Hey, Sox fans, 'Don't count the time lost'

     My mother is 88. She faithfully reads the Sun-Times (hi mom!), flips through the books I bring and sits in her chair next to my dad, who's 92.

     She does not own the Chicago White Sox — that would be another 88-year-old, Jerry Reinsdorf. Now that the historically awful 2024 season mercifully ended Sunday, it's time to assess the twisted, smoking wreckage. To ask: Why was the team so lousy?
     I bring up my mom as evidence that I am not biased against the sainted old. Ricky Gervais observes how hypocritical it is to sneer at old people, in their diminished state, given how desperate we all are to join them. I know I'm dancing as fast as I can.
     So I am reluctant to say the White Sox were unprecedentedly lousy because their owner was born in 1936. That's ageism. It is entirely possible to be old and on the ball. There must be other 88-year-old double octet seniors who rock their jobs. There is ... um ... looking for anyone ... Wall Street investor Carl Icahn, also 88.
     Though his company has lost $20 billion since 2022, .; 75% percent of its value. Maybe not the best example.
     And my mother, God bless her, well, — sharp as a tack, of course — though I think she'd agree, not up to stewarding a professional baseball team.
     In his defense, Reinsdorf must have managers and staffers, coaches and assistants. Whom he hired.
     So who's at fault?
     No need to guess. There is the crack Sun-Times sports section. Let's see ... Rick Morrissey puts the blame squarely on Reinsdorf.
     "I've said in the past that Reinsdorf doesn’t care anymore," he writes. "That was wrong. He cares about sticking it to people. It’s really the only explanation for his behavior."
     I don't have a dog in this race. I don't follow the Sox. If you put a gun to my head and demanded I name a single player on Sunday's roster, I'd be a dead man.

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Old candlesticks for sale

 

  

     Anyone born a Jew is considered a Jew forever, no matter how little regard they have for their own religion or how few rituals they practice. Our enemies see to that. I suppose a few drop out to embrace other religions, but their original Jewish skepticism adds an asterisk to any conversion. 
     No particular practice is required. In fact, I would be hard-pressed to put my finger on what  a defining core Jewish ritual would be — there are so many: services, prayers, study, charity. I suppose if I had to pick one, I would choose lighting the Sabbath candles, the Friday night ushering in of the Sabbath day of rest. Resting is a very Jewish concept — who do you think was pushing for a 5-day-work week?
     There is something central about Sabbath candlesticks. A concept of Sabbath, home, family, tradition that can be passed on. Part of that essential trio: candlelight, challah and wine. Displayed in our living room are our grandparents' brass candlesticks — or who knows, great-grandparents, it's not like they have a label. I hope to someday give them to our kids, though aren't 100 percent sure either boy will want them. Should have thought of that when I was manifesting my conflicted, weak tea view of faith all those years. Whoops. Sorry. Though I couldn't have ginned up an exaggerated belief just to find an eventual home for candlesticks.

     I'm not alone. Assimilation is thinning the ranks of Jews with an efficiency that Hitler couldn't dream of. Most American Jews intermarry. More than a third of Jews told a Pew Research poll that it is unimportant to them whether their grandchildren are Jewish or not. 

     I knew that already. But somehow, seeing these cast off silver candlesticks, in a jewelry store on Lexington Avenue and 80th St on our recent visit to New York, stopped me short. The abandoned objects of Jewish families that petered out and had no one to give them to. It was like seeing huddled orphans through the slats of a truck, for one second, before the truck pulled away.  The tangible evidence, the piles of eyeglasses, the cast-off baggage, jettisoning the faith that got their forebears through 2,500 years. That strikes me as unfortunate, maybe even careless. Faith is funny. It's something you don't need at all, until you do, very much. 

