Two tales of the federal government

    An example is not proof. At best, a hint, an indication. One example does not settle the argument, though bigots —and always remember that prejudice is a form of ignorance —offer up their instance or two. Or make them up, when they can't be bothered to find a fact. And pretend that the matter is settled. 

     When it is certainly not settled. An episode may illustrate a greater truth. Or might be deceptive, an outlier. 

    Last week, two stories related to the federal government caught my attention, and though neither represents a vastly complex situation, they do neatly bookend the range of possibility.       

     The first is from me:      

   Wow. Give it up for the United States government. It takes a lickin' and keeps on tickin.'

    I'm serious, or semi-serious anyway. Given that Cheetolini and his henchman Elon and whoever else is in a position to grab a fistful of wires and pull have been tearing at the federal bureaucracy for almost a year now, well, you'd expect the whole thing to grind to a sheering halt. 

     And yet.

     So we're planning an overseas trip for the spring. Airplane tickets. Hotel rooms. Tickets to the palace. And I noticed that my passport will expire six months, minus a few days, after the trip is set to end. Which is technically fine, and would probably get shrugged off, most likely. Although: if your passport isn't valid for six months, in some places it isn't accepted. There are stories.

     I am what they call "a worrier." You probably already figured that out. And I knew as the cab pulled away from my house, heading off to our big trip, in addition to my worrying about the toaster coming to life and setting fire to the drapes which we don't have, and the refrigerator door hanging open, and everything else I conjure up to mock the idea that I am Conradian wanderer out of Lord Jim, I'll also worry until we get back that every checkpoint we pass would snag me on my passport. "Oh sorry Mr., ah, Steinberg, your whole trip is ruined because your passport expires five months and 27 days after this trip is scheduled to end..."

     So I did something uncharacteristic. I took action, took care of it. I went online, filled out the form. My wife took my photo against a white wall —the first one was rejected, so we took another, and that was fine, except for the aging. I filled out the forms, checked the boxes, plugged in the credit card number, and was done at 11 a.m. on Wednesday, Dec. 10.

     The passport arrived — mirabile dictu —  in the mail Saturday. Three days and change later. About 76 hour after we applied. Yes, I paid an extra $22 for quick delivery —in the money bonfire that is a vacation, it seemed a minor expense.  

    So the government works, right. Not necessarily. Consider this second tale, from reader Elaine Sniegowski:

      After a reunion of old nurser friends at a local restaurant today, I headed home with only one stop along the way — the post office in Tinley Park. Who would ever believe what happened next? Waiting in a short line in front of the service counter in the post office I noticed a small handwritten sign. “No stamps. Sorry!”
     Unbelievable ! How could a post office not have stamps?
     Raising my voice a little, I called to the lone worker at the counter and asked “When will you have stamps?” Not until Monday he replied. Two whole days from now.
     My Tinley Park Post office had failed me. And at Christmas time. Another lady in line called to me, “Try Jewel” I didn’t want to try Jewel. I wanted my stamps from the post office . So, I headed home stampless. Cards lingering on my desk, impossible to mail. Maybe on Monday….maybe.

    And the truth lies ... no doubt somewhere in between. If it helps, Tuesday I was at the Northbrook post office substation on Church Street, sending a couple packages. They had plenty of stamps, and I bought a booklet, just in case. 

Why does Israel keep defending itself?

Street protest, 2014

   

     There was a lot of reaction to Monday's column. Most of it positive, from people glad to see that attitude in the newspaper. But there was one puzzled response. I'm sharing it because it reflects a common attitude:

     Yes, another comment on today's column regarding the murders on Bondi Beach.
     No one deserves to die this way. Or, to die because some other doesn't agree with them.
     Not being Jewish, I perhaps will never understand why the debacle in Gaza as a response to October 7th was necessary. I also most likely will never understand why Israel insists on treating Palestinians living there and in the West Bank the way they do. I will never understand why Israel feels a constant need to defend itself, and, in the process, create an excess of hate among those outside who see that said "defense" as genocide, It's almost as if constant war and fighting is the lifeblood of Israel. And cruelty to people with impunity is somehow fair. Why is it that a Jewish life is worth more than a Palestinian one?
     You wrote, "once you view them not as individuals, but as faceless members of groups, you're capable of anything." And so, it is. Deaths due to genocide are not worse because of the ethnicity of the victims. Or even the number.
     I read the book "Being Jewish After the Destruction of Gaza", by Peter Bienart. You are probably familiar with it. It outlines the historical sins of the Jewish people, who are hardly a non-violent population. I ended up with more understanding of the history, but I still do not have a good answer to why it can't stop itself from continuing its' poor treatment of others. Is there no forgiveness to be had ever? Will the Palestinians ever be allowed to live in the small area of land that is supposed to be theirs without constant illegal encroachment by Israel?
     I'm an outsider to all this. Make it make sense. Make it stop.
     I wish you could explain to people like me. Just a person trying to live my life.
     Barb O.
     Cedar Lake, IN

