Ravenswood Notes: Natty Dreadlock

     "How's your yoga going?" our dinner guest asked last week.

     I looked at him blankly.

     "Yoga?" I asked.

     "You wrote about it on your blog...." He smiled encouragingly.

     Ah. On Saturdays, I explained, a tad acerbically, for the past year and a half, EGD is written not by myself, but by writer/social worker/free spirit Caren Jeskey, who sent an essay for my feedback and stayed with a clockwork tenacity approaching my own. 

     "I always point that out in a little introduction," I added. 

      Today's offering is even more clearly not written by me than most of hers. But just in case. Here is CAREN JESKEY'S SATURDAY REPORT.

     A white lady meets her daughter’s fiancé for the first time. When she sees him, she turns even whiter and starts to stutter, not a normal condition for her. He looks concerned. He’s a doctor. He says to her “I’m medically qualified so I hope you wouldn’t think it presumptuous if I say you outta sit down before you fall down.” Her perky daughter, the good doctor's fiancé, chimes in. “He thinks you’re gonna faint because he’s a negro.”

     You may have seen this scene with Katherine Hepburn, Sidney Poitier and his fiancé played by the less well known Katherine Houghton in "Guess Who’s Coming To Dinner."  The movie came out in 1967, and as I’m sure you know, also starred Spencer Tracy. He clearly gave it his all, and died 17 days after the film wrapped.
     In the long line of famous and not famous deaths that have occurred just this year alone (yes, horrifically, the last 8 days), Poitier is a notable loss to our planet earth.
     I have a friend who lives on Eleuthera Island, not too far from where Poitier was raised on Cat Island in the Bahamas. In what seems to be another galaxy, far, far away, I once taught yoga and chilled on the pink sandy beaches there.
     I asked my friend Edgar what he knows about Mr. Poitier, in honor of his passing. Edgar sent me a couple of social media posts from his friend, filmmaker Leslie Vanderpool, who Sidney Poitier mentored:

“‘Love you.’ He would say. He loved and respected himself, he loved and appreciated life, and he loved and encouraged others. The rain washed down on your island nation today. Was it a sign? I will continue to listen to the instincts and the calling you saw for me. Shine on dear friend.’”

     She also posted: 

     “I have no words. Sir Sidney added to this life and was too advanced for our world. He was beyond any measurements and he will forever be my beacon. Thank you, for our conversations and moments shared, which I will never forget. Rest well, my friend, mentor and role model.”

     Sidney Poitier's role affected my life in a personal way. As a white girl, then woman, who dated black men throughout my life, the movie had a special impact. I recall one day in my adolescence, when a suitor came over after school—we were in 7th grade. He was black, and had an afro so big it was sometimes hard for him to fit through doorways. I loved it. We also had everything in common and talked for hours on end. He lived on the very same street that I did, just east of Ridge whereas I was west. It was 1982.
     One day he walked me home from school, unbeknownst to my parents who thought I was heading right home alone to start the Hamburger Helper. There was a rule: no boys in the house when they weren’t there. Period. Marcus and I sat on the concrete steps of our house in West Rogers Park, on Birchwood near Albany. I knew I was pushing it, since my Dad would be home at any minute. Sure enough, Marcus and I lost track of time flirting with each other and my dad pulled up. He came to the steps, and Marcus copped a bit of an attitude. This did not go over well with my father, and the two of them exchanged words.
     I remember Marcus yielding to my father, and taking his leave, a bit of a bemused, mocking look on his face towards my father. I was horrified. Looking back I realize that my dad was just trying to protect his 12 year old daughter from bad choices a boy and a girl alone might have made.
     Years later, when I was in my 20s, Marcus called me at my parents house while I was visiting for Christmas. Their number was in the white pages. That teenaged feeling came over me, and I went to see him. After all the years that had gone by, I was no longer smitten. We had a nice visit and I left, my crush over evermore.
     When I was a bit older I got into reggae music, and the song Guess Who’s Coming To Dinner Natty Dreadlock was often on my playlist.
     As a white person who grew up in the true diversity of East and West Rogers Park, I am one of the chosen few who doesn’t have to stretch in any way, shape or form to know that a black man is just as much a potential partner for me as a white man, a brown man, or any man. For that, I am grateful.
     It's tragic and true that rather than moving towards equality, it seems our world is on a path towards totalitarianism and no amount of idealism can stop it. I will still hold true to living the life of an ethical humanist to the best of my ability, no matter how unpopular it gets.

