With only a month left before I had to leave this big city and move back into my parents house, the list of stuff I wanted to do before I left was getting longer and longer. And so every weekend I made sure to cross things off this list, whether it be finishing the Alias series with Seema, going to Navy Pier, spending money at stores like Anthropologie and Urban Outfitters; two stores I already window shopped at every day on my commute to work, as well as writing poetry in the park, going to that restaurant that had rave reviews, seeing my North Park friends once again while eating true Chicago style pizza one more time.
I don't think it stopped raining that whole last month. I got good use out of my yellow rain jacket. The cold & wet days made me relieved I was leaving soon, but forlorn at the same time that I didn't know what I was going to do after I left.
Once again, I started making a list in my head:
*Graduate from college, step one. I would attend the ceremony of course, but more so out of obligation and a sense of tangible acheivement. Most of my close friends had graduated the year before, as I was a 5th-year-Senior, so I didn't have many last goodbyes to say once I went back to Iowa.
*Find a job, step two. I had been applying to various social work jobs in Des Moines, IA since that was somewhat close to my family (and my boyfriend), and since one of my good friends currently lived in Des Moines. I had gotten a couple leads at this point, but nothing set in stone.
*Decide on a living arrangement, step three. I had proposed moving into an apartment with my boyfriend & another good friend of mine, so it wouldn't upset my parents too much that I would be living with a boy. What actually happened, well, that's a different story.
But now...now was the time to forget my troubles and have fun in this city that was no longer so strange to me.
The last week of our internship, Seema and I had off. We didn't have to work, our classes already had their finals, and we were bound and determined to enjoy the rainiest days. In fact, on one of these rainy days we decided to go puddle jumping. Like two little kids we put on our raincoats and golashes and jumped in every puddle within a 10 block radius of our apartment. We made fools of ourselves while the yuppies watched from the third floor windows of their million dollar townhouses. We walked and jumped until we reached Lake Michigan; and then we ran to the water's edge and stood, waiting for the next big wave in the freezing water to crash down on us. Then we mustered up enough energy to jog home in our soggy jeans, 10 pounds heavier once wet, and took hot showers and made cocoa.
That was one of the best, craziest, and most memorable days I've ever experienced.
And then it became time to pack and make moving arrangements. My parents were brave and moved me out of the "Windy City" just as they had moved me in. I remember how fast we had to move to get everything in their trunk within 15 minutes, since a cop had already told them they were in a "no-parking zone".
And as my dad navigated the crazy Chicago traffic I held onto the stuffed dog my boyfriend had gotten me for Christmas and stared out the windows. I stared at the apartment building that took all my tuition money. I stared at the streets I walked on for five months. I stared at all the stores and restaurants and houses and buildings that became my very own neighborhood for awhile.
I had to chuckle to myself at my nostalgia. It's funny; the things I never thought I would miss became everyday familiarites that I had gotten used to. Like the homeless man in a wheelchair that would yell at me everytime I left the grocery store. Or going to the pharmacy across the street every day to buy batteries for my discman-the acoustic version of "Jagged Little Pill" had become the soundtrack to my life while I lived in that city. I was bitter, I was sleep deprived, and I loved every minute of it. Because it made me stronger in the end. Like a husband that gets used to his wife's snoring....that's how I felt about Chicago. It was loud and annoying...but it became my home for awhile. And despite my better instincts, in the end I had grown to love this not so shy, very big town.
Wednesday, October 31, 2012
Sunday, April 15, 2012
"Shy-Town" Part 4: Visitors & Pulaski Day
It was about the third month that I spent in Chicago where my homesickness was undeniable. Luckily I had a couple things to look forward to; number one was a visit from my best high school friend for St. Patricks Day. We drank green beer and appletini's and shopped and had a slumber party just like old times.
But the ever so important holiday before that was Pulaski Day! Unbeknownst to me, this was a Polish Holiday celebrated in Illinois, which meant I actually got a couple days off from my internship and my classes. And I celebrated by hosting my boyfriend from out of state.
He had never been to the big city before, so he was a bit harried when he arrived in his little red sports car and black duster jacket. Like something out of a bad romance novel, he embodied my tantric desires right there as he stepped out of the car and welcomed me into his arms, parked on one of the busiest streets in the Gold Coast. I offered him upstairs to the 14th floor, to get some refreshments and meet the roomates. After which, we quickly headed up to North Park, where a couple mutual friends of ours lived and went to graduate school.