     A lot to unpack. But anything in particular stand out for you? It did for me. I replied:

     I doubt I could explain it to you. "I will never understand why Israel feels a constant need to defend itself" seems to suggest that you can't even perceive that Israel is constantly being attacked. Or maybe just don't care. Maybe you should ask yourself why Palestinian suffering so moves you, while you can't even see Jewish suffering. I have an idea, but I'd rather you think about it. There might be some insight to be found there. Maybe not.
     NS

     I didn't expect a response, but I got one — criticizing me for being "to close to the issue" to share her indifference to Jewish life and shifting the topic. A reminder why response is fairly pointless.

     I appreciate your taking the time to respond.
     I was hoping perhaps to gain some insight into this issue from someone who surely has spent more than his share of time on it.
     I can see from your response that you are too close to the issue. That is understandable.
     You are incorrect that only Palestinian suffering moves me. I see it all over the world. Every day.

     What I do not see is a capacity for forgiveness. I was hoping you could tell me forgiveness is possible. I believe that unless one can forgive one's transgressor, the wound will never heal. Without forgiveness, without justice, there will be no peace.
     So, I guess there will be no peace there. The killing will continue.
     I'm sorry.

     I didn't quite know what to make of that, and decided it was time to move on. I replied:

     I actually agree with you about the forgiveness part. I think we saw that in the solution to the Troubles in Northern Ireland.
     NS

You can party on a beach in Australia, but you're still a Jew

                     "A people still, whose common ties are gone;
                      Who, mix'd with every race, are lost in none."

                                                          — George Crabbe

     You can shave your beard, move to Australia — or your grandparents could, permitting you to party on a New South Wales beach in cargo shorts and a Hawaiian shirt.
     Even with an Australian accent, putting shrimp on the barbie by the Tasman Sea, you're still a Jew.
     Not held personally responsible for the death of Christ so much anymore. Generally, that particular deathless sin, one horror used to justify a million others, now plays second fiddle to a more recent wrong that can be laid at the feet of any random Jew, anywhere in the world.
     Now, all Jews carry the stain of recent Israeli policy in Gaza, and no joyous gathering anywhere on earth can be free from the risk of blame showing up, uninvited. Punishment delivered by those whose hearts are so big they agonize over the sufferings of a people they may have never met. And so small they can vent the resultant fury on the most marginally-connected victims. 

     No matter that Jews tend to take up the cause of their adversaries with a zeal seldom found elsewhere. They still count as Jews, and die just the same. Also par for the course. In the 1940s, you could convert to Catholicism, but if your grandmother was Jewish, into the pit you go. They call it "blind hatred" for a reason — it neither sees, nor assesses, nor stands on ceremony.
     A thousand people on a beach in Sydney, celebrating the first night of Hanukkah, which arrived in Australia 15 hours ahead of Chicago. Two shooters. At least 15 dead and 42 wounded, including two police officers.
     About 117,000 Jews live in Australia, out of a population of 28 million, most in the cities. The shooting was on Bondi Beach, on the east side of Sydney.
     If that number seems vanishingly small, it is 0.35%, or nearly double the percentage Jews make up of the world population. Our numbers dwindle through assimilation and intermarriage in a way that murder could never contemplate.
     That doesn't mean people don't still try.
     Like most groups, Jews feel a kinship with each other. I've never been to Australia, but if I did, I might slide by a synagogue, the way I did from Bridgetown to London to Taipei. Check out the locals, catch a bagel and a whiff of home.
     So their deaths still hurt. The odd thing about such attacks is, they're really an eloquent argument for the importance of a secure Jewish state. Because if you're Jewish, and feel you're safe where you are and let your vigilance ebb, you might be caught in an enfilade from two gunmen on a pedestrian bridge.
     You either empathize with other people or you don't. And once you view them not as individuals but as faceless members of groups, you're capable of anything.
     We have a president damning Americans for the crime of coming from Somalia. A federal government sweeping people off the street for being brown-skinned. And as if the war in Gaza hasn't been blood-soaked enough over the past two years, we have no shortage of self-appointed avengers keen to mow down a few more innocents. In Australia.
     One horror begets the next, and the rising tide of nationalism reaps the bounty. Along with funeral directors and granite monument salespeople.

