The Kids Aren't The Same

To the artist HS Chang-Tsai -- please accept my appreciation and thanks for your art. I did not know of it until a package sent from you arrived at my home. It was a curious thing, to receive a package from a stranger. I opened it and, on seeing the print of a Shiba Inu looking skyward while the moon laid on the left corner, began to cry. My best friend had purchased the print and a pad of sticky notes. It was her way of showing sympathy for the loss of Ryu, my Shiba Inu and adventure partner.  Ryu lived for 15 years. 12 of those years was with me. He was a constant companion. I often joked that he was my soul mate. Sometimes, it was not a joke. Ryu passed away a month ago. It has been six weeks and I still cry when thinking about him.  Today, I placed your print into a frame. My boyfriend asked where I would put it. I immediately said that it would go onto the desk of my home office. I wanted to see it as much as possible. But after a moment, I reconsidered the decision as a ...

I have the profoundly unhappy responsibility to write the news that Ryu Inu passed away on August 24th. He was in my arms when he trotted over the Rainbow Bridge.  Some of you knew of Ryu's recent diagnosis of kidney failure made earlier this year, just shy of his 15th birthday. His prognosis was quite good, although our veterinarian made clear to me at the time that his at-home treatments would only manage the situation rather than cure it. At the same time, his cognitive abilities worsened over the summer. His eyesight was going dark and his ears were falling quiet, making the recognition of his surroundings very difficult. It was funny the first few times that I found him stuck behind a toilet or closet door. It quickly stopped being funny as the plainness of his growing helplessness became clear. Overall, his body was telling anyone who could see it that it was saying goodbye. I had no idea it would happen so quickly, as his condition worsened precipitously two weeks ago. Ryu w...

Patrick graduated from high school last week. I had been jazzed for the ceremony for a while. He stayed cloistered in his bedroom the morning of, getting his clothes and face just right. Senn High School put on a fun, outdoor, and socially distant event for everyone involved. Cars also moved slowly around the school grounds for those families who preferred to keep up their caution. I buzzed around the grounds just thrilled to chat with teachers, staff, and some other parents; in contrast, Patrick's demeanor was on par with any other Friday. Teenage cool is as alien to me as lunchables. Maybe he perked up after I returned home, free to socialize with his friends while far from the reach of his dad's camera.  That morning, while getting ready to get Patrick to his school he asked for my help with tying a necktie. I tied the one he wanted to wear around my own neck, intending to loosen it and then slip it around his own -- when it happened: I had a flashback. I remembered getting ...

I was not sad when I hung up on my mom. It was a FaceTime video call that started badly, moved into hostility, then ended with my disconnecting from it. Disconnecting from her. It was about time, even if a long time coming. Before Thanksgiving, my oldest brother sent an email to me asking for my new address. I ignored it and he didn't contact me again. For Thanksgiving, I took Patrick to our church so that he could participate in the volunteering of putting on a holiday dinner for 120 people. It went really well. The logistics seemed to fall into place more easily this year than the last. I stayed in the kitchen working the food with other church members. Patrick began at the industrial sink washing dishes with another person; then, when the event officially began, he moved to working as a server for the people seated at the table assigned to him. The time passed very quickly, with the end arriving a bit anti-climactically. The constant movement of people, dishes, and food did ...

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.

My neighbors across the hall are students from Saudi Arabia. Siblings, in fact, I learned on chatting with the brother one morning having stopped while walking in different directions to acknowledge each other's existence. The sister and I had bumped into each other repeatedly in the morning, as her commute schedule matched up with Ryu's early walk. They both were students but not at Loyola. I asked both - at different times, as I rarely saw them together - about coming over to my side of the hallway for tea. Both said yes. They turned out to be really lovely young people. The sister is in an advanced program studying respiratory therapist. The brother is studying English at an immersion academy. Both were/are fans of Japanese animation. This fun bit of personal trivia came out of the brother noticing the Sailor Moon art books on my bookshelf. I admitted to them that anime fans from Saudi Arabia had never occurred to me given the kingdom's, uh -- distinct, perspective on ...

The Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México (UNAM) has a campus in Chicago. Who knew?! I saw an announcement in Facebook about a public lecture being held there in a few weeks. The topic was the Spanish exile to Mexico after the defeat of the republican government in Madrid. This was strongly relevant to my interests of 20th Century Ibero-American history. Javier joined me at the event, despite his relative disinterest in the topic. The lecture presented us both the opportunity to dress up a bit and perhaps meet interesting people. It would turn out that only the first part happened. The lecture material was pretty interesting, though the presentation itself put one to sleep. Reading a powerpoint presentation ought to be prohibited outright. Powerpoint makes everyone doze off, keeping themselves awake by looking at their phones. Someone at Microsoft should develop a anti-Powerpoint. Anyway... I felt proud for understanding the vast majority of what the lecturer was saying. It was all...

I was sitting at the very back of the Eastbound 80 bus, tapping the "Refresh" button on the liveblog service of El País every minute of the Spain - Russia game. I would have watched the match at home but had committed to serving at the 8a service at St John's. So there I was on the bus, having fulfilled my minor responsibility to the flock, following this global game at the same pace as a Spanish sports writer would type. Around the time the bus passed California Ave, I noticed a guy sitting alone on the opposite side of the bus looking closely at his phone. More to the point, looking closely at his phone showing the Spain - Russia game. No connected headphones. He seemed to be in his late-20s, wearing casual clothes for a muggy Sunday morning in Chicago. It was his hat that sealed my intention to stand up and walk over to him: it had the Venezuelan flag. The odds were pretty good that the guy spoke Spanish. As the bus made another stop, I took advantage of the opportun...

I sat down with Josh and his girlfriend Bridget - whom I was meeting for the first time - and told them in the plainest terms that the best part of my day had already happened. Whatever was about to happen couldn't compete. It was a good conversation starter. We had agreed to meet that evening for a drink in Andersonville - a happy neighborhood that sits happily between our respective ones.  I had left Rogers Park early and on foot in order to get both exercise as well as to sit reading for a while. Of course I forgot to bring anything to read, so walked along Clark Street looking for something. The box holding Chicago Reader magazines was empty, as was the next one. Not great for my attitude. The weather was cool, overcast, and suggesting rain: typical of this June. This is Pride Week in Chicago, something easily forgotten given the tiresome Autumn-like weather interrupted by a handful of days of choking heat. Irritated with myself, I strolled around looking through store w...

It's June 2018. Last weekend, the weather was absurd -- which is to say that it rained for days and, when the rain abated, low temperatures and fog took its place. That's the weather we had during my mom's visit to Chicago. The visit went well until it did not. Visits from mom fit that general description: they go well until they do not. I'm tempted to give my side of the experiences, to lay out an argument that absolves me of any blame, to make a tortured explanation of why the maximum duration of an uneventful visit seems fixed at three days. But I won't do any of that. I will, however, say how terrible it felt to walk away from her without saying "I love you." We made it to Union Station a good amount of time before the train departed. I found the lobby, confirmed the departure situation with an attendant, then sat mom down in a seat close to the door through which she and the other exiles would board the machine back to Michigan. After explaining the t...

Stuff I wrote many years ago:  https://battersea-nonsense.blogspot.com/