Lessons from the West Ridge shooting. 'What is hateful to you, do not do to others'

     A small wooden box sits on the corner of my desk. Open the shiny rosewood cube, and there is a clear sphere containing a clock. In the top, a shiny round plaque reads "The CAIR-Chicago 2010 Award for Courage in Journalism: Neil Steinberg, Chicago Sun-Times. For Fair, Accurate And Inclusive Media Representation of Minorities."
     That last word clunks, doesn't it? Nowadays "minorities" has a discordant 1970s ring and has fallen out of favor. Associated Press style discourages use of the word as a noun because the truth is, we are all in some minority.
     Any suggestion otherwise — oh, for instance that this is a white, Christian, straight nation, and anyone else is somewhere between a tolerated guest and an unwelcome intruder, exists only in the minds of a minority of Americans, ironically — a large minority, alas — requiring them to go through increasingly vigorous distortions of fact.
     I mention the award, not to brag, but because of something I said receiving it at the ceremony. Looking out over 1,500 attendees in at west suburban Oak Brook Terrace, women in headscarves, men with full beards and embroidered round caps — "CAIR" stands for the Council on American-Islamic Relations — I spoke from the heart.
     "I've been a consistent supporter of Muslim rights for one simple reason," I said, or words to that effect. "Because I'm Jewish, and see you as another loathed minority trying to get through the day."
     That seems fairly simple. Belonging to a group that has suffered, historically, from the most hideous persecutions, should make a person more attuned to suffering of others. Because to sympathize only with yourself and people exactly like you is neither profound nor courageous. Just the opposite: it's a failure of humanity, common as dirt and leads to many of the problems we see around us today.
     You can look at the wrongs done to your people and try to ensure they never happen to others. Or be inspired by those wrongs to try to emulate them.
     On the last Saturday in October, a 39-year old Jewish man, on his way to synagogue in West Ridge, was shot, police allege, by a 22-year-old, Sidi Mohamed Abdallahi, who, according to Chicago Police Supt. Larry Snelling, “planned the shooting and specifically targeted people of Jewish faith.” Abdallahi was charged with attempted murder and, once authorities went through his phone, with hate crimes and attempted terrorism charges.

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Flashback 2004: We're obsessed with flags that have lost meaning

      My esteemed colleague Eric Zorn has begun a feature on his excellent Picayune Sentinel where he invites columnists to share their "regrettable" efforts, which he describes as "commentary that, in retrospect, you wish you hadn't written, perhaps because you've since changed your mind or simply realized that you hadn't thought the issue through."

     The column item below instantly came to mind, not because I think I was wrong — I don't think I was — but because of the blowback. Hundreds of outraged emails — so much that I felt the need to walk it back. 

     I regret it because the point I was making — nix the black flags — wasn't worth jamming my arm into a hornets' nest the way I did.

     I remember being truly horrified by the reaction — I was 20 years younger — and felt the need to pour oil on the waters, which I did in an item I'll tag after the original post. It was back when the column filled a page, so these are just two brief squibs that ran a week apart.  Eric says he'll address this in his blog Thursday.

Opening shot

     When can we get rid of those black POW/MIA flags that have been flying under the American flag for the past 30 years? Or are we stuck with them forever? I'm all for honoring vets, but the black flag has always had negative overtones, having originated in Rambo paranoia centered around the belief that American prisoners were still in Vietnam years after the war ended and the government was for some reason concealing the fact. The flags, in addition to honoring sacrifice, also suggest, unfairly, something shameful about the country, or at least they did. Now vets say they are just a generic tribute to all the prisoners of war and missing in action. Perhaps. But there are better ways to honor U.S. service personnel. The flags will probably disappear one by one, as those who care passionately about them move on. A good thing, too.
           — Originally published in the Sun-Times, Feb. 4, 2004