Fun with maps

 

    Who doesn't love maps? I went to the Newberry Library Friday morning to see the Mike Royko exhibit — I felt obligated — then I slid over to the new Indigenous Chicago exhibit in the main gallery space. We think of Chicago as a relatively new city, founded in 1833. But it was a community long before, for people who until recently didn't register on our civic consciousness as much as they should. There it is, above, on a 1718 French map, labeled "Les Checagou." Notice that the future Lake Michigan above it, called Lac des Illinois at the time, a reminder that our state is named for a confederation of Native-American tribes, known at the time as the Illiniwek or the Illini. I believe sometimes we forget that.
      Talk about continuity. To get to the library, I took the No. 22 bus up Dearborn. And if you look closely at the 1833 map below, there aren't many streets in the little grid of Chicago, but there's Dearborn, right next to Clark Street, right where it belongs. 

    The bulk of the show is about Native-American communities in Chicago, and it might say something bad that I gravitated toward the brightly colored maps and not the photographs of people. Drawn to the shiny object. But you have to be who you are.

    The Royko show closes Saturday — it's small, and I can't say it contained any surprises, but I couldn't miss it. The Indigenous Chicago show runs until Jan. 4. It might not be for everyone. The school group that was visiting when. I was there seemed to be staring off into space more than at the exhibits. But it behooves us to remember the people who were here before us — and who are here right now, still. Part of the show emphasizes that, despite enormous hardships, indigenous Chicagoans are right where they've always been, in Chicago, carrying on their traditions as best they can.

     

Immigrants: hardworking, Samaritans, not the enemy

Venezuelan family at Sullivan High School Thanksgiving Dinner 2023

     People are more or less the same. Whether they wake up in a mansion or a hovel, a condo or a shelter, they worry about making a living, raising their children. The details vary.
     That shared humanity doesn't sit well with some folks. They get rattled by exterior aspects — skin color, language, ritual, clothing — so they want to try to squash those whose existence upsets them.
     This is where the lying comes in. Since the target groups are not in fact demonstratively worse than anyone else, crimes must be imagined and assigned to them, and any actual crime committed by an individual must be conflated into a general group attribute.
     On Monday, I invited readers to share their direct personal stories about immigrants, bad and good, worried I'd be in for some horrific tales, which I'd then have to print. There were none. Those who believe immigrants are bad didn't share anything severe. Someone's father's home was burgled; they didn't like seeing people they assumed were immigrants gathered on the street. Otherwise, they regurgitated what Fox News force-fed them the day before. I shared a taste on Wednesday.
     Today, I want to turn the floor over to those who believe immigrants help this country. What impressed me first was the range of respondents.
     "I served 12 years as Mayor of Grand Rapids, MI.," writes George Heartwell. "During that time (2004-2016) we welcomed many immigrants from all over the world, but primarily from Central America. A study was commissioned by the Dyer-Ives Foundation that showed that immigrants to Grand Rapids were 1) more likely than native born to start a business; 2) purchase a home; and 3) get involved in civic organizations, than were native born Americans. I say, bring on the immigrants!"
     "Hi Neil, I am a truck driver," writes Howard Grimberg. "I go to many warehouses in the area. I know of fairly recent immigrants that work there. They all work hard and do a good job loading and unloading my truck. I agree they are a benefit to this area."
     Weigh those two real observations against, "They're eating the dogs."
     Have you been to a hospital? A nursing home? Immigrants carry the weight of the American health care system on their shoulders. My parents' caregivers are from Ghana.
     Martin Stewart can relate. He writes:
     "I welcome immigrants because of the time an immigrant(s) helped me. Almost 2½ years ago I was diagnosed with cancer. Throughout this journey, including my chemotherapy and care, Hispanic, Asian, and members of other incredible ethnic groups of doctors, PAs (physician assistants), nurses, techs and other highly talented individuals helped ease me down the road. I wouldn’t be where I am today, enjoying life, without them!"

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Pro-immigrant readers see what's in front of their eyes

Mason Sergio Mejia shows up at short notice and saved us last year during the great mothball debacle. 

