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 another port of rest should they walk the 20 feet. They didn't, and we all exited at the Loyola Station. Except for not-Mark. I had stopped paying attention to the slouching figure of my not former boyfriend.
I have seen Cori Jara in Chicago three times. The first time struck me enough to write a postcard to her -- where she lives in northern California and not in Chicago -- saying how I had seen not-her on the Brown Line as it was passing through the Loop. She wore over-size glasses, over-size headphones, and a smile that seemed small only because of its proportion to the other two things. The second time I saw not-Cori happened this week, but this time on the 147 Express Bus. She was watching her phone and dressed in a vaguely Andean style. Her hand band caught my attention, because I don't remember real-Cori ever having worn a head band. Maybe she has but not that I ever saw. The third time I saw not-Cori was this morning. Not-Cori was walking east into the sunrise. Her eyes were closed as she made her way slowly towards Broadway Avenue. I didn't recognize real-Cori until not-Cori smiled; then, it couldn't be anyone but her. The realization happened much faster than the dawn. I felt silly even for not having recognized her on seeing not-Cori's purse. It was shaped like a cactus adorned with multi-colored flowers. I suspect that anyone who had a passing acquaintance with real-Cori would have recognized her in the adding up of a cactus-shaped purse and smile.
I was sitting outside at a coffee shop on Sunday morning when, on looking up to think for a bit, saw a woman whose child had been abducted in México. She was carrying two bags: one plastic and the other fabric. The plastic bag held hardcover books. I couldn't see inside of the fabric one. Her hair was dark. She had pulled it back into a pony tail, where its curliness was obvious. She was walking north, so turned her head to the left while also craning it forward a bit to check for traffic before crossing the street. I had seen her face before: in the media, in the Museum of the Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México, at a protest in Pilsen. Did this woman herself, crossing Berwyn Avenue on an oddly chilly August morning, suffer the loss of her child to the unknown and at the active apathy of the society? I don't know. And probably not. But, for a moment, I saw a story right there in plain sight on her face. She herself moved northward and, then, out of my sight.
It is strange, this getting older in Chicago.
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 another port of rest should they walk the 20 feet. They didn't, and we all exited at the Loyola Station. Except for not-Mark. I had stopped paying attention to the slouching figure of my not former boyfriend.
I have seen Cori Jara in Chicago three times. The first time struck me enough to write a postcard to her -- where she lives in northern California and not in Chicago -- saying how I had seen not-her on the Brown Line as it was passing through the Loop. She wore over-size glasses, over-size headphones, and a smile that seemed small only because of its proportion to the other two things. The second time I saw not-Cori happened this week, but this time on the 147 Express Bus. She was watching her phone and dressed in a vaguely Andean style. Her hand band caught my attention, because I don't remember real-Cori ever having worn a head band. Maybe she has but not that I ever saw. The third time I saw not-Cori was this morning. Not-Cori was walking east into the sunrise. Her eyes were closed as she made her way slowly towards Broadway Avenue. I didn't recognize real-Cori until not-Cori smiled; then, it couldn't be anyone but her. The realization happened much faster than the dawn. I felt silly even for not having recognized her on seeing not-Cori's purse. It was shaped like a cactus adorned with multi-colored flowers. I suspect that anyone who had a passing acquaintance with real-Cori would have recognized her in the adding up of a cactus-shaped purse and smile.
I was sitting outside at a coffee shop on Sunday morning when, on looking up to think for a bit, saw a woman whose child had been abducted in México. She was carrying two bags: one plastic and the other fabric. The plastic bag held hardcover books. I couldn't see inside of the fabric one. Her hair was dark. She had pulled it back into a pony tail, where its curliness was obvious. She was walking north, so turned her head to the left while also craning it forward a bit to check for traffic before crossing the street. I had seen her face before: in the media, in the Museum of the Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México, at a protest in Pilsen. Did this woman herself, crossing Berwyn Avenue on an oddly chilly August morning, suffer the loss of her child to the unknown and at the active apathy of the society? I don't know. And probably not. But, for a moment, I saw a story right there in plain sight on her face. She herself moved northward and, then, out of my sight.
It is strange, this getting older in Chicago.