Collateral damage

     It has been a disturbing week, for me. In fact, in my 20 years of newspapering in Chicago, I can't recall anything more disturbing. Last week, I wrote about the black POW/MIA flag. I thought I was directing my fire at a slur against the government. But whatever I thought I was shooting at, I ended up hitting a lot of proud soldiers and grieving relatives, and I'm sorry for that.
     I got 500, maybe 1,000 e-mails — I lost count. Many took my opinion — those flags seem to say something negative — and twisted it into the most extreme, treacherous, anti-vet attitude they could imagine, a blanket damnation of history, heroism and the country itself. Their replies couldn't have been stronger had I suggested we dig up Arlington Cemetery and build a theme park. Full-bore outrage mixed with the harshest personal attack. Lots of name-calling. Lots of out-of-the-blue anti-Semitism. More death threats than the typical column generates.
     Which puzzled me. Because, if I came across someone who I thought was completely wrong about something, and I wanted them to understand why they are wrong, I don't think I would begin my argument by telling them what a loathsome moron they are and how I'm going to kill them.
     But that is a logical argument, and as I read through the responses — and I must have read hundreds — I quickly understood that this is not an area of cool logic, but of hot passion, of raw, hard emotion, built up through loss and suffering and acts of heroism met by a shrugging public, a shrugging public that I had volunteered to become the poster boy for. My opinion was a stick I had shoved into an open wound.
     That's what bothered me most of all. It wasn't being called names — I get called names every day. I am a Jew, so the intended insult doesn't sting. It was who was doing the calling and why they were flinging those terms. Being accused by vets of being anti-vet hurt because I'm not ignorant of history — though I did not realize that the black flag isn't a relic, but means something vital to all sorts of people today, people who don't think that the government is a spider's nest of treachery.
     I'm not the guy those vets were attacking. I'm the guy who trots his kids onto the front porch on Veterans Day and has them say the pledge with their hands over their hearts and then tells them about how the Rangers went up those cliffs at Normandy into the teeth of the Nazi machine guns, and that's why we get to loaf around all day.
     For those who managed to write civilly, despite their feelings, thank you, it was an education. And for those who heard a twig snap and began firing into the darkness of cyberspace, you may not know it and certainly won't accept it, but you hit a friend.

     —Originally published in the Sun-Times, Feb. 11, 2004

Restaurant field notes: Daisies

     My older son is a foodie, a condition that not only enriches his life but mine. I'd have never eaten at Alinea without his good influence, nor Omakase Yume, nor nibbled my way across Copenhagen, where noma, a three Michelin star restaurant he just had to notch on his belt, was about to close.

     Not that my wife or I ate there — dinner cost the price of a plane ticket to Denmark, so we satisfied ourselves keeping him company and eating elsewhere, and missed out on the pickled deer heart and marinated pine cone. I can't say I regret that decision.

     I'm a creature of habit, and want to go to the same places — Prairie Grass, Psistaria, Gene & Georgetti — and eat the same things. A simple salad with chicken on it; Greek pork chops, a good steak.

Potted carrots

     Not so my son. He had a birthday last week, and is in town visiting his aged parents. When we suggested he pick a place where we could go celebrate, he chose Daisies, based the recommendation of his younger brother. Who is no mean foodie himself, having eaten his way from the French Laundry in San Francisco to Elske in Chicago. 

     Daisies is Chef Joe Frillman's "vegetable focused" pasta-centric establishment opened in 2017. Wednesday night we piled in the SUV and headed toward the siren hipness of Logan Square for a hard-won 7:30 p.m. reservation.

     My original plan was to go with the center cut pork loin with caramelized fennel and pickled apple. Both out of preference — doesn't that sound good? — and to mesh with my new low-carb lifestyle, imposed upon me courtesy of my pull toy duck companion, Mr. Diabetes, who now follows me everywhere, quacking endlessly.

     But three occurrences happened that very day to change my order. First, I ate a pork chop for lunch — there was one in the fridge calling my name and I couldn't resist, even knowing I'd have another for dinner. Second, the short-acting insulin my endocrinologist prescribed was available at Walgreens, so I picked it up. And third, and most crucially, a thoughtful reader sent me an insulated case with which to tote aforementioned insulin around town. My wife felt I was jumping into things a little too quickly, but in the theory that there is no time like the present — and since the place, we agreed, is known for its pasta — I toted the case with me. 

Rigatoni

     Daisies was packed. Three young persons at the front desk huddled together, consulting a computer screen for so long I worried we'd be rejected. "I'm so sorry, you had a reservation, but our background check found you're not stylish enough..." Finally we were accepted — maybe they had pity on us — and we were lead through the main restaurant, vibrant with energy and conversation. Escorted past the heart of the restaurant, into the back, a much smaller rectangular room appendix, out of view of the main body of diners, to a table by the pasta machines. Though that was fine with me, as it was a little less loud, a little more low key. Though still cacophonous, though that could be a function of age — my wife and I were easily 25 years older than the next oldest patron. Performative dining is a young person's game.