     Monday's column, "Show me where the immigrants hurt you" rang a lot of bells. The floodgates opened. On Wednesday, I printed a few few of the anti-immigrant replies, mostly Fox News lies chewed a few times and spat back by their well-trained viewers.
     But lots and lots of pro-immigrant comments came in as well, and as Friday's column can only run 750 words, I thought I would jump the gun and run a few today as well.
     You know how I like a good historical argument, and Alan Rhine, of Glenview, offered this:

     In your Monday column you reference a letter that you received that asked what the founding fathers would have thought about the immigration trends from the past 30 years? This reader should consult the Declaration of Independence to see what was stated by the founders who signed this document. In discussing the repeated injuries and usurpations of the King of Great Britain, one of the points made was that:

He has endeavoured to prevent the population of these States; for that purpose obstructing the Laws for Naturalization of Foreigners; refusing to pass others to encourage their migrations hither, and raising the conditions of new Appropriations of Lands.

     The same Declaration of Independence did not speak favorable about the native Americans, who were the indigenous people that were already here. Another complaint against King George was:

He has excited domestic insurrections amongst us, and has endeavoured to bring on the inhabitants of our frontiers, the merciless Indian Savages, whose known rule of warfare, is an undistinguished destruction of all ages, sexes and conditions.

     Immigration reform is not a new issue. To me it appears that if the founders had responded to your assignment, they would have been more concerned about harm from the indigenous people than from immigrants. 
   P.S. Alexander Hamilton was not born in the 13 colonies. If he had not immigrated from the Caribbean Island of Nevis, we would not have the play about his life.

      Unlike the nebulous imagined generalities of the antis-, supporters of immigrations have almost universally actually met immigrants. Bill O'Connor of Lake Geneva writes:

     Thank you for this opportunity. The youngest of our three was a sophomore in high school, and I knew from experience he would be around less often. I attended classes, learning to teach English as a second language.
     My first volunteer assignment was on the southwest side of Chicago. Spanish speakers, male and female, working jobs all day and arriving for tutoring on time and enthusiastic. Aquilo, a fortyish male student wanted to learn English so he could communicate better with his teenage children as well as his co workers. After about a year, I gave him a final assignment. Write a presentation on any subject and present it to me the following week. The following week he appeared all smiles and with a single construction bolt about ten inches long. His company makes these and he explained the process thoroughly. His closing statement with a huge smile, “ and these are the bolts that anchor the new street lights on 294”.
     I retired and moved to Southeast Wisconsin. A new setting but the same enthusiastic, prompt students. Elana is a single mother of two sons and was working fifty hours a week at her factory job, 6 am to 4:30. She showed up every session at 4:45, willing to work. On one occasion she was troubled. She had heard of another mass shooting at a school and feared for her sons. I suggested we compose a letter with her concerns and send it to a politician. Several weeks later, she walked into our session beaming.In her hand was a letter from Senator Tammy Baldwin, sympathizing with her and outlining her gun control efforts.
     I do not know if these people and many others I tutored, are legal and I do not care. They are doing the same thing my ancestors did, working hard and trying to improve. These are two, there are thousands and thousands just like them.

     A frequent theme is the hard-working nature of immigrants.