That first night was kind of a reunion for all of us. Even though I had been in the area for a few months now, I hadn't even seen my best girl friend, due to her disapproval of my new relationship. Luckily, the disapproval didn't seem to last long, but it made that first night somewhat awkward.
But soon enough we all fell back into our normal group dynamic that we had when we were all going to college together in Iowa. We laughed, shared stories, and remembered why we were such good friends. In fact, if it wasn't for this North Park couple, I would've never met the man I fell in love with.
And as a new couple, lucky in love we were. We could barely keep our hands off each other in those days. Looking back, our public display of affection at that time was almost embarrassing.
Later that night we went to a nearby club, and were definately kept an eye on by the bartender. Of course, we didn't do anything too inappropriate, but I'm sure we weren't the first couple to be monitored in a dimly lit place called "Funk".
After a couple hours nuzzling one another, we headed back to my apartment. I had never witnessed my roomates staying up so late, even on a weekend! Those good Christian girls were bound and determined to make their presence known, so of course, I couldn't get any that night.
The next day we slept in and I showed my beau around town. My surprise for him that night was to take him out for real Chicago-style pizza, and to the infamous "Second City" comedy club. It was such a fun night, but as most adventures with the CTA go, most of our evening was spent navigating and walking and waiting for trains.
Day three of his visit was Pulaski Day. We had planned to go to this museum and that museum, but quickly realized most everything was closed for the Holiday! And after visiting the Natural History Museum, the one touristy place that was open for business, it started to pour rain outside.
And that's when we discovered Blockbuster & Jimmy Johns. Four movies and two subs later, we were happy with our decision to sit on the couch and just cuddle for hours. That's how we spent the rest of Pulaski Day. And six years later, we're still celebrating.
(to be continued...)
But the ever so important holiday before that was Pulaski Day! Unbeknownst to me, this was a Polish Holiday celebrated in Illinois, which meant I actually got a couple days off from my internship and my classes. And I celebrated by hosting my boyfriend from out of state.
He had never been to the big city before, so he was a bit harried when he arrived in his little red sports car and black duster jacket. Like something out of a bad romance novel, he embodied my tantric desires right there as he stepped out of the car and welcomed me into his arms, parked on one of the busiest streets in the Gold Coast. I offered him upstairs to the 14th floor, to get some refreshments and meet the roomates. After which, we quickly headed up to North Park, where a couple mutual friends of ours lived and went to graduate school.
That first night was kind of a reunion for all of us. Even though I had been in the area for a few months now, I hadn't even seen my best girl friend, due to her disapproval of my new relationship. Luckily, the disapproval didn't seem to last long, but it made that first night somewhat awkward.
But soon enough we all fell back into our normal group dynamic that we had when we were all going to college together in Iowa. We laughed, shared stories, and remembered why we were such good friends. In fact, if it wasn't for this North Park couple, I would've never met the man I fell in love with.
And as a new couple, lucky in love we were. We could barely keep our hands off each other in those days. Looking back, our public display of affection at that time was almost embarrassing.
Later that night we went to a nearby club, and were definately kept an eye on by the bartender. Of course, we didn't do anything too inappropriate, but I'm sure we weren't the first couple to be monitored in a dimly lit place called "Funk".
After a couple hours nuzzling one another, we headed back to my apartment. I had never witnessed my roomates staying up so late, even on a weekend! Those good Christian girls were bound and determined to make their presence known, so of course, I couldn't get any that night.
The next day we slept in and I showed my beau around town. My surprise for him that night was to take him out for real Chicago-style pizza, and to the infamous "Second City" comedy club. It was such a fun night, but as most adventures with the CTA go, most of our evening was spent navigating and walking and waiting for trains.
Day three of his visit was Pulaski Day. We had planned to go to this museum and that museum, but quickly realized most everything was closed for the Holiday! And after visiting the Natural History Museum, the one touristy place that was open for business, it started to pour rain outside.
And that's when we discovered Blockbuster & Jimmy Johns. Four movies and two subs later, we were happy with our decision to sit on the couch and just cuddle for hours. That's how we spent the rest of Pulaski Day. And six years later, we're still celebrating.
(to be continued...)