      I placed the case boldly on the table. Our waiter Ty arrived, and I ordered the potted carrots with duck fat and gnocco fritto starter and and the rigatoni with nduja — a kind of spreadable sausage — and lemon breadcrumbs. It's been a looong month of endless protein, green salads and unsalted cashews.  Time to test out this short-acting insulin business.  

     After ordering I excused myself and visited the restroom. There I decided, as Virgil says, that fortune favors the bold, and set the case on the little shelf over the sink. I opened it, washed my hands, tore open an alcohol wipe, cleaned the pen injector, then screwed a disposable needle in place. 

     Here I faced a choice. No one else was in the bathroom, but that could abruptly change. So, with the goal in mind of not ruining the appetites of other Daisies patrons, once my shot was ready, I scooped up the open case and relocated to the stall, where I did my business, jabbing myself in the thigh, administering four units of NovoLog. Soon I was back at the table.
     "I never shot up drugs in a public bathroom before," I announced brightly, taking my seat.
     Daisies is a place where dishes are to be shared, so I gobbled some of my carrots, as well as some shishito peppers and smoked sturgeon. My rigatoni was delightfully spicy, though my wife and I agreed that her pappardelle with house cheese and mushrooms was the best dish we ate, though my son's potato pierogi with mussels had its own charming, Eastern European allure. I washed them down with a quite adequate Best Day Brewing "Electro-Lime" NA beer.

     "I like that it's al dente," my son said, spearing some pappardelle. 

     "'Al Dante?'" I replied. "Pasta ... in the manner of Dante?" Nobody laughed — must have been the noise of the restaurant drowning out the witticism, which I enjoyed  immensely.

     The insulin worked like a charm, by the way, and my blood never strayed to unacceptable heights. I showed the number on my phone to my wife and we high-fived. This is a life I can endure.

Can't miss it.

      Ty, aided by various other servers, was timely without rushing us, and personable without being intrusive. Having given tips before at establishments without realizing they were already included in the bill, I appreciated the pains taken by Daisies  trying to drive home the point that a 25 percent service charge is automatically added to the bill — not only hand drawn stars next to the figure on the check, but a large laminated placard that really can't be overlooked. They want you to know.

       Ty brought a sliver of chocolate cake with a candle for our boy, knowing it was his birthday, and as my wife was full from dinner, he and I shared what, for me, was the highlight of the evening: a slice of peanut butter crunch cake with dark chocolate and chili peanuts and a scoop of cannoli ice cream (it's been a long month...)  It was so enticing, we forgot to sing, but dove in. My only criticism of the place is they gave us tablespoons with dessert; it felt odd to eat the cake with a big spoon, but I wasn't about to pause long enough to ask for a fork. The spoon worked too. Maybe that's the latest haute monde Logan Square utensil for eating cake.

     My wife observed that the executive pastry chef of Daisies is Leigh Omilinsky, a friend of our niece Esther.
     Omilinsky got her start at Tru, the marvelous restaurant that my pal Gale Gand ran on St. Clair. I recalled that, 10 years ago, when Chicago declared Gale Gand Day, Omilinsky shared some thoughts on her former boss ("incredibly wonderful," she said, among other accurate observations). 

      I thought perhaps it is high time to return the favor, and reached out to Gale for her opinion of her former protege who, judging from the slice of cake I ate, is doing phenomenally. 

      "She’s talented, creative, a hard worker and juggles her career with being an attentive great mom," replied Gale, who herself has escaped the daily grind of running a high end restaurant but still teaches cooking around the country and makes appearances at food and wine festivals. "I feel good about how she’s progressed as a pastry chef and a person since she worked for me more than 20 years ago. Also, she’s always smiling, she has a joyful nature, so nice to be around where the stress of kitchen can bring out the worst version of people."
     But not everybody, I'm glad to report. The cake was truly excellent. You can tell it was made by a happy baker.

WAIT YOUR TURN! American Airlines tries to call out line-jumpers

Blue Man Group

     I'm old enough to have seen Blue Man Group off-Broadway in the early 1990s, before there were dozens of cobalt grease-painted trios scattered across the globe. Just the original ensemble, who conceived the performance art piece in Central Park and went on to mint money with their fungible legions beating drums and stuffing Cap'n Crunch into their mouths.
     One bit stands out. A member of the audience arrives late — probably planted, now that I think of it — and edges past others in his row, toward an empty seat.

