That was what I typed into Google after reading Timothy McNulty's column in Friday's Tribune. As a dyed-in-the-wool classist, his thesis should inspire me to write a letter explaining that the term "Middle Class" isn't inclusive at all. Except that I tend to agree.
The term itself is ambiguous both in popular opinion and language usage. Over the years I've had people tell me that they are middle class; working people, in particular like this self-designation, while folks that could be legitimately characterized as middle class tend to self-identify by more individualistic standards. It's that self-designation that lets America be a "Middle Class Nation".
McNulty flirts with some economic definitions of middle class before settling on the U.S. Bureau of the Census average regional incomes for 2006: "Class, either by income or social status, is real but undefined in our society, yet those conditions underlie so much of the economic, social and political conversation in the newspaper.... [A]verage family income in Chicago was $70,778; for all of Cook County it was $82,456; for DuPage County it was $109,975." 
As the economics of 21st Century America have shifted away from a manufacturing/ production model to a service/ consumption model, the idea of who we are has shifted as well. And therein lies the conundrum of how to define middle class. Within the class strata exists varying degrees of "middle classness". Some hold their position by merit of education, others by the work they do, or choose to do. Middle class shouldn't be measured by income, then, but by opportunity. Which becomes the problem inherent in trying to define a middle class, since it seems predicated on a set of loose, vaguely American values.
McNulty is only partly right. Widespread material prosperity cannot rightly be the sole gauge of class in the US. Economic access and opportunity are much more significant indicators of class than aggregate income data. DuPage County could be considered more middle class than Cook County only because there is more opportunity there. The disparity in average incomes between the two only demonstrates that people living in DuPage, collectively, have more access to economic and social opportunity that people living in Cook County.
Image via mrfontwacko
Saturday, December 15, 2007
Define Middle Class
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
City of Neighbors
I've been digging on how great it is to live in a big city these past few weeks. Being the hopeless extrovert that I am, I need to be around people. Lots of people. And while cities have an inherently isolating tendency to them, it's that sense of a cohesive community that gives me a connection to Chicago as something more than just a place to hang my hat.
Last weekend was the Renegade Craft Fair Holiday Sale at the Pulaski Park Fieldhouse. I'm not all that into the handmade/craft movement, but I get why people feel that making something by hand and selling it in an independent venue connects them other people. I got something nice for my sister.
Earlier in the week I was walking through Daley Plaza when I found myself in the middle of Christkindlmarket. The market was interesting, but a little too traditional for my tastes. What really caught my attention, though, was a crowd of people standing around a musical bike with a box on the back. I couldn't quite figure out what it was at first, so I worked my way into the small crowd to get a better look.
I had found the Puppet Bike! As I was watching this, I was thinking about something that Heidi Schallberg wrote on her blog: "I want to live in a city where this happens." Dreamed up by inventor and artist Jason Trusty, the Puppet Bike pops up around the city at events as diverse as neighborhood festivals, the MCA and Michigan Avenue. “One of the greatest things about the Puppet Bike is how it disarms so many people from so many different places in life,” Trusty told Time Out Chicago. “First it makes them laugh, then makes them dance and sing, and then later on it makes them think.”
In spite of the passions this city arouses - both good and bad - it's that connection to the community that makes cities so great. As suburbanization and sprawl push us further and further away from the center city, and therefore our neighbors, walking into the little wonders of the city reminds me of how good it feels to be with my neighbors.
Image via CAH2007
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
A Quick Update
I've gotten a few emails from people asking me if I ever plan to update this poor neglected blog.
I do. I do.
It's just that, well, I've been busy. Like, really busy. It's the end of the semester, for one, and I'm turning in projects and writing finals. And I'm getting the PMI Master's Certificate at work. Which is just another hassle that I have to study for. None of which leaves me a whole lot of time to reflect on life, love and the City by the Lake.
Which doesn't mean that I won't be posting again. Just not soon.
So check back later in December.
In the meantime, here's something that reminded me of what it felt like to be four again. And seems sort of appropriate, given the current weather. Drop me an email....
Monday, November 26, 2007
Remembering What?
So the Harold Washington post that had been germinating in my head for a while made it up onto Chicagoist today. I think it turned out pretty good. The Washington story is a hard one to tell, for lots of reasons. It's such a saga, for one, and if you aren't at least a little familiar with the history of Chicago politics, it can be difficult to understand the backstory. It's also intensely personal for many people - even for me, and I wasn't there. (I might have been the most politically astute seven year old on my block, but still, too young to vote, volunteer or take an active role in city politics). Nevertheless, listening to Harold speak, seeing video of him, even campaign ads, brings back such Technicolor memories. I'm eight, nine again, sitting on the floor in my grandparent's living room, listening to the news and my uncles and cousins yelling and arguing about the Eddies and the union and the steel mills. It's as though I've internalized someone else's memories and nostalgia of a time that I never knew.