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
"Shy-Town" Part 3: Meeting Michio
I almost gasped from shock one day when Seema came into our apartment followed by a strange gentleman. A million questions arose in my throat, including the ever smooth, "You talk to boys?"
And apparently she had talked, and had spent time with this chap...even more than I had that semester with my long-distance boyfriend.
His name was Michio. Apparently they knew each other from college, but he had graduated a few years before us. He was Asian, and knew Seema from the International Club they both belonged to at school. I felt bad I hadn't remembered him, because I had been the secretary of the International Club for two years, and a member for three. But I suppose you can't remember everyone.
But Michio, oh he would've been memorable. The first time I entered his apartment, four stories above ours to be exact, I couldn't even walk. His floor was a collage of comic books, dirty clothes, dvd's, and a what seemed like a million chinese take-out boxes.
He came over to our place the next week to make us girls supper (including Ursula, who of course tried to steal all his attention). He showed us how to cook salmon on the stove top; I even remember the three basic steps. 1)Fill a frying pan full of water, 2) Make a basket of foil and fill with dry white wine, herbs & spices, 3) Add the fish to the foil basket, and about 20 minutes later, voila! A tasty meal that was. And we, with the exception of Seema of course, drank what was left of the wine.
We saw more and more of Michio as the semester progressed. He was a break from our everyday routine. And even though none of us thought of him in a romantic way, he was the one tangible man in our lives that took care of us and taught us about politics and Monty Python, and made us laugh when we needed to the most. One time I came home from work and he had changed into one of my shirts after spilling on his. I gladly accepted the challenge of cross dressing our male asian friend and quickly found linens he could stuff in the chest area of the bright pink feminine top he later regretted borrowing from me. ***
The most memorable night us three girls spent with Michio was out on the town walking through the Lincoln Park neighborhood to a real Spanish restaurant. Looking back, I'm pretty sure his whole purpose in taking us there, other than the amazing food, was to have us all get drunk on Sangria. Seema still wouldn't budge in her beliefs- no alchohol for her, even if her best friend at the moment was paying for it. But I had three glasses and it was delicious. I still crave that purple Sangria, all these years later.
We went to other restaurants of course, and Michio always had to tell the waiter "no cilantro!" on anything he ordered. He wasn't allergic, he just hated it that much. Even now, I find myself picking the green herb out of foods with an odd distaste for it. Perhaps out of empathetic nostalgia.
The last month we were in Chicago I didn't see much of Michio anymore. I think he started working second shift, if I remeber correctly. Our schedules didn't work anymore. I remember Seema being a bit forlorn about the whole matter, and me asking her where Michio was? And did she miss him? And why didn't they date?
But her parents wouldn't approve of a guy like Michio. He drank, he was messy, and he didn't like very spicy food, much of what Seema grew up on. I was disappointed for her.
But mostly, we just missed our friend. Our friend who quickly came and went, and made our lives better, if only for a moment.
(to be continued...)
And apparently she had talked, and had spent time with this chap...even more than I had that semester with my long-distance boyfriend.
His name was Michio. Apparently they knew each other from college, but he had graduated a few years before us. He was Asian, and knew Seema from the International Club they both belonged to at school. I felt bad I hadn't remembered him, because I had been the secretary of the International Club for two years, and a member for three. But I suppose you can't remember everyone.
But Michio, oh he would've been memorable. The first time I entered his apartment, four stories above ours to be exact, I couldn't even walk. His floor was a collage of comic books, dirty clothes, dvd's, and a what seemed like a million chinese take-out boxes.
He came over to our place the next week to make us girls supper (including Ursula, who of course tried to steal all his attention). He showed us how to cook salmon on the stove top; I even remember the three basic steps. 1)Fill a frying pan full of water, 2) Make a basket of foil and fill with dry white wine, herbs & spices, 3) Add the fish to the foil basket, and about 20 minutes later, voila! A tasty meal that was. And we, with the exception of Seema of course, drank what was left of the wine.
We saw more and more of Michio as the semester progressed. He was a break from our everyday routine. And even though none of us thought of him in a romantic way, he was the one tangible man in our lives that took care of us and taught us about politics and Monty Python, and made us laugh when we needed to the most. One time I came home from work and he had changed into one of my shirts after spilling on his. I gladly accepted the challenge of cross dressing our male asian friend and quickly found linens he could stuff in the chest area of the bright pink feminine top he later regretted borrowing from me. ***
The most memorable night us three girls spent with Michio was out on the town walking through the Lincoln Park neighborhood to a real Spanish restaurant. Looking back, I'm pretty sure his whole purpose in taking us there, other than the amazing food, was to have us all get drunk on Sangria. Seema still wouldn't budge in her beliefs- no alchohol for her, even if her best friend at the moment was paying for it. But I had three glasses and it was delicious. I still crave that purple Sangria, all these years later.