     Suddenly the action on the stage stops and the latecomer is hit by a spotlight as a disembodied voice bellows, "Late! Laaaate! LAAAAAAAATE!"
     Hysterical. Humiliation — of others, naturally — often is.
     Which makes the world a less humorous place, now that shame is basically dead. A concept that didn't occur to me until I got an email this week from a regular reader. It begins:
     "I read that American Airlines has a trial plan to shame customers who try to cut in the boarding line."
     We've all been there. There are six boarding groups. A certain subset of those in the latter groups stand around, poised, alert, like runners set in the blocks, visibly itching to get on the plane, jealousy eyeing those in the earlier groups as they shuffle forward, bags in tow. I'm not sure why; we're all getting on the same plane, leaving at the same time, after the last passenger takes their seat. You'd think passengers would linger, minimizing their time in the sealed aluminum tube. But no.
     I guess they want to make sure they have an overhead berth for their enormous carry-on bags. Maybe the reason is inbred competitiveness — you get on board ahead of others, you beat them and thereby win, awarding yourself another meaningless medal in the private Ego Olympics that is your life.
     I heard the news of American's experiment and pictured the inevitable entitled fellow passenger, who just has to jump the gun, because that's how he's wired, trying to board prematurely. Suddenly he's hit by a spotlight and a canned voice reverberates across the gate: "PLEASE ... WAIT ... YOUR ... TURN!!!"

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The Legacy Pantry

 

     My leafy suburban paradise is an upscale community. But that doesn't mean there aren't people living here who struggle. Divorce, addiction, job loss, accident, illness — there are many reasons why some slide down the greased pole of life.
     Last year,  I wrote about the Northbrook food pantry run by the Ark. The latest manifestation of the urge to help those in need recently popped up on First Street just a few steps north of Walters Avenue, in front of the Civic Building, a quaint 1928 structure purchased by the Northbrook Chamber of Commerce last spring.
     It's a clever idea, apparently based on those Little Libraries scattered about. A person lacking canned soup and other provisions can take what they need. Those kind-hearted souls who want to give back to the community can fill the shelves.
     It's only a short distance from my house; I can practically see it from where I sit, typing this. Walking past, I've been casting glances at the pantry — it seems like it is being used. Products appear and then are replaced by other products. I haven't added to the supply myself, but surely, if the cornucopia seemed to be running low, I'd hurry home and see what we could spare.
     The location does seem curious. Sort of off-the-beaten track. First Street is not quite a block long, from Walters to where it dead ends at the corner of my lot. Many confused drivers who miss the big "DEAD END" sign end up there. I can't imagine many needy people wander over to the Chamber for their first Friday of the month breakfast. It might be better situated near Village Hall, or the library. Not that I'm trying to relocate it away from me — I'm not one of those people, worried about my line of vision being disturbed by the needy snagging cans of free soup as I walk my dog.
     Just the opposite. I want people to know it's there. Thus today's notice. I don't get the sense that many needy persons are reading this. But it's the only way I have to spread the word. If someone you know is going through hard times, and could use some gratis groceries, you know where to point them. 

Some moments more than others

The Auditorium Building, foreground, and the Wabash Building.

     One of the pleasures of navigating Chicago on foot is how the old and the new juxtapose each other. Such as the 1888 Auditorium Building set against Roosevelt University's 2012 Wabash Building. The Auditorium's 17 story tower — once the tallest building in Chicago — framed by the undulating green facade of the 32 story "vertical campus."
     I could go on and on about the Auditorium, designed by Adler and Sullivan, with a young Frank Lloyd Wright creating interior ornamentation. The cornerstone was set by President Grover Cleveland. The 4,000 seat theater has seen many landmark Chicago cultural moments. The Chicago Symphony Orchestra debuted there in 1891 — George Gershwin was a featured soloist in 1933, playing piano for "Rhapsody in Blue."
     The Wabash Building, being far newer, doesn't have as rich a history. Though you never know what one of the students living and studying there will do someday. It's a green LEED certified building, designed with bird safety in mind. Thus no lighting on the roof, but plant cover instead.

    That's it. I was in the South Loop Tuesday afternoon because a friend asked me to talk to her class at Columbia College. The kids were attentive and respectful and asked probing questions. The sun bathed the city as I walked back to Union Station. The day was June transported to the end of October, a rare gift. Then again, what aspect of life isn't a rare gift? I always try to appreciate whatever moment I'm in, though, to be honest, some moments are easier to savor than others.