‘A battle for the soul of America’

     It took them long enough.
     Those of us desperate to preserve America as a country where facts, votes and character — the Big Three — still matter, have been tapping our watch faces, wondering when the president and vice president would get in the game. The canyon floor is racing up; in one year, it is expected, the Republicans will sweep back into power and try to cement the damage they have done to this country.
     Kamala Harris and Joe Biden chose the first anniversary of Jan. 6, when the mob that Donald Trump called to Washington was set upon the seat of American democracy in his rolling clown coup.
     “Certain dates echo throughout history,” Harris began, speaking from Statuary Hall in the Capitol, where rioters paraded one year ago. “Including dates that instantly remind all who have lived through them where they were, and what they were doing, when our democracy came under assault. Dates that occupy not only a place on our calendars, but a place in our collective memory. Dec. 7, 1941, Sept. 11, 2001, and Jan. 6, 2021.”
     As frightening as that was, even more so was the past year, when Republicans sought to minimize and lie away what they had done, and continue to do.
     “What they were assaulting were the institutions, the values, the ideals that generations of Americans have marched, picketed and shed blood to establish and defend,” Harris said. “On Jan. 6 we all saw what our nation would look like if the forces that seek to dismantle our democracy are successful. The lawlessness. The violence. The chaos.”

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Jan. 6, 2021

Cast of George Washington's face made by Jean-Antoine Houdon in 1785 (Smithsonian)

     The mob was summoned. 

     It came, and was dispatched to the Capitol.

     None of that was secret.

     But first they were harangued.

     "These people are not going to take it any longer," President Donald Trump said. "They're not going to take it any longer."

     The crowd chanted: "Fight for Trump!"

      "We will stop the steal," the president said. "Today."
      "We are not going to let it happen," the president said. "I am not going to let it happen."
      The crowd chanted "We love Trump!"
     "You're stronger, you're smarter," the president said. "You're the real people, the people that built this nation."
     "Now it's up to Congress to confront this egregious assault on our democracy," the president said. "And after this, we're going to walk down, and I'll be there with you, we're going to walk down. We're going to walk down. Anyone you want, but I think right here.we're going to walk down to the Capitol, and we're going to cheer our brave senators and congressmen and women and we're going to probably not be cheering much for some of them."
     Within hours, there was to be much not cheering.
     "Because you'll never take our country back with weakness," the president said. "You have to show strength and you have to be strong. We have come to demand that Congress do the right thing and only count the electors who have been lawfully slated, lawfully slated."
     "I know that everyone here will soon be marching over to the Capitol building to peacefully and patriotically make your voices heard," said the president.
     Don't let that "peacefully" throw you. Donald Trump also talked about the importance of election integrity, the kind of gas-lighting he perfected, the political version of a bully grabbing your hand and ramming it into your face while sneering, "Why are you hitting yourself? Stop hitting yourself!"
     Words do have meaning, even in Trump's world, but only certain words, at certain times. The rest is code that must be deciphered or, alas, not. One year has passed, and still understanding is slow in dawning. Democrats lack the vigor and singularity of purpose in saving our democracy that Republicans show in tearing it down. Which is unsurprising, if unforgivable, because it's hard to believe. The whole thing is hard to believe. That's the trick. It's real, and we — patriotic Americans who want to live in a free, small-d democratic country, have to believe it. We must make ourselves believe it. That's the trick. See that it isn't a joke. But real. It happened, is happening. The insurrection of Jan. 6 not only occurred it never stopped, and never will, until somebody stops it.
     "The most corrupt election in the history, maybe, of the world," the president said.
     "We fight. We fight like hell," the president said. "And if you don't fight like hell, you're not going to have a country anymore."
     "And we're going to the Capitol," the president said. "So let's walk down Pennsylvania Avenue."