We went to other restaurants of course, and Michio always had to tell the waiter "no cilantro!" on anything he ordered. He wasn't allergic, he just hated it that much. Even now, I find myself picking the green herb out of foods with an odd distaste for it. Perhaps out of empathetic nostalgia.
The last month we were in Chicago I didn't see much of Michio anymore. I think he started working second shift, if I remeber correctly. Our schedules didn't work anymore. I remember Seema being a bit forlorn about the whole matter, and me asking her where Michio was? And did she miss him? And why didn't they date?
But her parents wouldn't approve of a guy like Michio. He drank, he was messy, and he didn't like very spicy food, much of what Seema grew up on. I was disappointed for her.
But mostly, we just missed our friend. Our friend who quickly came and went, and made our lives better, if only for a moment.
(to be continued...)
Thursday, May 5, 2011
"Shy-Town" Part 2: My Special Needs
I turned up the volume on my headphones so Alanis Morrisette would drown out the annoying subway noise on the hour long ride to my internship. These days I had to get up at an ungodly hour to take a a train, bus, and 5 city-block walk to the preschool I was working at.
Each morning, Ursula, my "other" roomate, and I would fight over the bathroom to get ready for our daily jobs. After awhile I gave in, knowing that the shower would be scalding or freezing - there was never an in between temperature- no matter what time I took one. Plus, I would've rather slept longer anyway.
So everyday I was late. I would hurry down the street, run down the stairs to the red line at Clark & Division and watch as my train was leaving the station. Then I would mope while I waited for the next one. Which- was always more crowded than the first. And the wait gave me more time to spend with homeless guitar playing man. He didn't bother me so much. But the guy on the CTA who always stared at me did. I wasn't afraid of him, just annoyed. Maybe he was just secretly making fun of me for being one of the only Chicago-eans in the new millenium to still listen to a disc man instead of an ipod. Whatever the case, I would usually pretend to read my book, lose myself in my angry girl music, and ignore all the faces and bodies surrounding me.
After that ordeal, was the bus stop. I once saw pigeons having sex at this bus stop. I was so annoyed I excused myself from the bird orgy, got some krullers from Dunkin Donuts, and wrote a satirical poem about my jealously of the two love birds. Later I sent a copy to my boyfriend who was greatly amused. And also a bit jealous.
The bus stop was worse than the train. It was never on time, and once, on my way home, I missed and had to walk some 16 blocks until the next one. The first time I took the bus by myself, I got on the wrong side of the road and ended up riding all the way to the Evanston bus station. I don't know if the driver felt sorry for me or thought I was on something. But the city streets quickly weened me into the life of public transportaion pretty quickly.
Once I actually arrived at the preschool, face beet red from the harsh Chicago winds, I was ready to go home and take a nap. But instead, I got to sit in toddler size chairs and try to get the kid with Autism to talk to me, the kid who didn't eat any solid food to try some Cheerios, and the kid with the behavioral disorder to wash his hands after going to the bathroom.
I eventually fell in love with these special needs children. And I learned a lot. Somedays were harder than others, but overall it wasn't my first choice of an internship, so I was just a little disappointed all semester long. Because it was hard to get attached to toddlers who all had attachment disorders. They were cute, and I wish I would've appreciated my time there more, but some days, to be honest, they were the death of me. And the commute was the worst part.
After the first month I became so accustomed to life on the CTA for 2 hours of my day, that I started taking naps on the train. One time I almost missed my stop. Luckily I never got mugged.
It got to the point where I was so tired every day I had a weekly routine for supper: Monday-the Gyro place, Tuesday-Popeye's Chicken, Wednesday-Jimmy Johns....and so it continues. One night I remember being proud of myself for not racking up my credit card even more, and made an egg & cheese sandwich for myself. I even had some leftover Ben & Jerry's for dessert. Ursula of course chimed in, being the health nut she was, saying she couldn't believe how much dairy I was consuming in one meal.
