Deep thought.

It is really difficult to consume 1500 calories before 8:00 AM.

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.

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.

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.

I am not Filipino.

I'm not.

I mean, I am. But really, I'm not. I don't speak Tagalog. I enjoy the food, but can make nothing but mediocre adobo. I don't know the cultural customs. I have never visited. Hell, I don't even have a particular plan on if or when I am going to visit.

The reality of the situation for myself, and for most people, is that we are American with ethnic ancestry. Most people haven't visited the countries their relatives/ancestors came from. Most people don't speak the language. Most people don't really know the culture of their home countries.

I am not really Filipino, or Polish, or Spanish. I am American. I just happen to be brown.



PS. No, you are not 1/64th Cherokee.

I have to get out of Logan Square.

"Who you with?"
"No one."
He demanded to know again. "Who you with?"
"No one man."
He leaned out, so his back was to the aisle, and he kept pulling the hood of his sweatshirt closer to his face, so to make sure no one else could see him. "Don't lie to me Nigga. I know. Who the fuck you with?"
"Really, no one."
"Bullshit, nigga. I'm a King. I can tell."

He was bald, about 6'3". He had a thin mustache, and some hair on his chin. His stare bore into me, his pupils huge from some sort of drug. His head was cocked slightly to the side the whole time, and he struggled to keep his eyes completely open.

"What are you listening to?"
"Rodrigo y Gabriella."
"What the fuck is that?"
I told him it was Spanish guitar. He wouldn't like it.
He leaned his head very close to mine and "I want to hear it" escaped from clenched teeth. He never took his eyes off me.
I handed him my headphones, but didn't hand him the player. He listened, and asked what else I had on it.
"Not much."
"I think I'll take it, and find out myself."
He tried to reach into my pocket to grab my mp3 player out of it. I grabbed his wrist firmly. "No."
"What motherfucker?" Suddenly his eyes opened all the way. His pupils became a little smaller. His focus was tangible.
I told him that he, in fact, was not taking it.
He looked at me, unsure of how to react. He decided by throwing my headphones back at me. "Keep it bitch. But get the fuck up. We're getting out. We gonna fight."
I slowly placed the headphones in my pocket and met his gaze. "Alright."

"What nigga? You wanna fight?"
"Of course not." I'm not sure how steady my voice sounded. I stood up.
"You don't wanna fight? Then why'd you say okay?"
I stared at him for a second before giving my reply. "If we're gonna fight, we're gonna fight. Ain't nothin I can do about that but defend myself."
He pointed to the door, and said "You first."
Instead of getting out the back door of the bus, I slowly walked to the front of the bus, and just stood by the door. He didn't follow me, but stood by the back door. Waiting for me to get off.

So we waited. A block went by. Then 2 more. We picked up some passengers, and still I stood by the front door. He sat down, but didn't avert his look.
A few blocks later, and we hit some traffic. He was looking out the window. He looked out, then to his side, then to his back.
As he was looking back, I asked the driver if I could just get out here. He said nothing, but the door opened, and I slipped quickly out. I took a few quick steps til I got to the corner, and made the turn.

I didn't look back until I had sprinted halfway down the street.The sun was setting, and I couldn't tell who the person was, walking down the street toward me. I turned back around and continued my hard sprint. Around that first corner, and I kept running. This block was empty. I got halfway down the street, and turned back to look again. Still empty. I slowed my pace, but continued to jog to the next street, looking over my shoulder two or three more times. I turned left, and slowed to walk. As soon as I got to the next busy street, I leaned on the streetlight. Finally, after I caught my breath, I walked slowly to the train station. I didn't see him again.



I'd have thought eventually I'd get used to situations like this. But I haven't. I don't think I ever will.

9/24/07.

My favorite concert ever started like most concerts I've been to. You show up a little late, to avoid the terrible opening bands. You find the optimal standing room taken already, so you do your best to maneuver to somewhere in 'the middle,' and wait as the last opening band finishes up their lackluster set. As they do, the handful of friends they have at the show cheer maniacally, but every else just sort of settles in, to await the main act.

You stand, and you wait in relative darkness, as more and more people file in. You notice the space around you get smaller and smaller, until someone is dangerously close to your ass, while you're dangerously close to someone else's ass. You shift your weight from foot to foot, wishing you had arrived early enough to snag a seat, or a good wall or railing to lean against. You start to sweat, but only on the inside of your shirt, and it drips slowly down your body, but there is no way to cool off, except to fight your way through the now full venue and lose your valuable standing space.

So you wait. And you get thirsty, wishing beers weren't 9 bucks, and waters weren't 4. And someone around you smells. Not just of alcohol, but of having not showered since last night, and you can't figure out who it is. You see an occasional person walk across the stage, checking sound levels, making sure all the wires are plugged in. Every time someone new walks across the stage, you crane your neck to try to see around the tall guy in the hat who decided to plant himself in front of you. A group of Asians chats excitedly and quickly somewhere behind you.

That was all typical at the best concert I've been to. But that moment when things suddenly get a little darker, and everyone cuts the conversation...that was just buildup. It started out slow. A few flashes of light, a low meandering bassline.

Then, it started.

I can't describe it very well. Honestly, I was rather overwhelmed. The first song had video with old 50's style Russian Industrialist/Communist propaganda video.

Link.

I admit, the Chemical Brothers are not my favorite band, and the Riv is not my favorite venue. But man. That night, was something else.