The girl and I have been talking about Harold a lot lately. She's cool like that; gets lefty politics, knows what she believes and why, but is still curious. Her and I come from parts of the city that many people don't know. Her from the Southwest Side, and I from the far Southeast. This past week has brought back some memories and feelings from a time long ago. Things that happened 25, 30 years ago, things that I didn't understand but knew or thought were bad, terrible horrible things have come rushing back into into my now bigger world. And through the lens of my adult life, they hurt a little more now.
***
I've noticed how easy it is to manufacture memories. Drinking at some Polish tap room on a Saturday night, sitting on a beat up couch at a party where you hardly know anyone, listening to music on an old Pioneer sound system. It's as though the entire experience has already been manufactured to be remembered fondly. It's a disposable memory, created and used as easily as it is tossed aside for the next good feeling. There's almost a hedonistic quality to it. 
Salim Muwakkil had a great piece in In These Times about the air of nostalgia surrounding Harold Washington's tenure.
It may be comforting to dream of those days and gloat about the triumphs and the promise of that era. But the Washington years happened because people were not dreaming or awash in nostalgia—they were awake and active.I wonder if, in all the remembering of those difficult four and a half years, we Chicagoans, like the Baby Boomers in their remembering of the Greatest Generation, have forgotten about how much work, pain and effort is required to really make something great.
Images via Harold! Photographs from the Harold Washington Years, and discarnatequern/Yonah Lewis
Saturday, November 17, 2007
Where Did This Guy Come From?
If you've been following the political football game our elected "leaders" have been playing with the CTA this year, then you heard Rick Harris, President of ATU Local 308 talking tough the other day about Doomsday 3. "Maybe we have to show exactly what a ‘Doomsday' looks like,” he announced in front of the press after Daley and Madigan "declined" Blagojevich's invitation to discuss an agreement on transit funding.
With 26 separate unions on the CTA, pulling off any kind of job action a la New York would be near impossible. Not that it can't be done, but TWU Local 100 didn't just pull that strike off over night. More importantly, however, is the fact that the unions of the CTA haven't gone on strike since 1979 (when Jane Byrne was mayor), and probably haven't done much organizing in those nearly thirty years since. Back in New York, nearly three years later, local 100 is still dealing with the fall out and political retribution from that three-day strike.
So when Daley backed up Harris on Friday, you'd think that he would lay low for a news cycle and let Da Mare work his magic. "Wouldn't you get frustrated if I tell you to do things and you did it and then all the sudden you come to me and say, 'I can't help you'?" Daley said. "This union has done a tremendous job. . . . No pay increase, reorganization of their pensions. Did everything legislators -- both Democrats and Republicans -- asked them to do. They came together with a historical agreement about public transportation." Instead, Harris started shooting his mouth off to the press again. "It might be a situation where I ask everybody to follow all standard operating procedures. If we followed every one of those rules to the letter, it would slow things down considerably," Harris said. "Another option is one day, we decide that everybody is just gonna call in sick."
The head of a public-sector union can be forgiven for saying something obtuse to the media under stress. Most public-sector union leaders don't have finely honed political chops. And why should they? They don't usually have to go to fight to the death for their membership. Not the way their private-sector counterparts do. I'm not advocating that a union leader let the boss call the shots for him. That's bad for the membership, it's bad politics, and it makes Harris look weak. But when you start writing checks your ass can't cash and the mayor of Chicago floats you a loan, it's shrewd to play your cards close to your chest.
Image via TheeErin
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
My Brain, Fried
Standing in line, waiting for coffee at the Intellegensia across the street from my office, my mind on the million and one things that needed to get done ten minutes ago.
Woman behind me: Excuse me, sir. Did you drop some money out of your back pocket?
Me: Uh, no?
Woman behind me: Oh. Because this was on the floor behind you. (Holding cash in hand.)
Me: Uh, wait a minute. (Fishes in pockets.) Oh, yeah, I guess I did. Thanks!
Woman behind me: Well, it was her, actually. (Points at woman walking by with a cup of coffee.)
Me: Oh. Well....