     This is Mike Shawgo from Second Pres. My experiences with immigrants have all been from them stopping by at the church. The first time, a group of about six guys showed up on a Saturday, when the church is open for tours. One of the tour docents came to get me to see if I could help them. The church has various supplies that we use for our lunch bag program, which wasn't open at the time. They were trying to talk to me, but my Spanish is limited. Then one of them got their phone with the Google Translate app. They were asking if we had any food. I brought out some sandwiches from lunch bag refrigerator, and also retrieved a bunch of plastic shoe boxes that had toiletry articles, wheeled them out on a cart and set them out on a table so they could take anything they needed. They picked out just a few things, then a couple of the guys started putting the lids back on the boxes, stacked them up and put them back on the cart, which I thought was nice. Then as they were leaving, saying "gracias" over and over, one of them offered to help me get the Google Translate app on my phone, which he did.
     Another time, again on a Saturday, an immigrant showed up at the church. I was there because I had volunteered to help re-set and screw down pews in the balcony that had been moved for scaffolding. This guy was sitting in a pew, and as I walked over he got out his phone with Google Translate and said he just came in to pray. I tried to speak with him a bit, and he said he had just recently arrived, and was looking for work. That gave me an idea, and I checked with the other volunteers who were working on the pews and asked what they thought about asking him to help with screwing down pews. I said I would pay him something. They said that would be great, so using my translate app, I asked if he would like to work on a project here at the church, and I said I would show him what it was. He was very enthusiastic after I showed him what we were doing, and he started screwing down pews with a passion (this was just using a regular screwdriver). He was really going to town, so one of the other guys and myself just quit working on it. One other guy had a power screwdriver, and after a while the immigrant went to him asking for the power screwdriver, which he gave him, then that guy also sat back and let him do the work.
     A group of ladies were having a meeting in the church hall and had ordered pizza for lunch. After their lunch, they had leftover pizza and came in to the sanctuary and asked us if we wanted leftover pizza. I told the immigrant we were breaking for lunch, and to come back to the church hall. Luckily one of the ladies could speak Spanish, and she described the pizzas. He said at the table with us, and was telling us (with the app) about his wife and daughter, and how he was trying to make enough money to bring them to the US. When we tried to get him to eat more pizza, he said no thanks, he was getting to fat (gordo). Then he went back to work. Meanwhile, I went to an ATM and took out $100 to pay him. When he was finished, I asked him how much pay he wanted for his work. He didn't want to take any money, and said, I think, something about that he had done the work out of the goodness of his heart (I recognized "mi corazon", and he put his hand on his chest). I said no, he did the work so he had to be paid. I gave him the $100 but it was folded up bills so he didn't know right away how much it was. But he immediately crossed himself, put his hands on his chest and looked up "to heaven." We never saw him again after that.

     There is no limit online, but I realize I can't go on forever —  I have dozens of these. One more and we'll wait til Friday. Paula Hyman, whose 3rd grade CPS classroom I visited in 2006, writes:

     I was in charge of helping my brother-in-law clean and declutter his condo. I hired a decluttering company, and she brought along three Venezuelan immigrants to help, one man and two women. Neil, I have never seen cleaning people work so hard! They spoke little English, so we used our phones to translate. They happily got right to work cleaning, scrubbing, mopping, and organizing everything in the condo. Although they worked fast, it took two all day sessions for them to finish. The condo has not been that clean since he moved in twenty-five years ago. Everything was shining, immaculate and looked like new. These people were not afraid of hard work. You could tell they had pride in their job and were grateful to make some money. It took two days, but my brother-in-law’s place place took on a whole new life. (I won’t give you details on how disgustedly filthy and cluttered it was.) I am going to hire them to do jobs at my house where I can use some help 
     Each of the immigrants had spouses that worked and kids in school. The kids all loved school here in Chicago, which was good to hear. They were each living in a decent apartment in the nicer part of East Rogers Park. I have been telling everybody that I encounter about my positive experience with these “lazy, criminal migrants.” Although I do not speak Spanish, their enthusiasm for the USA was palpable. They were so grateful to be safe in the United States. I really enjoyed working with them and gave them each a grateful hug when we parted. I plan on staying in touch and I am hoping to help them in some way.

     That'll do for today. Thanks everyone for writing in. It's a relief to remember that there are still good, decent people here, people who are able to see what's in front of them, instead of surrendering to fear and fantasy. 