I said, "You think a slice of cheese & 2 scoops of ice cream is a lot of dairy?"
She responded, "Well that and the egg."
So thus followed an explaination from me to her about the food pyramid. "As you can see here Ursula, eggs are in the protein category." This is the kind of stuff she would pick on me about.
She also told me I was too much of a homebody, I needed to find a church to go to every week, and even melted one of my plastic cups on the doll sized stove in the closet sized kitchen we shared. It was an accident. Apparently so was ruining my muffin pan. And crashing my computer.
I usually just ignored her and watched more Alias with Seema. I didn't care if I was a homebody on the weekends. I was out every weekday for 12-14 hours, including classes 2 days a week, and enjoyed my freedom on the weekends. And the real reason I was a homebody? So I could be away from her, evil Ursula, while she was out doing stuff.
Plus, it was cold outside. Very, very cold. And I was happier being depressed indoors.
(to be continued...)
Each morning, Ursula, my "other" roomate, and I would fight over the bathroom to get ready for our daily jobs. After awhile I gave in, knowing that the shower would be scalding or freezing - there was never an in between temperature- no matter what time I took one. Plus, I would've rather slept longer anyway.
So everyday I was late. I would hurry down the street, run down the stairs to the red line at Clark & Division and watch as my train was leaving the station. Then I would mope while I waited for the next one. Which- was always more crowded than the first. And the wait gave me more time to spend with homeless guitar playing man. He didn't bother me so much. But the guy on the CTA who always stared at me did. I wasn't afraid of him, just annoyed. Maybe he was just secretly making fun of me for being one of the only Chicago-eans in the new millenium to still listen to a disc man instead of an ipod. Whatever the case, I would usually pretend to read my book, lose myself in my angry girl music, and ignore all the faces and bodies surrounding me.
After that ordeal, was the bus stop. I once saw pigeons having sex at this bus stop. I was so annoyed I excused myself from the bird orgy, got some krullers from Dunkin Donuts, and wrote a satirical poem about my jealously of the two love birds. Later I sent a copy to my boyfriend who was greatly amused. And also a bit jealous.
The bus stop was worse than the train. It was never on time, and once, on my way home, I missed and had to walk some 16 blocks until the next one. The first time I took the bus by myself, I got on the wrong side of the road and ended up riding all the way to the Evanston bus station. I don't know if the driver felt sorry for me or thought I was on something. But the city streets quickly weened me into the life of public transportaion pretty quickly.
Once I actually arrived at the preschool, face beet red from the harsh Chicago winds, I was ready to go home and take a nap. But instead, I got to sit in toddler size chairs and try to get the kid with Autism to talk to me, the kid who didn't eat any solid food to try some Cheerios, and the kid with the behavioral disorder to wash his hands after going to the bathroom.
I eventually fell in love with these special needs children. And I learned a lot. Somedays were harder than others, but overall it wasn't my first choice of an internship, so I was just a little disappointed all semester long. Because it was hard to get attached to toddlers who all had attachment disorders. They were cute, and I wish I would've appreciated my time there more, but some days, to be honest, they were the death of me. And the commute was the worst part.
After the first month I became so accustomed to life on the CTA for 2 hours of my day, that I started taking naps on the train. One time I almost missed my stop. Luckily I never got mugged.
It got to the point where I was so tired every day I had a weekly routine for supper: Monday-the Gyro place, Tuesday-Popeye's Chicken, Wednesday-Jimmy Johns....and so it continues. One night I remember being proud of myself for not racking up my credit card even more, and made an egg & cheese sandwich for myself. I even had some leftover Ben & Jerry's for dessert. Ursula of course chimed in, being the health nut she was, saying she couldn't believe how much dairy I was consuming in one meal.
I said, "You think a slice of cheese & 2 scoops of ice cream is a lot of dairy?"
She responded, "Well that and the egg."
So thus followed an explaination from me to her about the food pyramid. "As you can see here Ursula, eggs are in the protein category." This is the kind of stuff she would pick on me about.
She also told me I was too much of a homebody, I needed to find a church to go to every week, and even melted one of my plastic cups on the doll sized stove in the closet sized kitchen we shared. It was an accident. Apparently so was ruining my muffin pan. And crashing my computer.