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Pay to the Order of ...

 

     You can look at something all your life and never quite see it. Then suddenly, one fine day, it snaps into focus and makes you wonder.
     I was updating my wife's checkbook — we pay bills online like the rest of the modern world, but still send checks sometimes, plus balancing a check book ensures we actually look at where the money is going — and noticed the standard phrase beside where the recipient's name goes: "Pay to the Order of." 

     We know what "pay" means —give 'em the money . But why "order"? What does order mean in this context? What is a person's order that we can pay it?

    AI is a little helpful, tending to consider the whole phrase and not wanting to pull "order" out. Though it does contrast "order" with "bearer," which is helpful. A financial instrument paid to the order has to be cashed by a specific person, as opposed to pay to the bearer, which is good for whoever has it in hand.

    Still, an old school investigation seemed in, ah, order.

    A reminder that "order" is like "set," one of those words with oodles of definitions. Off the top of my head: a sequence of events. A state free from disturbance. A request for goods, in a restaurant or a business. A military command.  

    Samuel Johnson offers 14 meanings in his 1755 dictionary, quite succinctly stated, starting with, "1. Method, regular disposition. 2. Established process. 3. Proper state" and including a few I hadn't considered, such as "8. A society of dignified persons, distinguished by marks of honour" and "12. Means to an end," which fits with my "seems in order" usage above.

    None quite fit the bill for our check, however.
    Noah Webster serves up 15 definitions in his 1828 dictionary, some clearly lifted, such as "15. In architecture, a system of several members, ornaments and proportions of columns and pilasters" which is Johnson, word for word.
     The Oxford English Dictionary has more than two full pages of definitions, and a semi-careful reading didn't find anything that would explain my check. 

     It struck me that this was a situation where you needed the right tool for the job. We are a household that is nothing if not rich in dictionaries, and I borrowed my wife's old Black's Law Dictionary, Fifth Edition. There the second definition is what we're looking for: "A designation of the person to whom a bill of exchange or negotiable promissory note is to be paid. An 'order' is a direction to pay and must be more than an authorization or request. It must identify the person to pay with reasonable certainty."
      So why is it still on checks? Why not just say, "Pay..." and the person's name? 
     Black's explains that too, in its definition of "Check, n. A draft drawn upon a bank and payable on demand." It continues later with the Federal Reserve Board's definition of a check, ending: "It must contain the phrase 'pay to the order of.'"
    And so they do. "Order" is on checks, part of a phrase that is an obligatory legalism. As to why we're still using checks ... it aids record keeping, and is useful under certain circumstances: handing some money to someone without resorting to Zelle or Venmo or whatever the e-banker of the moment happens to be. 

Guest voice: Jack Clark

     Regular EGD readers are familiar with Jack Clark, the former Chicago cabbie turned mystery writer who checks in occasionally, most recently in 2023. Today he comments on a pervasive problem in our social media age: fraud.