Readers offload bad feelings about immigrants

     At the end of Monday's column on candidates stoking fear against immigrants, in a fit of madness, I made two requests.
     First, these slurs are so general — someone somewhere doing something — that I invited xenophobic readers to send in specific stories of harm that actually happened to them, the real life incident that turned them against immigrants.
     Then, impulsively, I asked readers who are not hot to deport millions of hard-working would-be Americans why they look upon immigration positively, despite the suffering immigrants' presence supposedly brings.
     That second request was a last-minute afterthought, which is ironic, because the response ran 5-to-1 pro-immigrant.
     The original idea was to present the pros and cons in one column. But given the massive response, I decided to run the "Immigrants Bad" responses today, and the "Immigrants Good" sampler on Friday.
     Those opposed to immigration, as a rule, didn't understand the assignment — share something that actually happened to you — instead, like Tom Howard, regurgitating Fox News talking points. He came in hot:
     "I dislike the immigrants who break our law entering our country while thousands of immigrants doing it the right way waiting in line!
     "I dislike immigrants that enter illegally, who are taking over hotels and schools and disrupting American life.
     "I dislike immigrants that enter illegally and are bringing diseases and death to innocent Americans."
     There's more, but you get the idea. This passion for the rule of law —breathtaking, really — is a common thread.
     What struck me is how readily the bile is ingested, then regurgitated back. Consider this, from Tony Zucchero, a perennial correspondent:
     "We are Not Talking Legal Immigrants! We are talking about Criminal Illegal Aliens! You Ready, here we go! The Following are Facts! They are Raping, Murdering, Child Trafficking, Selling Drugs, Stealing, Beating, Robbing, Abusing American Citizens, Overwhelming Our Health Care System, Hospitals, Schools, Our Welfare System, Lowering Wages, They are Eating Our Pets, They are Taking Away Benefits, Housing and Medical from Our U.S Veterans, They are Raising the Cost of Insurance because they are Given Drivers Licenses Without the Requirements that American Citizens Have to go through to Obtain a Drivers License, Record Number of Automobile Accidents ..."

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The Erotic Waffle

     We stayed in a hotel called The Evelyn, 27th Street and 5th Avenue, on our recent visit to New York. I liked the place: the room was so small it couldn't become messy. There was a serviceable little gym in the basement that I used several times. The front desk handed out free bottled water and tangerines. When we left the bellman gave us directions to take the subway to LaGuardia that were better than the mess Google Maps offered.
     My wife picked The Evelyn for its location — convenient to Jersey City and our son and daughter-in-law, to Brooklyn, where the wedding festivities (the son of a college buddy, not one of mine, this time) were held. We walked as far north as Times Square and as far south as the Battery, to the West Village and nearby Madison Park.
     But one aspect of its location had not been anticipated, an adjacency I neatly summed up upon arrival.
      "You booked us next door to the Museum of Sex," I observed. We went about our business. Saturday night, got back to the hotel about 10 p.m. after coffee and cheesecake at Caffe Reggio. Investigating the place seemed in order — here, you enter through the gift shop. We were greeted by a woman holding a large dildo — this is New York City after all — who said that tickets to the museum itself cost $36 and included the special exhibit, "Super Funland: Journey Into the Erotic Carnival."
     Had I been wearing my columnist hat, I of course would have ponied up to experience the wonder. But I was wearing my frugal traveler after a long day hat, and so we both saved the $72 and skipped the place. It is expensive — you can get into the Met for only $30.

     I did think of EGD earlier, passing the shuttered Erotic Waffle cart above. Maybe because we parsed the word "waffle"here previously. Though honestly my curiosity centered around the word "erotic" — not heard in popular culture as much, lately. My guess being that it's like "oriental" — a term that once described a certain realm of exotism that has been banished in our world, fragmented into a hundred identities. Fifty years ago Bridget Bardot in a French maid's outfit could be described as "erotic" — now of course that would reflect cisnormative supremacy. What would erotic even mean anymore? The "to whom?" part is too immediate and variable.

     Not that "erotic" hold much interest, etymologically. From eros, obviously, the Greek god of love, though I'd better confirm, since it's what you think you know that trips you up. "Of or pertaining to the passion of love," is how my OED puts it, tracing the word, not to any divinity, but to the Greek word for "sexual love," no gods involved. That's why you always check.

     Perhaps damningly, I did not wonder what an erotic waffle could possibly be. In fact, I wondered whether the cart could be a mere decoration — a prop that did not actually open and serve commestibles.

     Wrong again. It did, and leaving the Museum of Sex, we saw what the an erotic waffle consisted of. Rather binary of them, now that I think of it. I took a few photos, though my wife worried that social media, which can be astoundingly prudish when it isn't peddling pure smut, would permit its posting. We'll see. You have to look closely; too close, I hope, for an algorithm to notice and take offense.