I usually just ignored her and watched more Alias with Seema. I didn't care if I was a homebody on the weekends. I was out every weekday for 12-14 hours, including classes 2 days a week, and enjoyed my freedom on the weekends. And the real reason I was a homebody? So I could be away from her, evil Ursula, while she was out doing stuff.
Plus, it was cold outside. Very, very cold. And I was happier being depressed indoors.
(to be continued...)
Saturday, March 26, 2011
"Shy"-Town; Part 1
I latched onto her the moment I found her in the crowd. Networking through the mass throngs of my peers was more intimidating to me than jumping off a cliff. And I was glad to see a familiar face.
We knew each other from before, and I knew she would be a good roomate for a semester spent in Chicago. This girl- we'll call her "Seema"- I adopted like a younger sister. She was only a year younger than I, but her tiny 4'8" frame, youthful appearance, and naivity about life all made her seem a bit childish.
Seema was my rock the whole time I was there. She & I made food together, shopped together, and watched the entire "Alias" series on my silver laptop. The laptop that served as computer, stereo, and dvd player for all three of us.
Oh yes, there was a third roomate who shared our overpriced 1 bedroom apartment in the Gold Coast; the expensive neighborhood north of downtown Chicago. We lived within walking distance of Lake Michigan, but the lake was frozen for almost the whole time we lived there.
It was a cold and gritty semester. I developed a knack for being tardy everywhere I went, including my daily internship. I always blamed my tardiness on having to deal with public transportation- something that was also new to me. And sometimes, it was the CTA's fault that I was late.
But back to the beginning of this story.
Seema and I knew each other from before. We had lived on the same wing of an all girls dorm, and because I was in the International Club at college, and she was an International student, we were forced to be friends. Still, I was suprised at how well we got along in Chicago despite our differences.
She was a little Indian girl, from the country of Quatar, pronounced "Kuther" per Seema. "All American's pronounce it wrong," she would say.
To her I must have seemed a typical American girl, who ate way too much fast food and complained everyday about desperately missing my friends. She had a gentle heart and was self disciplined, despite her shyness. Seema would pray 3 times a day in the hall closet; the same place she would talk on the phone. I wanted nothing more than to see and sleep with my boyfriend of 6 months; she had never been kissed and refused to touch a drop of alcohol.
We were different you see. But we found each other when we were lonely.
(to be continued...)
We knew each other from before, and I knew she would be a good roomate for a semester spent in Chicago. This girl- we'll call her "Seema"- I adopted like a younger sister. She was only a year younger than I, but her tiny 4'8" frame, youthful appearance, and naivity about life all made her seem a bit childish.
Seema was my rock the whole time I was there. She & I made food together, shopped together, and watched the entire "Alias" series on my silver laptop. The laptop that served as computer, stereo, and dvd player for all three of us.
Oh yes, there was a third roomate who shared our overpriced 1 bedroom apartment in the Gold Coast; the expensive neighborhood north of downtown Chicago. We lived within walking distance of Lake Michigan, but the lake was frozen for almost the whole time we lived there.
It was a cold and gritty semester. I developed a knack for being tardy everywhere I went, including my daily internship. I always blamed my tardiness on having to deal with public transportation- something that was also new to me. And sometimes, it was the CTA's fault that I was late.
But back to the beginning of this story.
Seema and I knew each other from before. We had lived on the same wing of an all girls dorm, and because I was in the International Club at college, and she was an International student, we were forced to be friends. Still, I was suprised at how well we got along in Chicago despite our differences.
She was a little Indian girl, from the country of Quatar, pronounced "Kuther" per Seema. "All American's pronounce it wrong," she would say.
To her I must have seemed a typical American girl, who ate way too much fast food and complained everyday about desperately missing my friends. She had a gentle heart and was self disciplined, despite her shyness. Seema would pray 3 times a day in the hall closet; the same place she would talk on the phone. I wanted nothing more than to see and sleep with my boyfriend of 6 months; she had never been kissed and refused to touch a drop of alcohol.
We were different you see. But we found each other when we were lonely.
(to be continued...)
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Alma Matters
I called her the "Bosnian Bitch". We didn't officially meet until we were sitting by one another. Oh how seating arrangements hold as much importance as they do in grade school. But we weren't children. We were twenty-somethings. And yet I still wanted to pass notes about how mean this girl was and how I didn't know why she wanted to be my friend.