I wanted to buy her a cup of coffee to say thanks. She looks over and smiles as she walks by.
Me: Thanks! Your honesty will go unrewarded....
Woman behind me: That's the funniest thing I've heard all day.
Monday, November 12, 2007
One Night, A While Back
Early last Spring, we all headed out to Tuman's one night, and stumbled into what had to be one of the sickest DJ sets I've heard in a long time. Within 20 minutes almost everyone in the room was out on the dance floor. Drunk, sweaty, bodies bumping, this was the kind of dance party you usually only heard other people talk about. By the end of the night Major Taylor had worn us out, Tuman's was closed, and we were drunk.
Caroline brought her cello to my place earlier in the evening, intending to play with Fadil later. We headed back to the apartment, tired but excited. One of those moments you can't appreciate until it's over. Caroline on the cello, Fadil on the guitar, we settled into the cushions lining Fadil's Moroccan memory of a living room. Holly to my left, and I with my notebook, scribbling disjointed and drunken thoughts. Mila sat off to my right, and she snapped this photo.
I was playing around with my Flickr account tonite when I came upon this old photo, and the funny thing is that I can still remember the details of that night, some six months back. The thing I remember most vividly is the sound of Eisenhower's farewell address to the nation playing in the background as Caroline and Fadil made music. It's funny how the confluence of an image and a sound can come together to take you back to a time and a place. Six months isn't long, but that night feels so far away now.
You can listen to (and download) Eisenhower's complete speech here.
Craigslisted!
Craigslist really is the dregs of internet society. It's great if you are looking for an apartment or a job, and aren't naive about the world of work or clueless about the city. My friend Caroline tried to sell one of her old Cellos on CL once. She called me all excited because she got an email from a guy that was going to pay her the full price she was asking. She told he sounded really nice, and even though his English wasn't very good she was looking forward to meeting him. It turned out to be a scam.
So when I posted a zinger in the Casual Encounters section, I got an email back about ten minutes later:
Hi
I read your ad at the Chicago craigslist. What's your name? How old are you? I enjoy the company of real people, people who love themselves and aren't afraid of being that person. I recently graduated from UIC. Things I love: baseball, photography, hugging pups, spinning in circles, listening to groovy music, flip flops, being around my family, ummm, jogging, eating fruit, stretching my body out, and exploring new things with interesting people. What else do you want to know? Tell me more about what you do for fun. I'm being fairly spontaneous tonight, so bear with me.
So if you like what you see we can go from there. Please send pics too.
--
Psst... wanna know a secret? Click here
Life is short. Live life again. Have an affair.
Since I can't resist clicking on the links, I followed the links in the bogus email until I reached the Ashley Madison Agency.
This isn't what I had in mind when I posted a smart alec response to some else's desperate and vaguely self-unaware personal ad. I think the creepiest part of this email is that she says she "recently graduated from UIC". And that she's "being fairly spontaneous tonight". Even though the email arrived at 11:30 in the morning.
I don't know what it is about Craigslist, but it seems to bring out the worst in people. Aggressive, racist rants. Unsolicited cock pictures. Trolls luring the lonely and then publicly humiliating them. Seriously, I don't know why I even look. Regardless, I suddenly feel like monogamy has turned to monotony. So, I think now I'm going to have to cheat.
Saturday, November 10, 2007
Sweater Talk
I was sitting on the couch working on this little thing I call my blog, when the girl asked about the logo over the left breast of my sweater.
"Is that Benetton?"
"Yep. I got it in a thrift store years ago. Holes included."
"That's funny how moths eat holes in your clothes, but then it looks kind of cool."
"Right? Over the summer I noticed moths would come in through the back door." I usually leave the back door open in the evening for air circulation. Since I don't have a screen door, the apartment is open to the elements. "This made me a little nervous; like, were they going to eat my clothes?"
This conversation led to us asking Wikipedia about moths. Since Wikipedia knows everything, and everything on Wikipedia is always right, this seemed like a logical thing to do. Turns out that there are only a handful of moth species that eat wool. In fact, adult moths don't eat at all, since they lack mouths (creepy).
The best part, though, was the section of the entry titled "Notable Moths". They forgot to mention Mothra! I was going to login to Wikipedia to make the edit and bitch about the oversight in the Talk section. But then I got bored with the idea.
Image via Japanamator
Why You Should Support Striking Writers
Because I'm a writer, too.
Because even if you aren't in a union, you work for a living.
Because someday you may need the support of other workers.
Because class solidarity only works when we all stick together.
