We packed a truck for a guy moving back to Arkansas yesterday.
His father was there. He had a camera hanging from his neck, and suspenders holding up his jeans, over his t-shirt. He was hard of hearing, and any time I said anything to the father, he just looked at me. Every response was slow, brief, and through gritted teeth. At one point, I asked if he had a knife, so I could cut some rope. He replied that he did not carry a knife anymore, because he was sick of them getting confiscated on airplanes.
Being the judgmental person I am, I thought him to be uneducated and a bit backwater. Ironic I suppose, considering my own occupation.
But then I guess he took a little walk and saw something on the dashboard of our own truck. He came back and said "You know, a Thousand Splendid Suns is depressin' as all get out."
"I...know. I...just finished it."
"Somehow, it's even more depressin' than the Kite Runner."
For the rest of the job, he sat outside, watching me pack the truck, and we talked literature. We didn't get too deep into analysis, but he was more well-read than most of the people I know.
I couldn't help but smile at this old man, with suspenders over his t-shirt, who didn't carry knives anymore because of the TSA.
Thank you, Mr. Jones. You reminded me to Always Expect More out of people than you can tell by first glance.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Repeat.
I've been sitting here, trying to find a way to set a setting. A warm, humid night. Streets surprisingly empty. No one is stooping tonight, even though it's perfect weather for it. The ice cream truck that is usually blaring "Do your ears hang low?" is not sitting in front of the fire hydrant is absent. And I peacefully walked with Galt, allowing him to stop and sniff, and pee on people's flowers as he wished.
The only people I see, a pair of children about 6, run to their gate and ask if they can pet my dog. Sure. They think he's soft, and pretty, and I tell them to have a good night, don't wander too far, and we turn the corner.
I make it about 2 houses down, and I see a kid, about 15, come sprinting out of the alley. He runs to the middle of the street, and turns right, away from me. I stop. Reflexively, Galt sits down, and looks at me, awaiting instruction. I look at him, and reassure him. You're a good dog, Galt. Good boy.
More kids come sprinting down the alley. Probably six of them, the same age or so as the first, and they see him. They turn to follow. One kid stops, cocks his arm, and launches a rock. The first kid, who is probably 20 yards ahead of them, clutches the back of his head, and crumples to the ground. They are yelling. The voices are upbeat, congratulatory, but I can't make out any specific words. More kids come running out of the alley behind the first group. Three or four of them. They stop, and look in my direction. They see me. I see them. They're probably 15 feet away from me, and down the street there is the sound of kicking. Of vengeance. But between me and these other kids, just silence.
It feels like minutes pass, but it's more like a handful of seconds. I pull at Galt's leash, and turn and walk the other way. I turn the corner, heading back the way I came. Galt's admirers are gone, and I walk quickly back toward home. I hear a siren approaching, but I never see any lights by the time I make it back home.
The only people I see, a pair of children about 6, run to their gate and ask if they can pet my dog. Sure. They think he's soft, and pretty, and I tell them to have a good night, don't wander too far, and we turn the corner.
I make it about 2 houses down, and I see a kid, about 15, come sprinting out of the alley. He runs to the middle of the street, and turns right, away from me. I stop. Reflexively, Galt sits down, and looks at me, awaiting instruction. I look at him, and reassure him. You're a good dog, Galt. Good boy.
More kids come sprinting down the alley. Probably six of them, the same age or so as the first, and they see him. They turn to follow. One kid stops, cocks his arm, and launches a rock. The first kid, who is probably 20 yards ahead of them, clutches the back of his head, and crumples to the ground. They are yelling. The voices are upbeat, congratulatory, but I can't make out any specific words. More kids come running out of the alley behind the first group. Three or four of them. They stop, and look in my direction. They see me. I see them. They're probably 15 feet away from me, and down the street there is the sound of kicking. Of vengeance. But between me and these other kids, just silence.
It feels like minutes pass, but it's more like a handful of seconds. I pull at Galt's leash, and turn and walk the other way. I turn the corner, heading back the way I came. Galt's admirers are gone, and I walk quickly back toward home. I hear a siren approaching, but I never see any lights by the time I make it back home.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Stock photos.
