The Kids Aren't The Same

This morning, I woke up with James -- having stayed the night at his place. I'm on vacation for two weeks (a "stay"-cation, meaning that I'll take advantage of the time to wander around Chicago). James and I decided to stay at each other's place twice each week. He made coffee and switched on the local news while I figured out how to get hot water out of the shower. Patrick showed off his responsiblity-muscles, looking after himself at home in addition to the two dogs under our care. Kygo, a bottle-rocket doofus of a dog, is staying with us while his humans are out of town: Gohar has gone to Kazakhstan to visit her family, while Andrew was sent to a work training program in Indiana (or, Ohio?). We are looking after Kygo for the next week. Patrick hasn't been feeling his best, so I was relieved on hearing from him this morning that he had woken up early to get himself ready for school as well as walk both dogs. On the parent side of the spectrum, his success ...

Patrick and I were guests at the Fall Fête of Lawrence Hall, an annual fundraiser for the various therapeutic services that the organization provides to kids in care. The night was a big success for a handful of reasons: 1) Patrick dressed up in his finest to sell raffle tickets. To this point, I sent him after Toni Preckwinkle (the current president of the Cook County board of commissioners) after she walked past us. It seemed an easy mark. 2) Patrick sang in front of a big group. He had worried hell out of me earlier in the day, on asking me to print the lyrics to the song he had chosen to sing. He had not been practicing so still hadn't memorized them. He sang (very well) from the printed lyrics. 3) I gave a little speech to a very large crowd. This also worried hell out of me. I modified a short essay written earlier this year and shared with LH and DCFS. The original essay focussed on domestic events, so its usefulness to a large general audience wouldn't fit. I edit...

I see the same faces. Yesterday afternoon, I was on the Red Line going home from grocery shopping. He was seated in the right row of the first train car. It was Mark Dykstra. It was an impossible, later-30-something Mark balancing a Trader Joe's bag between his ankles while hunched over his phone. I recognized him without thinking much of it, turning my attention to the Loyola students seated directly across from not-Mark. Of the three, the one on their far left reacted to a woman standing in the aisle while gripping a stability loop opposite him by reducing his man-spread by about 20%. A pro forma gesture. I read in (or into) her body language "thanks for nothing, asshole" as she shifted the weight of her backpack between feet.  My impulse was to confront the kid to make room for our fellow passenger. To give him a gentle lesson on the social faux pas he'd committed; but, then I turned and noticed another empty seat on the other side of the car. Her tired feet had ...

Gabriel García Márquez wrote that a person would know that they had become old when even the simplest things were told as a story. As an old person, then, I’d like to introduce you all to someone by way of a story. Back in December 2018, my priest sent an unassuming email message to me about a young man who was ready for a permanent family. A fellow parishioner had been mentoring the youth for a few years and was hoping that a member of our church family might be willing to  give the foster parent role a try. Would I be willing to meet them, the good reverend wanted to know, if only to let the Holy Spirit do what it might? I met Patrick a few days later, at a Christmas concert, where his sponsor Linda had brought him so that we all could meet. We went downstairs afterwards for dinner. We made small talk. About ten minutes into the conversation, I asked Patrick if he knew why I was there. "Yes," he said, "you want to be my foster dad." How did he feel about that...

The Episcopal liturgy is history lesson, poetry, and a celebration. Within it, we are called - literally - to acknowledge God, the world around us, and the people next to us. The liturgy does not waste opportunities. My favorite part of our service is the confession of sin. I know that may seem sanctimonious at best or creepy at worst, so want to focus on this phrase tucked into the confession: "and by what we have left undone." That line comes immediately after the confession of sins that had been committed ("by what we have done"). Committed sins are pretty easy to manage. They happened. We can quantify them -- remember those Seven Deadlies? -- because they are real: the hoarding of toys, the hurling of insults, the hatred of the Other. These we can picture in our minds, offer up an apology to God, along with a promise to learn from the mistake. Check the box. Breathe with relief. A sin not done? That is another story. It's where this story begins. "...

This is a wicker duck carrying a small garden of succulents in its back. I did not buy this duck. This duck was a gift. An unexpected gift from one of my student employees whose last day with us was yesterday. She has finished her classes, clubs, and internships -- y les hizo a sus padres, inmigrantes de México, el mar de orgulloso de ella -- so will graduate in two weeks. I cried on receiving the duck. She went wide-eyed and mortified on realizing t hat she had given a duck to someone named Donald. Then we both laughed. Looking at my wicker duck, the disappointments and heartbreaks recede away from the certainty that the joy one earns along the path of serving others is always worth the risks. My (now former) employee will experience her own ups and downs in the life that stretches out in front of her. No doubt, on one day when she needs it most, someone will give her her own wicker duck.

While talking to a person at the coffee shop this morning about their dog (who had heterochromia -- two differently colored eyes), they mentioned having recently moved back to Chicago. I said "welcome home," and then realized a moment after it left my lips that I had meant it.

Wow, what an incredible election here in Chicago. My city council representative: lesbian (and of color) My mayor: lesbian (and of color) My state representative: lesbian Lots of people would ask why a person's sexual orientation matters. And I would respond: because we live in a culture when and where it fucking does. The twenty year old version of myself couldn't fathom ever having a single LGBT elected representative. Now, the forty year old version of me gets to enjoy having *three.* Lots of people of all ages get to look at Chicago's elected officials without seeing a barrier to success due to their identity. This is the kind of miracle that many people prayed and worked to achieve. I'm going to enjoy it to the depth of my very bones. I'm thrilled to be a part of this journey along with the next mayor of Chicago, Lori Lightfoot.