression as our own, without remove or distance — even if we cannot fully understand what it’s like to be oppressed.

It’s saying “I’m here for you” and not asking, “What can I do to help?”

It’s taking the privilege of your station and sharing it with those who lack it.

Racism, sexism and other biases are learned behaviors. That means they can be unlearned. That requires pushing ourselves out of our comfort zones, listening and acting. You don’t have to try and be perfect out of the gate. But you do have to try.

And I am here for you.

This is 50

The milestone birthdays are supposed to be special. At least, that’s what we’re told.

Eventually, the gravity of turning 50 will punch me square in my nose out of nowhere. Two days in, however, it’s mostly been a continuation of the reflective mood I’ve found myself in recently.

That reflection is a result of the whirlwind that was my forties — easily a decade of growth that far exceeded my modest expectations. If my twenties were the equivalent of a lost weekend and my thirties were mostly a period of stagnation and obstinance, my forties were when I showed up, did the work and reaped the rewards. These were the years when, whether by design or dumb luck, I chose to live in the world, leave myself open to possibility and opportunity, and grew as a person.

I’m not proud of the person I was when I was younger. I was fueled by anger, envy and hubris which held me back. My forties were where I made up for lost time. I found my career. I found love (a couple times). I found my tribe. And I found that I don’t need my past to define me, but inform where I’m going and what I want to become. This has been a decade of hard work, life lessons, therapy sessions and humility

If I have any wishes for my fifties, it would be to continue on this path. As my birthday neared, people have asked if I’m looking forward to it. I believe we ask this because we’re ingrained to believe that 50 is the acme of our life’s journey — that it’s all downhill from here. I’m not sure that’s true.

Gray hair may have settled in my temples and my beard. My quadriceps muscles feel like wet cement after my bike rides these days. My doctor keeps hounding me to stay away from any combination of chocolate and peanut butter. But there are so many things I still want to do and I remain motivated to putting in the effort.

So yeah, I’m looking forward to 50. And 60 and 70 and 75 and every second I’m fortunate to live. Because life is in the living.

The Gift

A couple years ago I was telling some friends a funny story about my mother. When I finished, one of them gave me a puzzled look. I asked her what was on her mind.

"I only think about your mom in abstract," she said. "I assume she exists, but not in the way our moms do; I don't think I could ever picture what she looks like."

Painting an abstract picture of my mother is light years ahead of how I used to acknowledge her existence. I tried like hell to erase her from my life. My brother, sister and I all left home at 16, each for a different reason. My sister was married and pregnant. My brother's budding juvenile delinquency had him bouncing between home and foster care. 

Me? Tired of being beaten by my stepfather, I was fighting back — often with whatever I could get my hands on. One time he took a swing at me and I split his head open with a fireplace iron. Another time, he was working on the car after kicking the shit out of me, so I followed him outside and tried to kick the jack out from the bumper while he was underneath. If I remained in that environment, there were two ways it would have ended: both scenarios end with my not being able to write this.

My mother saw this and signed over custody of me to my Uncle Stu before my junior year of high school.

I was angry and confused at what I saw was my mother choosing an alcoholic redneck asshole over me. Even though I knew I was in a better place with my uncle and aunt, I felt as though my mother washed her hands of me and getting rid of me was the best way to keep the family together. Worst of all, I felt there was something wrong with me and she had no patience to help me work through it.

As I entered adulthood, it was easier for me to acknowledge my mother’s existence in passing than to tell the details. I really didn’t want to talk about her, or with her. As I entered my thirties, I had effectively written her out of my life and didn’t want to talk to her again. That bitterness has softened over time. We chat regularly, catch each other up on what is happening in our lives, and tell each other we love each other.

The biggest change in our relationship came when I realized she saw giving my uncle custody of me as an opportunity. I could have vacillated between “foster care or whatever,” as John Kelly so callously put it last week. But both Mom and Uncle Stu saw a very gifted, budding young man who needed a chance to live up to his potential. This was a Hail Mary play: even though I was in a stable home environment with my uncle, there was no guarantee I would apply the life lessons he and my aunt were teaching me, as an adult. My teachers always told Mom I was gifted and my talents needed nurturing, but as a widow during most of the 1970s, Mom had a succession of second-shift factory or retail jobs and wasn't available much of the time.