For more information, check out the strikers' blog, or the union's website. You can help out by signing the petition.
Thursday, November 8, 2007
It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas
I was walking down Jackson today to get some lunch, and as I passed the news stand next to Garrett's, I got my first glimpse of the 2007 Holiday Season.
Yes kids, Hustler's 2007 Holiday Issue is out, and not only do you get to see Faith Leon's Gorgeous Gifts, you can read Tucker Max's realization of his dream to fuck a midget, and the story of how Larry Flynt exposed Sen. David Vitter as a patron of prostitution.
I always liked the blue-collar sensibilities of Larry Flynt, so I guess forking over $11.99 to look at naked girls and read about the hypocrisy of a GOP Senator isn't too much to ask. With the rest of the capitalist world pandering to Hanukkah, though, I wonder what this issue offers the discerning Jewish masturbater.
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
A Trusted Source
Walking home from school tonite, I saw a billboard on the side of a bus that just about stopped me dead in my tracks.
The City of Chicago, a "Trusted Source"? The same city government that let the high-cost loan industry flourish in low-income neighborhoods, making Chicago the nation's capital for "high-cost" home loans? Fortunately for Chicagoans, they have the city's Department of Housing to protect them. And former aldermen like Ted Matlak, to thank.
With the domestic economy still lagging under the weight of the housing crisis, it's a sad fact that many people are stuck in homes they can't afford. It's hard to feel sorry for speculators who thought they could get into the housing market, hold an overvalued property for a few years and flip it for a quick and easy profit. When there is a TV show called "Flip That House", and a competing TV show called "Flip This House", you know the economy is fucked. But when regular people take a beating on a collapsing market, the just desserts don't taste as sweet.
Monday, November 5, 2007
Getting Fisked
I don't know what it is about the Fisk Generating Station at 1111 W. Cermak, but it's largess just does it for me. I see it everyday out the window of my office. I've taken a few pictures of the power plant, and while it is dramatic, it's not as dramatic as the State Line Generating Plant, which was literally built on the Indiana side of the Indiana-Illinois border. All this time I thought it was on the Chicago side, since all the power produced there is sold to ComEd.
The funny thing, to me at least, is that there is a movement in Pilsen and Little Village to clean up Fisk, and its sister plant Crawford. Built over a hundred years ago, they are exempt from the Clean Air Act, and combined they pump 230 lbs of mercury, 17,765 tons of sulfur dioxide and nitrogen oxide and 260,000 lbs of soot into the air of those surrounding communities. Down in the far South, however, State Line Generating is plugging away without complaint. That community is no stranger to fighting back against faceless corporations, so maybe State Line is in compliance.
There's something about a power plant looming over a low neighborhood, contrasted against church steeples on the skyline. From forty stories up in the Loop, there is a stoic beauty in the plant and the wisps of smoke drifting off the smokestack. I don't know what will happen with the power plants on the South West side; going back through my pictures of Fisk, though, it's clear I have a problem. I've taken way more pictures of the plant that I've posted on my Flickr page.
Friday, November 2, 2007
Swing, baby
I just got a new digital camera. Carrying an SLR around with you is a pain in the ass, but they're nice to have. Now I have a tough, little Sony CyberShot that I can keep in my pocket. Next is spiffing up my sad, neglected Flickr page. I put up a handful of shots tonite, and over the next few weeks, if it isn't too foggy around here, I'll make it even better. Along the way, I'm enjoying seeing the pictures of my friends (who are pretty good with a camera). I'll leave you with a shot that illustrates what I like best about my friend Mila Noko.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Lost in the Fog
Not the tide. But lost in a fog. There's a city in here, somewhere....
More later, I hope.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
The Tide of Life
I spent the summer after I dropped out of college living in the Indiana Dunes. I was house sitting for an anthropology professor who's course I had never taken. A friend of mine from the Steelworkers union put us together, and he was happy to have someone he felt he could trust stay in his home for three months while he wrote a book in Poland.
I remember one evening, in the middle of June. My friends and I had gotten in the habit of gathering driftwood and building a fire on the beach (a short two block walk from the house) and talking about the things that seem big and important when you are twenty, usually over a bottle of something or another. That evening I got to thinking about tides. I hadn't been to the ocean yet, and therefore hadn't seen the tide. But as we sat there under the stars, I looked up at the full moon and started wondering about the lunar effect of gravity on the lake. It occurred to me that if there could be a tide in the ocean, there must be a tide in other bodies of liquid as well. Glasses of water, brain fluid, bathtubs, even the bottle of wine we were almost finished with.