     And so they did. The mob, that is. The president stayed put and watched. For hours. Delighted.

You’re not fine and neither am I

     Hi, how are you doing? You all right? Good to hear. I’m fine too.
     But are you? Really? Fine, that is. Because things everywhere aren’t “fine.” Far from it. These are such strange times. That’s what I’ll say to my wife, out of the blue, just to fill the air with words.
     Maybe we’ll be eating dinner, or sitting, reading.
     “Strange times,” I’ll say. And she will agree that yes, these are strange times indeed.
     No need to explain why. We all know. With the plague and the politics, the isolation and inflation. Not to forget school and work, for those who have children or jobs. Or both. All odd for so long it could almost seem normal by now except it’s not normal and will never be. COVID-19 is a threat both to our physical and mental health.
     Though Omicron doesn’t seem so bad. Not as deadly as the Delta variant. I stopped going to the Y when Omicron first struck, because it is so contagious, and all the kids were home from college. Too crowded. Monday, I started going back, shrugging. “Life is to be lived,” I said, figuring, if I get it, I get it. Not so bad when you’re boosted.
     But only 20% of the country have their boosters. Just 62% are fully vaccinated, and 20% aren’t vaccinated at all. More than 60 million people. Quite a lot.
     A vast petri dish to cultivate new strains. Still plenty of Greek letters left. Nor is it just people. One of the more terrifying things I read — as if you need another worry — is that up to 80% of the deer in Iowa have COVID-19. A horror movie twist.
     By the way, that bit about Omicron not being so bad. That isn’t an official medical statement. Nor a denial of all the people who are going to die from it unless they get their shots.

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Wear everything.

     Confession: I don't hate Facebook as much as some people do. Maybe most people. As much as you probably do.
     It's useful. A ready pool of almost 5,000 noses under which to slide my column or, four days a week, my blog. 

     A curated audience. Jerks can be shown the gate. I guess they can be blocked on gmail and filtered away here. But the exile on Facebook seems more permanent. They vanish more completely, without a trace, forever.
     And Facebook is constant source of ideas. I was scrolling through Facebook yesterday afternoon on my phone, and saw a friend's announcement about ... well, I guess I shouldn't say. Something involving butterflies. I thought it would make a great column, and would put it in the newspaper right away. But, alas, she didn't want to be in the newspaper: worried about getting in trouble with her boss. Because of her personal butterfly activities. Which itself was interesting. I gently requested she think about it, maybe talk it over with her boss. The story would buck people up.

     It would sure buck me up.     

     A very 1930s, Jack London kind of expression, isn't that? "Buck you up." Sounds almost obscene now, though.

     I'm sorry, where were we? Ah yes, Facebook. Much interest there; because it has much interest in me. A robotic fascination with my past doings and jottings and quips, one that outstrips even my own, which is really saying something.

     Two days after Christmas, Facebook served up this, from 2017, when the temperature dipped to 4 below:

"It isn't bad if you dress for it," I told my wife, returning from walking the dog. "Wear everything."     

     Wear everything. Quite a good phrase, if I say so myself. Is there better advice for surviving the Chicago winter? Monday morning it was 7 degrees outside. I put on an REI fleece, with a thicker Boston Traders fleece over that, and THEN my Eddie Bauer Gore-Tex Ridgeline Parka, the one I bought when I hoped to go to the South Pole for Rolling Stone and report on the social life of graduate students at McMurdo Station in Antarctica. The trip fell through, alas; the station is run by the National Science Foundation, and you need their permission. I thickly explained what I hoped to write about, and they said no. Should have lied...

       Back to the matter at hand: Out from storage came the snow pants. Lobster gloves. Two hats—a skullcap like wind block, and then a big fake rabbit-lined Northwestern hat with ear flaps that I bought for my kid when he got into school but he was too cool to actually wear, not realizing the joy with which I would appropriate it: warm AND nostalgic....
      My go-to phrase regarding clothes and the weather is, "It's never too cold in Chicago; you're just underdressed." But "Wear everything" packs more of a punch in less than a quarter of the words. It has a certain urgency, like the famous line in "Jaws," "You're going to need a bigger boat."