What I didn't know was, while I was passing notes and jumping rope in third grade, she was hiding. Hiding from the bad people that were out to get her family. She had already been separated from her father; Alma, her mother, and older brother would find shelter wherever they could. They had been basically starving, living off of what little food they could find. And for the first time, at least they were free from the internment camp they had been forced to stay at for the past few years.
While she watched people get beaten and raped from inside those walls, I made friendship bracelets and rode my bike with my friends. While she was crying and searching to be reunited with her father, I was complaining about how strict my parents were.
But as twenty somethings, we knew nothing about the other. All I knew about her was that she looked rich, like she didn't need this job. She wore a different outfit to work each day for almost a year, exaggerating the high-fashion label present on all her tags. Bragging about how her mother would buy her all of these expensive clothes, and her husband of only a year wanted her to look her best all the time, and would spoil her in this regard.
She wasn't a nice person, this Alma. She would pick on people, asking them questions one doesn't ask when you don't know someone very well. Questions that would make people uncomfortable and walk away. She asked me a lot of these questions. One time I put her in her place, telling her, "that's none of your business!" And then she was quiet... for about an hour.
Almost nothing made her shy or act modestly. She wasn't afraid of anyone. She walked in the front door every day, head held high, dressy clothes ironed neatly when the rest of us were in jeans.
She started begging me to go to lunch with her one day. I don't know why, but after a few days of this, I did. I realized what a mistake I had made after we were alone together for 15 minutes and therefore asked if we could "get it to go" and bring the food back to work. We did. And as we ate near each other she started telling me, telling everyone in her row about her stories. I don't remember who asked, but someone did. And she told us. Told us about her childhood struggle, her (eventual) joyful reunion with her father. Told us about spending her teenage years in Chicago, both parents working two jobs to support their children.
And as I listened, my eyes watered; mouth agape. I felt so stupid, so ignorant. But how was I to have known? How was I to assume this stuck-up, resilient, sarcastically blunt woman, this "Bosnian Bitch", was that way for a reason?
We ate lunch together every week after that. Alma loved food, though no one would guess by her nearly 6 foot, size 4, slender model's frame. She would bring in Bosnian treats to work, and homebaked dishes she would share....usually just with me. My favorite was this bread thing she made; not a roll, not a crossaint, but something delicious and buttery in between the two concepts. She would spread "laughing cow" cheese on top and it became something I craved in my sleep. She also taught me how to make spinach artichoke dip, something that was gone before any other dish when our department had a potluck day.
We eventually became the best of friends- almost inseperable at work. Kind of like those girls in elementary school that hate each other, but then one day realize they idolize the same teenage heartthrob, and then declare they're "best friends forever". That's how we were, Alma and I.
Then one day, we both transferred to different departments. Didn't see each other anymore. I started a new job somewhere else. A few months into that job, they switched our seating arrangement. Unbelievably, I had to sit by a new Alma. An Alma that looked to be almost 80 years old. She was also tall and thin; could easily be that woman who plays an evil witch in a movie with her scowly aged face. And her voice. Oh how loud it was! Probably from partial deafness, but no matter the reason, I couldn't even hear myself think whenever old Alma was talking on the phone. And she was apparently hard to understand too because she was constantly repeating herself to customers. "I was just calling to..." "I Was Just Calling to..." "I WaS JusT CallinG TO..." "I WAS JUST CALLING TO...!!!". Luckily her shift ended a few hours before mine and I was given some relief at the end of each day.
One morning I came into work and noticed a few people crowding around her desk. She had been gone the day before, so I expected the nosy on-lookers were wondering as to why this was. Apparently she had an art show. I joined the circle, and found out old Alma was a lifelong artist, and even had a website to display her paintings.
I thought to myself, "So that's why she has to work a part time job at her age," and immediately felt sad for her.
But sad old Alma was not. She was cutthroat, unapologetic and gleamed with the sparkle of someone important. Like Bosnian Alma, she was always dressed well. She had the sophistication of someone who was alive in 50 years ago, when it was important to look like a lady. Probably because, she was alive 50 years ago.
A few days later, a young woman came around the corner and asked old Alma for change for a dollar. Afterwards, she told me it was her daughter. And she told me stories of her family, how her husband recently died, and her only daughter (who was also a single mother of 1) came to stay with her for awhile.
From that day onward, her voice didn't bother me as much. It was a voice of wisdom and heritage, a voice, though breaking in it's old age, had much more to say about life than I could in my youth.