Out of this revelation my young adult mind had conjured, I began to think about the effects of gravity on other forces in my universe (small now, but smaller then). Could the cycle of the universe, the cycle of our solar system, our earth, our lives correspond to the natural cycles in motion in this impossibly huge gyroscope that God has set in motion impact our tiny lives as well? That summer I started paying attention to the ebb and flow of my life, and the lives around me. People come and people go. Relationships, friendships, loves and passions all ebb and flow. There are times when my life is so full, so balanced that I simply get up in the morning and move, drifting through my life without thought or concern. Other times it's hard: I get up in the morning and fight my way through a difficult slog of a day, looking forward to bed, knowing that I have only another tough day to wake up to.
I was thinking about that moment the other night. In the grand scheme of things, my life had been spinning along quite well. The tide was in. As of late, however, I've felt the tide flowing out. Another cycle of my life, (and perhaps the lives of those around me) flowing out into the sea of human experience. As I stepped off the bus and into the rainy fall Chicago night, I stopped for a moment, and looked up into the soupy sky. Is the tide going out again? I suppose only time will tell.
Image via AerocK
Monday, October 15, 2007
Pinback
I was walking to Metro with a friend Sunday night, talking about how enjoyable it is to have my weekends free. We were going to see Pinback, who are touring to support their new album. As I've mentioned before, not working on weekends is something that I still enjoy, a perk, rather than an entitlement.
I was talking about how much I enjoy going to see Sunday night shows. After spending a pretty crappy afternoon working on my take-home midterm, it was nice to get some fresh air and be around other, actual human beings.
Not surprisingly, we walked a few blocks to get to Metro - parking in Lakeview is so much worse than I remember. But it was a nice night, so I didn't mind.
"If I were still waiting tables, we'd just be heading out now. I would have made my money for the weekend, $160 in my pocket maybe? I'd have gotten home, taken a shower and changed. This would be the first time out for the weekend."
"A waiter's Friday night?" she asked.
"Yeah. I'd be doing laundry tomorrow, some homework. Maybe go dick around in a coffee shop or a bar later in the afternoon."
"That doesn't sound like too much fun."
"It wasn't," I said, chuckling at the memory of how much I hated it.
I've never seen Pinback live before, but I'm pretty familiar with their music - I have three or four of their albums. We got to the balcony of Metro just in time to get a couple of beers as they took the stage. Laid back indie rock on a Sunday night never sounded so good.
Friday, October 12, 2007
Living on the Edge
Most mornings I walk into work without giving my surroundings a second thought. Probably not a good quality for someone in commercial property management, but then I was never much of an over-achiever.
This week, though, I noticed something different. On Tuesday there was a white plastic lump propped up against the windows of the lobby of the Chicago Federal Center. Now, I'm used to seeing people out on the plaza - public buildings inevitably attract protesters and demonstrations. Redress of grievances and all that. Friday mornings AmeriCorps does calisthenics, neat rows of khaki and red doing push ups on granite in front of the Post Office that Mies van Der Rohe built. But this white lump was neither a newly minted undergraduate nor a Palestinian sympathizer. It was a person, a homeless woman specifically. I see far fewer homeless than you would expect in a city the magnitude of Chicago. I've seen many more in New York and Mexico City, and homelessness in Los Angeles is so pervasive it's practically an ethnicity.
The image of this person stayed in the back of my head for the rest of the day, and when I left for the evening, I looked over across the plaza and saw her still there. Every evening this week she was there, same place, folded over on one of the granite benches. So on Thursday when I ran into one of the guards, taking a smoke break in front of the building, I mentioned the visitor. "Have you noticed that woman out there?"
"Oh yeah, sure. We pay attention to what goes on around the building. Actually, a federal police officer went out there to talk to her, try and get her to move."
"Oh yeah?" I asked, curious. "What happened?"
"Nothing. I guess there's nothing we can do to get her out of here." That last statement broke my heart a little bit. I don't know why I would expect a guard in the federal building to have any compassion for a homeless woman, but I guess somewhere inside of my jaded heart I do.
"She says she's there to protest. They came and took her house. It's tied up in court, and she has lawyers fighting them. But she won't live in a regular house until she gets a ruling. It's her way of protesting, I guess."