     I opened my first bank account in 1957 with my First Communion money and closed it ten years later when I was 17. The bank officer was amused. He told me that, according to current rules, I was too young to open an account on my own.
     I’ve had plenty of banks and bank accounts since then, and I could bore you silly with some of my bank stories. But I’m going to skip that. Something exciting has finally happened. After 60-some years of banking, I’ve been the victim of check fraud. Twice, with a single transaction.
     It all started when I got a direct mail solicitation from Block Club Chicago. Now, I’m a nice enough guy, but I never donate to anyone but panhandlers. I’m the classic struggling writer (except about 50 years too old). People should be sending me money. But Block Club is really pretty cool and Jenny Sabella who is one of the founders and the executive editor is even cooler.
     We first met when she got hired as a waitress/bartender at the Grafton Pub in Lincoln Square. This was just around the corner from my apartment. I liked to stop in on the way home. “Hey Jack, you should meet Jenny,” the bartender said one night. “She’s a writer too.”
     “Oh cool,” I said. “What do you write about?”
     “Sex,” she said, and we’ve been friends ever since.
     For obvious reasons, I don’t get many solicitations. But when I do it’s usually for the Lyric Opera or the Art Institute, places like that. Somehow I’ve gotten myself on some arty mailing list. So I was impressed that Block Club had dropped a few dollars and given the list a try. Should I actually send them some money?
     Jenny, who knew a thing or two about being a struggling writer (and did it at the appropriate age and then moved on), had promised me that I’d never have to pay for Block Club. Maybe now was the time to pony up.
      And there was a bonus. If I donated $60 or more they’d send me six Chicago postcards. That may not be exciting to you but I’m a newlywed and my bride is a postcard freak. There’s no other way to put it. She likes to send them but, even more than that, she likes to buy them. I’d say for every postcard she sends, she buys 10 or 20. I’ve spent hours waiting outside cute little shops while she’s inside spinning the postcard racks.
     Well, this would impress the lovely Helene, I decided. I filled out the form and included a check for $100 and dropped the envelope in the mailbox before I could have second thoughts. The extra $40 was so Jenny wouldn’t think I was a cheapsteak. [I know. I think it’s funnier this way.]
     And then I waited for the postcards to arrive. Nothing. I checked my bank account. The check had not cleared. What was taking so long? It finally cleared nearly a month after I’d sent it. I was about to write Jenny: You’ve got to get those checks in the bank before people change their minds!
     The wonders of online banking. You don’t have to wait for your cancelled checks to arrive a month later. You can view them online. Before writing Jenny, I thought I’d take a look. The front of the check looked fine. It was to the order of Block Club and my signature was artistically scrawled along the bottom. On the back of the check the fraud finally arrived (I know you’ve been waiting). The check was not endorsed by Block Club; it was endorsed with my name, which makes no sense. Now if you were going to forge the name of the person who wrote the check wouldn’t you try to imitate his handwriting. Not this guy. You can actually read every letter of my name. What kind of signature is that? He’d obviously never been to art school. The check was deposited into an account at a credit union in Virginia.
     I wrote Jenny and sent her copies of the check. She wrote back: “This is SO weird. That was definitely not cashed by us.”
      Next I called my bank, Wintrust, who I’ve had very good luck with in the past. I figured the call would take about five minutes. Instead it took a half hour or more. Most of that time I was on hold. I talked to three different bankers. They all agreed that the check had almost certainly been stolen. They kept failing as they tried to connect me to the manager at my local branch. “Why do we have to talk to him?” I finally asked.
      “You’re going to have to close your account and open a new one.” (Note: all dialogue is reconstructed from memory.)
      “Why?”
      “Well, your account has been compromised. They have your account number and the routing number. They could. . .”
      “That’s ridiculous. You can find the routing number of any bank in about eight seconds.” Banks want you to send them money. “And both numbers are on the checks. Anybody I send a check to sees them.” And the world is full of scoundrels who often disguise themselves by working for legitimate businesses, even banks now and then.
      “I’m sorry, sir,” she said in a tone that let me know the discussion was over.
      I asked to speak to a supervisor and soon a manager was on the line. We went through the same song and dance. She said that the bank would recommend that I get a new account.
      “So I don’t have to?”
     “No. But you know we have recorded this entire conversation. So if you have another problem later on, you might not recover your money.”
     “Are you threatening me?” Is what I wish I’d said.
      When the call finally ended, I called right back. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I just wanted to make sure I got the wording of their message exactly. “Please note: Your call may be recorded for quality and training purposes.” Not one word about legal purposes or retribution for not following bank recommendations.
      So that’s the second clear case of fraud. Consider yourself forewarned: You may be sitting in a courtroom some day or at a deposition, and somebody on the other side will play that recording supposedly made for quality and training purposes.

      Should we tell the person who picks up that recorded call, “I agree to have this conversation recorded for quality and training purposes only. Nothing beyond that?”

      One final question: Should I follow the bank’s advice and close my account and open another? Let me know what you think. I’m honestly confused.