Harold Washington Library

"Island of garbage"

     Of course I watched Donald Trump's rally at Madison Square Garden Sunday night. Well, part of it anyway. A bit. The thing lasted six hours. I didn't camp out in front of the television and tune in CNN or MSNBC. No need for that. Rather I lay on the sofa in the living room and scrolled X.
     It was easy. Trump's rally was highlighted on a hot pink bar at the top of the screen. Tapping that took me to Trump, live, doing what he has done since June 16, 2015, when he rode that escalator down the salmon-tinted excrescence of a lobby at Trump Tower: malign immigrants.

     "Take our country back," he said. The "...from brown people" is unvoiced. He isn't saying that Norwegian immigrants are ruining our country just by being here. Because of all the crimes they commit. 

     It isn't true — immigrants are actually more law-abiding than citizens, which makes perfect sense, when you think about it — someone should. If you could be deported for a speeding ticket, you'd keep your head down too. No matter. The lying is baked into the Trumpian worldview. I think that's the most repellent part, for me. Prejudice I understand — everybody harbors prejudice to some degree or another. But to create a counterfactual hothouse within your own soul in order for your biases to grow as lush and bountiful as they can. That's nuts.
     The rally got boring quickly — listening to the same old shit — and I skipped down through X to see what others were posting. I was struck by the number of pro-Trump clips, from Joe Rogan's show, from supporters. Suddenly the world was lovin' Trump. At least here. There were also clips of women flashing their breasts — you don't normally see that on the former Twitter. Must be bait to draw in the important young man vote. That was the only explanation I could think of.
     No doubt Elon Musk was putting his thumb on the scales for Trump. He was at the rally, leading chants of "USA! USA!" in his James Bond villain accent. His hat reading "Make America Great Again" in a font popular in Nazi Germany. The devil is in the details. Musk has lately gone all in for Trump, the two open-wound egos locked in a mutual admiration society. Musk bought Twitter — exactly two years ago, on Oct. 28, 2022 — for $44 billion. He decimated its value by turning it into a haven for haters and loons. So he's trying to claw some value back by turning it into a megaphone for Trump — the world's richest man ballyhooing America's greatest traitor. He's counting on a prime place at the trough when Trump is re-elected. Like all who sell their souls to Trump, he forgot to read the fine print. 

     For now, it's working, with nearly half the country. Trump and Musk, presenting themselves a champions of the little guy. Boy, people really are stupid. Maybe our politics is as simple as that.
     Other opinions still came through. Shocked shares of heretofore anonymous, now forever notorious, comedian Tony Hinchcliffe slurring Hispanics:
     "These Latinos, they love making babies too. Just know that. They do. They do. There's no pulling out. They don't do that. They cum inside. Just like they did to our country."
     I tried to think of another instance of the word "cum" appearing in presidential politics and came up empty. Some outlets spelled it "come" which is silly. Another day.
     Then the alleged comedian bored in on Puerto Rico. “I don’t know if you know this but there’s literally a floating island of garbage in the middle of the ocean right now," he said. " I think it’s called Puerto Rico.”
     Since laughter was sparse, he provided his own. "Ha ha ha ha." Four harsh syllables.
     There's more. He pretended to see a Black friend in the crowd. "We carved watermelons together, it was awesome." He mused on the war in Ukraine. "Who even cares?
     You get the idea. You can watch it yourself, if you're interested — the "love making babies" part is at 2:37. The "floating island of garbage" is at 3:38.
     I have a pretty broad sense of humor, but it doesn't seem remotely funny. Someone on X observed that satire is mocking the powerful; bullying is mocking the weak. Dismissing an island of 3.2 million people as garbage is bullying.     

     A week before the election, we are nothing if not numb. I can't say I was offended so much as puzzled. This is Donald Trump's message in the home stretch? Delivered at the home of the infamous 1939 Nazi Rally. In for a dime, in for a dollar, I suppose. But still...
     It had the effect of supercharging support for Kamala Harris. Puerto Rican superstar Bad Bunny tweeted Harris's supportive statement on Puerto Rico to his 45 million followers four times in the next hour. Not enough for anyone to feel optimistic about the outcome. But the guttering flame of hope flickered in its cave, trying to push back the darkness all around.
      I didn't tweet anything myself during the rally — what's the point? But just before bed a thought came to me, and I composed a message: "I watched the rally, but missed the part at the end where they open the Ark of the Covenant." The kind of sly remark that does well on X.