I don't know how true any of that really is. The brief and confusing conversation I had with this woman made little sense, but based on what I know about the root causes of homelessness, I'd wager that she's living on the plaza in front of the federal building not to protest some perceived injustice, but because she lacks access to the resources that could take her off the street. With over 20 federal agencies located in the Chicago Federal Center, including Health and Human Services, Social Security and Housing and Urban Development, you would think that some middle manager somewhere would have realized that an opportunity to do community outreach was right in front of them. I realize that at the federal level these agencies don't do much front-line service provision. I guess I just wish that there was some way for a homeless woman, an American citizen, to get something more than a hassle from her government.
Image via miniwheatz007
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
The Death of a Reformer
I saw the obituary of David Schulz in the Tribune today. Mayor Harold Washington's first budget director, Shulz left Chicago after just eight months with the Washington administration, losing a power struggle with Washington's then Chief of Staff, William Ware. The Tribune obituary cites Shulz work on Washington's first budget, working with the former mayor to reign in a record $150 million deficit. A Tribune editorial in 1983 called him a financial whiz, who "seemed to know where every dime was going and why."
To get a sense of how much money that was in 1983, I turned to the Consumer Price Index for answers, it comes to $313,500,000 in 2007 dollars. Washington's budget balancing act was far more contentious than anything Daley has seen recently - he cut his own pay by 20 percent and laid off 700 city employees. Stymied and fought at every turn by an angry and bitter voting block in the City Council, Chicago inched forward in those years, and Washington oversaw change in the city, putting more of a focus on neighborhoods and the people that live there.
I was pretty young when Washington became mayor, and I don't remember much of those years; they were divisive, but aside from a few family members talking about supporting Washington and the emotions that support elicited in their neighborhood, I was far removed from the racism and pain of those years. As I watch the city struggle to balance a budget that is hovering around a $300 million deficit, however, I'm reminded of the kind of mayor Washington was.
Which takes me back to David Schulz. After leaving Chicago, Schulz went on to work in Milwaukee, a city with a long history of progressive politics. He taught at Northwestern University, and published academic research. He was a specialist in transit issues, commenting on the CTA, in good times and bad. Politically astute, surely, but we versed in the language of management science.
And as I sit here writing this, listing to This American Life's story of Washington 15 years after his death, I'm stunned, again, at the lack of foresight, wisdom and planning of the mayor and his administration in city hall today.
Thursday, October 4, 2007
The Mysterious Workings of Faith
I've always been interested in faith. Not just as a spiritual force, but as a cultural and ethnic influence as well. I went to a Catholic high school, and even though I was raised Protestant, I felt a sense of connection with the Catholic community there. Later, in college I spent some time trying to decide if I was Buddhist, Baha'i, or Muslim. When I moved back to Chicago in my mid-twenties, I decided I was Methodist. Although I was confirmed Lutheran at twelve, I'm not sure that's a decision you can make when you are that young. At the time I thought that I understood what I was committing to. Looking back, of course I didn't.
So when I opened the newspaper last Sunday, the first article I read was about the Mexican skeletal icon Santa Muerte. The Roman Catholic Church doesn't recognize the icon, and regards her as "satanic". For Mexicans that are connected to the spiritual movement behind Santa Muerte, however, she has emerged as a representation of a darker path that ultimately leads back to God.
This has become problematic to the church.
"I'm concerned about it because it's an aberration. It's a misunderstanding of faith. It's taking a Catholic concept of the holy death of Christ and personifying it with this skeletal figure," Rev. Esequiel Sanchez, pastor of Mary, Queen of Heaven in Cicero told the Tribune. "At the same time, I can understand why it's growing. Many people, especially Mexican immigrants, are feeling that institutions are abandoning them and are grasping for spiritual help wherever they can. When they come to me with Santa Muerte, I'm not interested in why they worship her. I'm more interested in how they got to that point."
Mexican novelist and poet Homero Aridjis, who wrote a book about the movement, and counts narcotraffickers, corrupt cops and politicians among Santa Muerte’s followers, traces the devotion to Santa Muerte to pre-Hispanic indigenous cultures. The Aztecs had a death goddess named Mictlantecuhtli, for example, and there is some speculation among historians that the Virgin of Guadalupe is a syncretic representation of both the Christian Virgin Mary and the indigenous Mexican goddess Tonantzin. A merger of the Christian death of Christ and indigenous polytheistic gods isn't that far-fetched, then.
In the US it seems that Santa Muerte came to cities like Chicago with immigration, crossing borders with laborers seeking another life. With that migration, churches in Chicago have had to confront devotion to the icon, and what she represents.