In snowy weather, CTA bus riders must become mountaineers

Wynne Delacoma takes the bus (photo for the Sun-Times by Anthony Vazquez)

     On Monday, Wynne Delacoma went to ship Christmas presents — early, yes, but that's the sort of person she is. Organized. After dropping her parcels at the FedEx at Barry and Clark, she went to call a cab for her next errand.
     But the Curb taxi-hailing app was down. So she walked to the nearest bus stop, finding it icy and clogged with snow.
     Delacoma, 80, boarded as best she could, taking the bus to Gethsemane Garden Center.
     There she planned to deliver a length of red ribbon for her Christmas wreath. Pretty velvet ribbon; saved from last year's wreath. Good ribbon is hard to find. And she got a discount on the new wreath by providing her own ribbon. Practical and aesthetic.
     Again she had to survive a common challenge facing bus riders this very snowy winter: getting past the obstacle course at the bus stop.
     "It was terrible. Just awful. I was afraid I'd have to walk along the side of the bus in the street," said Delacoma. "That's where they'd plowed. I just couldn't do it. Luckily, some young women there were able to help me off."
     Walking close to a bus, and you take your life in your hands. Just the week before, a woman in South Shore was killed by a bus after appearing to slip as the vehicle began to move forward. 
     Yet snowbound stops are common.

     "Probably half of the stops I get on and off at are clogged with snow and ice," said Peter Nee, a Chicago resident. "Sometimes I have to climb over a little mountain of snow."
     When Delacoma got home, being civic-minded in addition to the aforementioned good qualities, she fired off a letter to the CTA, and cc'd a copy to me.
     "I'm writing to ask you why CTA bus stops have not been cleared of snow," she began. "I used the No. 22 and No. 77 buses today ... only one of the stops — the Belmont/Red/Brown/Purple Line station at 945 W. Belmont — was clear of snow. All the others were packed with snow, making it extremely treacherous to board or leave the buses."
     If that seems a particularly lucid account, it's worth mentioning that Delacoma was the classical music critic at the Chicago Sun-Times for many years. She raises an interesting question:
     "Who is responsible for cleaning the stops? The CTA or the city?"
     I told her I would try to find out.
     This must be a common enough public concern that the CTA has a webpage, "Snow Removal" dedicated to sidestepping responsibility.
     "One of the biggest challenges during the winter is navigating areas that are not cleared of snow and ice," it says, with apparent sympathy. "We're responsible for snow removal on our property, while most bus stops and areas adjacent/leading up to CTA property are the responsibility of others."
     There are nearly 11,000 bus stops in Chicago. If the CTA is not responsible for clearing the vast majority, who is?
     "We work closely with the Chicago Department of Transportation to ensure bus shelters are shoveled as quickly as possible," the CTA continued.
     Anyone who takes buses knows this is deceptive, since buses do not actually stop at shelters, which seem to exist primarily for the benefit of the homeless.
     CDOT also ID'ed other suspects:

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Bessie Coleman, in the news

     Former president Barack Obama was in Chicago this week, doing what celebrities do to light up social media: springing himself unexpected on ordinary people, in this case young kids at the Bessie Coleman branch of the Chicago Public Library in Woodlawn. There he read "Flying Free: How Bessie Coleman's Dreams Took Flight" by Karyn Parsons. 

     Which is all good -- Coleman is one of those Chicagoans who doesn't get enough attention. I learned about her so I could include a story in my 2022 book, "Every Goddamn Day" (which, now that I think about it, is being stocked again at the Book Bin in Northbrook. If you are looking for a Christmas gift for that Chicago history lover in your life, the book contains this and 365 other Chicago stories, will be gift-wrapped for free, inscribed however you like by me, and mailed to the lucky recipient for only an additional $5 shipping fee. You can reach the Book Bin at 847-498-4999). I can assume my version of Coleman's story has a bit more, ah, spice than the one Obama read to first graders.

June 15, 1921: Lots of jawboning goes on in a barbershop. Lots of idle talk, waiting for a shave, or a haircut. Chatting up the pretty manicurist in the window. Teasing her. 

     “You Chicago girls don't know shit,” one former doughboy says, or words to that effect. “Now those French girls, they know where it's at. There are French girls who know how to fly.”

     Usually this kind of thing leads nowhere. Not this time. Right then, Bessie Coleman makes a decision. “That’s it!” she says. “You just called it for me.” 

     She has always wanted to make something of herself. That's why she's in Chicago, doing nails, and not back home washing clothes in Waxahachie, Texas. If French girls can fly, so can she. There are airfields in Chicago and flying instructors, but nobody who is going to teach a Black manicurist how to pilot a plane. Coleman studies French. She saves her money. She gets some help — a manicurist holds the hands of many rich men. Maybe from Jessie Binga, the banker. Maybe from Robert S. Abbott, the publisher. 

     Today a French official fills out her license from the Federation Aeronautique Internationale. She is the first Black woman to hold a pilot's license, and returns to this country a star, performing acrobatic stunts. It will be 17 years before a Black woman earns a pilot's license in the United States.