Rosetta Stone (the language learning program) must have paid a fortune for every stock photo of eggs that could possibly be found.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Friday, March 20, 2009
Maintaining my humanity.
We do a lot of work with the Chicago Community Development Corporation. CCDC.
CCDC essentially runs large swaths of public housing in the city. When they renovate buildings, we move their residents to the new buildings as they then renovate the old.
CCDC jobs are impossible to prepare for. My boss tried to prep me before I went. He told me sometimes there's roaches. And it's dirty. And the people don't really like you. And I figured, eh, I'll deal with it. Can't be that bad.
Usually it's not that bad. Yes, it's dingy. The units are run down. It's in unsafe neighborhoods. The residents often speak little English, and are generally unprepared for the move, and more than a little hostile. But really, you do it, quickly, get out, and go home. Forget about it.
Forget about the poverty. Forget about how people who have it worse off than me live. And it's easy to pillory them for their poverty. FOr the squalor in which they live. To think of myself as better than them for not having crumbling furniture and apartments largely full of trash.
Today was the same. Well, worse.
------------------
We followed Tony up the stairs, and he stopped at the door.
"I should probably warn you guys..."
I stopped him. "I...don't think I wanna hear this Tony. Don't do this to me."
He looked me me, then at Checkmate Tony, then at the new guy and apologised profusely. Right before he opened the door, he kind of sucked in his breath. I didn't know why, until he opened the door. Like witnessing a scene of violence, our eyes all opened wide, and we moved our heads back.
At first, I thought it was the wrong apartment. There was not much furniture to speak of. Some bookcases, a TV stand or two, a couple TVs. But, mostly, it looked like the house had been ransacked. Piles of papers were spread across the floor, bunches of keys, christmas ornaments, DVDs, food wrappers. A coffee table missing a leg, 2 computer monitors, 2 violin cases, a piano, an air conditioner the size of nightstand. Every surface sticky with caked on grime and grease. A cat scampered down the hallway, meowing desperately. The bed, not white, but yellow, completely stained with urine. The closet doors unable to close, because they were jammed to the point of overflowing.
When we got to the new apartment, I was a bit shocked. The woman we moved was wheelchair bound. I guess this did not surprise me. What surprised me was the man living with her. He appeared to be about 30. He had a mullet, and a nasty little mustache that looked like the only facial hair he could grow. He was a Jewel employee, by the emblem on his shirt.
The first thing I thought upon seeing him was: you motherfucker. You're using this poor woman (she was older, about 55, overweight and black.) You're living rent free on our tax dollars, and taking from this woman. You son of a bitch. Scum. Fucking scum.
But then it occurred to me. If this woman had anyone else, he wouldn't be here. She couldn't care for herself the way she needed to. Her old apartment was on the third floor, and she was incapable of walking. For her to leave, he had to take her down the stairs. He kept track of her medicines, and her daily life, and in return, he had a place to live. She needed him as much as he needed her. And if she had no family, or they didn't care enough to do it, it's in fact completely necessary that he be there.
Every so often, these things remind me of my humanity. Remind me that judging people without knowing them doesn't make me better than them, it makes me worse. And it reminds me that I have a lot of way to go when it comes to understanding life.
CCDC essentially runs large swaths of public housing in the city. When they renovate buildings, we move their residents to the new buildings as they then renovate the old.
CCDC jobs are impossible to prepare for. My boss tried to prep me before I went. He told me sometimes there's roaches. And it's dirty. And the people don't really like you. And I figured, eh, I'll deal with it. Can't be that bad.
Usually it's not that bad. Yes, it's dingy. The units are run down. It's in unsafe neighborhoods. The residents often speak little English, and are generally unprepared for the move, and more than a little hostile. But really, you do it, quickly, get out, and go home. Forget about it.
Forget about the poverty. Forget about how people who have it worse off than me live. And it's easy to pillory them for their poverty. FOr the squalor in which they live. To think of myself as better than them for not having crumbling furniture and apartments largely full of trash.
Today was the same. Well, worse.
------------------
We followed Tony up the stairs, and he stopped at the door.
"I should probably warn you guys..."
I stopped him. "I...don't think I wanna hear this Tony. Don't do this to me."