While Santa Muerte may be difficult for the Church to reconcile, it isn't difficult on the streets of Chicago. At the Botanica de Michoacan on Milwaukee, the owner of the shop has made his peace with Santa Muerte. "I don't worship her," he tells me. "I just sell her." In a city full of people that probably feel alone and disconnected from the culture, tradition and history of their land, such familiar icons bring comfort, even if there is a spiritual price to pay. And I think Father Sanchez gets that, too.
Image via hey_mando
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
The Price of Patronage
Six years of patronage hiring hit home Friday, as 1,451 people filed claims alleging they were denied city jobs or passed over for promotions because they lacked clout. The claims are part of a settlement between the city and attorney Michael Shakman to end the nearly 40 year old Shakman decree. That agreement, which also created a federal hiring monitor, established a $12 million fund to pay up to $100,000 each in lost earnings to victims of patronage. The Shakman Decree prevents the city from hiring or promoting most people based on political factors.
Taking the time to sort through all of the claims (which only apply to allegations between 2000 and May 2007) won't be easy - or quick. Noelle Brennan, the federal hiring monitor appointed by U.S. District Judge Wayne Andersen, said Monday that she will need more time to investigate the claims and determine how much - if any - each claimant is owed. Brennan, who oversaw the sexual harassment settlement at Mitsubishi Motors in 1998, said she didn't know what the final total for claim awards would be, but that they probably exceed the $12 million in the fund. Her work has already cost the city over $1.65 million. With the feds looking at the Hispanic Democratic Organization, former Streets and Sanitation Commissioner and HDO leader Al Sanchez is still awaiting trial with four others, and more than a year left until the city will have the chance to get out of the Shakman Decree, it seems likely that Chicago will continue to pay the price for years of patronage.
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
A Quick Trip Through the Loop
It's been a little over a year since I started a 9-to-5 job. In fact, prior to taking my current position, I'd always worked unconventional jobs. You know, the kind where you live out of a suitcase, or get paid in cash, or work all weekend for the bulk of your income. So, most of my experiences taking the L downtown occur before nine am - packed train, morning hustle, silent, groggy chaos.
On Monday, though, I got to take the train through the Loop in the late afternoon. I took the day off work to study for my mid-term, and I was riding the Blue line south toward UIC. If you've ever spent an entire weekend and a whole workday at home with your nose in a graduate-level textbook, you know how weird it makes you. You look up at the clock and realize that two hours have gone by. Your coffee is cold and your cigarette has burned out. Your living room doesn't look like it should. And talking to people? Forget about it. After expending all that brain power on abstract concepts, you're pretty much socially retarded.
As I stood on the platform waiting for the train, the still-high autumn sun beaming down on Chicago, I got a good look at the people I used to see everyday when I headed off to wait tables. Pregnant Latinas, grocery clerks, college students and everyone else that lives too far north. Further down the line, the train pulled into the Clark street stop and I watched from my seat as the car exhaled a flurry of people, only to inhale still more. Peppered with people, the Blue line rolled through the Loop in quiet reflection, just another ride, just another day.
By the time the train was headed West out of the Loop, a different set of people had taken the car: professionals leaving early, students living on the edge of the downtown, West side workers heading home after a day spent taking out the garbage in gleaming office towers. And me, the erstwhile grad student.
Image via RieBo
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Down in the Port
Last weekend I rode my bike down to Bridgeport for a friend's barbecue.
I haven't spent a lot of time around the Port, except to go to White Sox games. The summer before last I walked from the Red Line to Back of the Yards with my camera, and mostly got dirty looks from everyone all the way to the stockyards. When I was living in Pullman, I heard stories about the Chicago police dropping black guys off down there when they decided they couldn't get anything more out of them. And I've known a few operatives that rented down that way; it seems like there's something about being down there that matters to a fledgling career as a hired gun in Chicago politics. So that's pretty much my impression of the area.
It wasn't until I wrote a piece for Lumpen a few months ago and wound up at the Co-Prosperity Sphere, that I got a good look at the other side of Bridgeport. I've always thought of that neighborhood as this lily white area full of Irish motherfuckers. Which is only partially true. The rest of the neighborhood is Mexicans, Chinese, and what I've heard called "Mutants" - a shockingly true description of who hangs out in the street down there. Oddly enough Chris lives right around the corner, having just recently moved down around 32nd and Morgan. I go visit him sometimes; we mostly sit on his porch and drink beer.
So last week I'm riding down Halsted, and I hook a right on 32nd Street. It's dark out - the sun had gone down a while back, and Chris sent me a text message while I was at Chuck's, and I was headed over for more booze.