      It almost sounds like it applies to more than clothing, to a general need to emotionally armor yourself against everything that's going on, the plague and the politics, employment and isolation. Do everything you can to preserve your warmth, keep your spark, stay alive. Reach out to friends, plunge into literature, art, music, exercise. Layer it on. Wear everything.  

The problems of 2021 are still here

     Why do they call this a “new” year? There’s nothing new about it. We’re still the same old people, dragging the same old problems after us.
     A flash of fresh energy and hope, as if the clockwork arrival of a new digit — a 2 instead of a 1 — is going to make it all somehow work, and the world become better, kinder, thinner.
     Yes, that’s what the problem was: 2021, the numeral. Changing to “2022” will fix everything!
     Then a few hours pass, maybe a day or two. We get hungry, and our old selves come loping back, like extras in a low-rent zombie movie. “Hi! Didja miss us?”
     The COVID we grappled with all through 2021 is right where we left it, in its supercharged Omicron form. Filling the hospitals with those who won’t take the free vaccine, for the same reason a toddler won’t eat his pureed peas. “I don’t want to! You can’t make me!”
     Yet they still show up at the hospital when they can’t breathe. So the same doctors whose advice they mocked a week earlier can stick a tube down their throats.
     And the same old Jan. 6 insurrection, whose first anniversary is Thursday, sits there and ticks. I guess it’s my job to Explain What It All Means, though, honestly, my heart isn’t in it.
     Really, for whom is explanation necessary? Either you understood all too well long ago or you never will. Among the many myths that liberals embrace — we can delude ourselves, too — a key delusion is that reason will prevail, truth reign triumphant, and at some point Trumpsters will slap their foreheads and go, “Ohhh, wait. We’re dupes swallowing lies spewed by a traitor! That’s so embarrassing!”
     It’ll never happen. Seventy percent of Russians today think Stalin was good for their country (Sigh, historians consider him responsible for the deaths of 20 million Russians, between his forced collectivization and gulags. Not to forget his non-aggression pact with Hitler).

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Beating up J.K. Rowling won’t help

 

Fall '91, 1992 by Charles Ray
(The Broad, Los Angeles)

   Almost 30 years ago, I was scanning the Chicago Reader, looking for ideas, when I noticed a classified ad for a shop on Elston Avenue selling women’s clothing in large sizes to men.
     ”Now there’s something you don’t see in the paper every day,” I thought, and headed over.
     Chatting with the owner, I realized there was a larger story here. Not just one boutique, but a community. So I plunged in, visiting safe houses — cross-dressers often did not tell their spouses, so they needed places to store clothes and wigs — and attending a dance at a Northwest Side banquet hall, selecting “Miss Chicago Gender Society 1992.”
     The story holds up, in my view, because it isn’t condescending. It uses “she” to refer to the people encountered. Why? Because that’s the word they used. When you’re a reporter, it gets in the way if you stand in judgment. Honestly portray any group — a skill many people never master — and praise or blame won’t be necessary.
     The only outdated aspect of the story is the term “transvestites.” That is what they were called then. Or so I thought.
     At the dance, I found myself talking to Leslie, who seemed an attractive young woman. “So you’re gay?” I asked.
     No, she said, but she lives as a woman and dates men.
     That was almost a paradox. These days, she might instead say she “is a woman” rather than “lives as a woman,” and it is easy to tumble into that semantic gap the way J.K. Rowling, famed author of the wildly popular Harry Potter books, has over the past two years.
     Rowling began her slide into the bog of disrepute by defending a woman fired for angrily insisting on the preeminence of biological differences. The more Rowling explained herself, the more mired she became, until the stars of the Harry Potter movies felt the need to distance themselves from her. Fans wondered if she’d even be mentioned in the 20th anniversary show about the films that HBO Max began airing Saturday Jan. 1. She is.

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