Being honest with myself has allowed me to see my mother in a different light and recognize the traits I’ve inherited from her. 

I get my impatience and anxiousness from her.

She listens more than she speaks, and only interjects herself into conversations when she feels she has something to add.

She sings along to the radio while she cleans and cooks.

She makes the best banana pudding on the planet, even though most of it comes from a box of Jell-O pudding.

She’s independent and loyal.

She has great hair.

She knows how to stretch a dollar.

She loves her children and grandchildren.

She instilled in me a love of baseball.

 

We both wish for the best for the people we love, even if we can’t provide it.

The biggest trait we share is a stubborn nature and an insistence on self-sufficiency. Neither of us wants to ask others for help, but we’ve both come around to understanding that asking for advice or a helping hand is not a sign of weakness. It’s a lesson my mother imparted on me when I was sixteen, although I didn’t recognize it for decades after.

Art

With Art Shay at an exhibit of his photography in River North, January 2014.

Art Shay liked to tell people that I begged him to write a column for Chicagoist. In fact, his archivist, Erica DeGlopper, begged me.

Erica said it was Art’s idea, but I was skeptical as to why a then-87-year-old photographer wanted to write a weekly column on a website geared to a millennial audience. I was even more doubtful when Erica assured me Art would be OK with not being paid. All I knew was only an idiot would turn down a golden opportunity.

Art’s first Chicagoist column was published on December 22, 2010 but it wasn’t until his third column, a story of a chance encounter with Elizabeth Taylor, that it truly took off and I remembered good stories find wide audiences. That was also the first time I spoke with Art on the phone. I shared traffic numbers for that column with him, where the traffic was coming from and ideas for future installments. With business complete, I then asked Art to tell me about himself. 

For the next 20 minutes I listened and cried as Art told the story of his wife, Florence, their seven-decade relationship, her battle with ovarian cancer and how he felt powerless to see her in such pain. During that call, I realized the real reason Erica proposed the column: it distracted him from Florence’s deteriorating illness.

It was my first lesson that being an editor is more than fixing typos and shepherding stories from pitch to final proof. Sometimes, it involves being a therapist, managing egos and crises of confidence, knowing when to be gentle and when to be blunt, and when to simply shut up and listen. With Art, I recognized I had to be a protector as well as an editor.

Ever the professional, Art filed his columns every week for four years, even after Florence died in 2012. He wrote about covering Dr. Martin Luther King's assassination, Studs Terkel, famous Chicagoans, tailing the mob, being an Air Force navigator in World War II, race relations in 1960s suburban Chicago, his mentor, how to edit a photo, his hobo friend, faith, the life and tragic death of his son Harmon and his friendship with Nelson Algren more times than I can count. He saved his most inspired columns about Florence.

By the end of 2013, he and Erica were increasingly busy with gallery exhibitions and a new book, and the column eventually ended as Art had other, emotionally and financially rewarding, distractions.

Art Shay died today, one month after celebrating his 96^th birthday. Last year, I attended his 95^th birthday celebration at an Italian restaurant in Highland Park. I had only seen him a couple times between Florence’s funeral and then, and he barely recognized me. At his 95^th birthday, he was confined to a wheelchair but his mind was as sharp as during our first conversations. We caught each other up on our lives and careers. It was the last time I would speak with him. He outlived Florence by five-and-a-half years and I don’t think that would have been possible without Erica nudging him on. She was the driving force in Art’s late career renaissance and helped cement his already daunting legacy as one of America's best photographers. I’m thankful for her today for bringing Art into my life and for my playing a role, however small, in that victory lap.

In my living room, I have a framed photo of Muddy Waters and his wife that Art took in 1954 at some club on 47^th Street in Bronzeville. Ever mindful of the value of his work, Art autographed the matte along with the inscription: “For one of the best editors I ever worked with — Chuck Sudo.”

Thank you, sir, for being an example to look up to when I'm feeling low.