As I roll down 32nd, the street narrows, and the houses loom over me in the dark. Kids playing in the street, moms on the porch. I close my eyes, and for a minute, just one small moment, I'm back in Mexico City, sitting on a bench and watching dirty faced kids play soccer.
The name of the city is different, but the feelings are the same, I guess.
Friday, September 28, 2007
Elizabeth
I’m sitting on the edge of Elizabeth’s bed, in my shorts. I can hear her peeing behind the closed bathroom door, just around the corner. There is sunlight pouring through the spaces of the blinds that cover her window. A car drives by, and I can hear a kid yelling on the street below. I used to sit in class in elementary school and wonder what it was like to not have to be in class in the middle of the day. This is what it’s like. I think about this every time I see someone that looks like they should be somewhere else during the weekday. I stand up and start putting my pants on. I can hear the change in my pocket as I pull the button closed and start to buckle my belt. The toilet flushes, and Elizabeth coughs. I snap my Zippo shut as I drag off my cigarette, and pad to the living room to put my boots on. I’m wearing my peacoat, unbuttoned still, and am leaning forward to tie my boots. Elizabeth comes out of the bathroom in her panties and t-shirt. I finish tying my boots and stand up. Even without the boots on, I tower over her. She comes up to me and runs her hand up under my sweater, pushing my t-shirt up a little and dragging her fingernails over my belly. “Leaving already?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s sooo cold out side.” I can hear the temperature in her breath. Elizabeth’s apartment is really warm, and I can see the heat as it swirls out the open window in her living room.
“I’ll call you,” I say, stepping to the front door and putting my cap on. The lock clicks behind me, and I’m in the narrow hallway going down to the street below. I never realized how threadbare her place is, but it’s cozy, like going home. Everything she does seems to just put you right at ease. The cup of coffee she had waiting when I first showed up. The clean ashtray. It’s like she’s just waiting around for me to show up and talk to her. When I first started coming to see her, just this summer past, I remember how her apartment was; shades drawn, fans placed on the open windows. The sound of the street below; a cross breeze in the kitchen. Cold bottles of High Life in the fridge. I loved how she sat on the chair, her leg tucked up against her small breasts, a bare foot poking out from the second-hand jeans that were a little too long for her diminutive frame.
I step out into the sunlight and slip my sunglasses on. This is my favorite time of the winter; bright, cold, sunny. The holidays are over, and everyone is just back at work. It’s really not that cold out—no wind; but coming out of the heavy heat of her apartment I can feel why she thinks it’s so cold. Warm enough, it was, to spend the day in shorts and a t-shirt. I’m walking down the street to my car and I can feel the salt crunching under my boots. The Blue Line rumbles by a few blocks back. I’m fingering the keyless entry button in my pocket as I walk towards my car.
As I sit in the drivers seat, I’m collecting my thoughts, the key sitting in the ignition. I turn the engine over, and turn the radio off as soon as I hear it. For some reason, it seems that Elizabeth always has the best records. When ever I ask what she’s been up to, it’s like Rolling Stone, this band and that band, all the shows. I always thought I had good taste in music, but man, she’s always on to the next band. I bought her a CD once, I was so sure she was going to like it. I looked through her CDs few weeks later. I was let down when the disc wasn’t in there.
I stub my cigarette out in the ashtray and put the car into gear. Pulling out on to North Ave, I head west. Elizabeth. I remember once when I came to see her. She went in the other room to take a call and I started poking around some of her stuff. I found a straw with some blood on it under some papers on her desk. I think the word for what I felt was disappointment. I never said anything. I’ve thought about what I would say. What could I say? Nothing, I suppose.
Image via The XGP
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Well, Here We Go...
I've always avoided putting together a blog of my own. I thought it was pretentious. Like, who cares what you think? I was derisive of blogging; I remember when they were called webpages I would scoff.
Then, about a year ago I found myself writing politics for that ephemeral of-the-moment darling Chicagoist. And that's when all of that changed.
I met people that wrote. People that thought of themselves as writers, who wrote stories and essays, for publication and for themselves.
I guess I've always written. I used to struggle to write these silly, self-indulgent short stories. I never really liked them. Sure, there was a section that I enjoyed reading, a sentence or two that I was really proud of. But overall I struggled to produce what I thought a Writer was supposed to write. You know, Big Important Things. Now I feel like less is more, and that simply telling the story of your day to day is much more interesting. In a way, Chicagoist took me there.
So here we go....
Image via rogercastoro