He looked me me, then at Checkmate Tony, then at the new guy and apologised profusely. Right before he opened the door, he kind of sucked in his breath. I didn't know why, until he opened the door. Like witnessing a scene of violence, our eyes all opened wide, and we moved our heads back.
At first, I thought it was the wrong apartment. There was not much furniture to speak of. Some bookcases, a TV stand or two, a couple TVs. But, mostly, it looked like the house had been ransacked. Piles of papers were spread across the floor, bunches of keys, christmas ornaments, DVDs, food wrappers. A coffee table missing a leg, 2 computer monitors, 2 violin cases, a piano, an air conditioner the size of nightstand. Every surface sticky with caked on grime and grease. A cat scampered down the hallway, meowing desperately. The bed, not white, but yellow, completely stained with urine. The closet doors unable to close, because they were jammed to the point of overflowing.
When we got to the new apartment, I was a bit shocked. The woman we moved was wheelchair bound. I guess this did not surprise me. What surprised me was the man living with her. He appeared to be about 30. He had a mullet, and a nasty little mustache that looked like the only facial hair he could grow. He was a Jewel employee, by the emblem on his shirt.
The first thing I thought upon seeing him was: you motherfucker. You're using this poor woman (she was older, about 55, overweight and black.) You're living rent free on our tax dollars, and taking from this woman. You son of a bitch. Scum. Fucking scum.
But then it occurred to me. If this woman had anyone else, he wouldn't be here. She couldn't care for herself the way she needed to. Her old apartment was on the third floor, and she was incapable of walking. For her to leave, he had to take her down the stairs. He kept track of her medicines, and her daily life, and in return, he had a place to live. She needed him as much as he needed her. And if she had no family, or they didn't care enough to do it, it's in fact completely necessary that he be there.
Every so often, these things remind me of my humanity. Remind me that judging people without knowing them doesn't make me better than them, it makes me worse. And it reminds me that I have a lot of way to go when it comes to understanding life.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Down with Big Brother.
I've always loved dystopian literature. I cannot count how many times I've read 1984 and Brave New World. Cumulatively, probably two dozen. If not more.
The nature of their societies is certainly fascinating. But from a more logistical standpoint, the means by which they reveal them is even more interesting.
Narrators are always outsiders in a society that is supposed to have no outsiders. In perfect worlds, there is no dissent. No resistance. In 1984, Newspeak was eventually going to wipe out the ability to disagree. To make thoughtcrime impossible. In Brave New World, the dissent comes from the perspective of an Alpha. Someone part of the indoctrination, who is cognizant of the falsehoods being purported.
Really though, the thing that separates the best from the B-grade movies are the way the story is told. The teasing out of mundane details that even the protagonists seem to take for granted. The Two-Minute Hate. Hypnopaedia. Telescreens. Soma. Oceania has always been at war with Eurasia. Ending is better than mending.
On a related note. It's a shame Margaret Atwood's The Handmaid's Tale isn't included in the discussion of the great dystopian novels. Maybe it's just too new. But really, it deserves to be there.
The nature of their societies is certainly fascinating. But from a more logistical standpoint, the means by which they reveal them is even more interesting.
Narrators are always outsiders in a society that is supposed to have no outsiders. In perfect worlds, there is no dissent. No resistance. In 1984, Newspeak was eventually going to wipe out the ability to disagree. To make thoughtcrime impossible. In Brave New World, the dissent comes from the perspective of an Alpha. Someone part of the indoctrination, who is cognizant of the falsehoods being purported.
Really though, the thing that separates the best from the B-grade movies are the way the story is told. The teasing out of mundane details that even the protagonists seem to take for granted. The Two-Minute Hate. Hypnopaedia. Telescreens. Soma. Oceania has always been at war with Eurasia. Ending is better than mending.
On a related note. It's a shame Margaret Atwood's The Handmaid's Tale isn't included in the discussion of the great dystopian novels. Maybe it's just too new. But really, it deserves to be there.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
More Logan Square.
It seems that every night for the past 2 weeks or so, I've heard police sirens racing by. Every night car alarms go off a number of times. Every night, there is yelling and running down the street - the sound of chase.
And every night I think "The people who say that poverty and crime have no relation" know neither poverty, nor crime.
And every night I think "The people who say that poverty and crime have no relation" know neither poverty, nor crime.
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