Alma was gone from work more often after that. She told me it was for doctor's appointments, but never explained why. I never asked. It didn't need to be explained for a woman of her years. And eventually, we parted ways as well. Again, not by choice, but by circumstance.
It's still makes me smile how- in a time where the name Alma isn't a popular one - I've met two of them. And these women, though unsuspecting, both taught me something. They showed me what it means to exist in a world full of so much struggle. And how existing is different from living.
What I didn't know was, while I was passing notes and jumping rope in third grade, she was hiding. Hiding from the bad people that were out to get her family. She had already been separated from her father; Alma, her mother, and older brother would find shelter wherever they could. They had been basically starving, living off of what little food they could find. And for the first time, at least they were free from the internment camp they had been forced to stay at for the past few years.
While she watched people get beaten and raped from inside those walls, I made friendship bracelets and rode my bike with my friends. While she was crying and searching to be reunited with her father, I was complaining about how strict my parents were.
But as twenty somethings, we knew nothing about the other. All I knew about her was that she looked rich, like she didn't need this job. She wore a different outfit to work each day for almost a year, exaggerating the high-fashion label present on all her tags. Bragging about how her mother would buy her all of these expensive clothes, and her husband of only a year wanted her to look her best all the time, and would spoil her in this regard.
She wasn't a nice person, this Alma. She would pick on people, asking them questions one doesn't ask when you don't know someone very well. Questions that would make people uncomfortable and walk away. She asked me a lot of these questions. One time I put her in her place, telling her, "that's none of your business!" And then she was quiet... for about an hour.
Almost nothing made her shy or act modestly. She wasn't afraid of anyone. She walked in the front door every day, head held high, dressy clothes ironed neatly when the rest of us were in jeans.
She started begging me to go to lunch with her one day. I don't know why, but after a few days of this, I did. I realized what a mistake I had made after we were alone together for 15 minutes and therefore asked if we could "get it to go" and bring the food back to work. We did. And as we ate near each other she started telling me, telling everyone in her row about her stories. I don't remember who asked, but someone did. And she told us. Told us about her childhood struggle, her (eventual) joyful reunion with her father. Told us about spending her teenage years in Chicago, both parents working two jobs to support their children.
And as I listened, my eyes watered; mouth agape. I felt so stupid, so ignorant. But how was I to have known? How was I to assume this stuck-up, resilient, sarcastically blunt woman, this "Bosnian Bitch", was that way for a reason?
We ate lunch together every week after that. Alma loved food, though no one would guess by her nearly 6 foot, size 4, slender model's frame. She would bring in Bosnian treats to work, and homebaked dishes she would share....usually just with me. My favorite was this bread thing she made; not a roll, not a crossaint, but something delicious and buttery in between the two concepts. She would spread "laughing cow" cheese on top and it became something I craved in my sleep. She also taught me how to make spinach artichoke dip, something that was gone before any other dish when our department had a potluck day.
We eventually became the best of friends- almost inseperable at work. Kind of like those girls in elementary school that hate each other, but then one day realize they idolize the same teenage heartthrob, and then declare they're "best friends forever". That's how we were, Alma and I.
Then one day, we both transferred to different departments. Didn't see each other anymore. I started a new job somewhere else. A few months into that job, they switched our seating arrangement. Unbelievably, I had to sit by a new Alma. An Alma that looked to be almost 80 years old. She was also tall and thin; could easily be that woman who plays an evil witch in a movie with her scowly aged face. And her voice. Oh how loud it was! Probably from partial deafness, but no matter the reason, I couldn't even hear myself think whenever old Alma was talking on the phone. And she was apparently hard to understand too because she was constantly repeating herself to customers. "I was just calling to..." "I Was Just Calling to..." "I WaS JusT CallinG TO..." "I WAS JUST CALLING TO...!!!". Luckily her shift ended a few hours before mine and I was given some relief at the end of each day.
One morning I came into work and noticed a few people crowding around her desk. She had been gone the day before, so I expected the nosy on-lookers were wondering as to why this was. Apparently she had an art show. I joined the circle, and found out old Alma was a lifelong artist, and even had a website to display her paintings.
I thought to myself, "So that's why she has to work a part time job at her age," and immediately felt sad for her.
But sad old Alma was not. She was cutthroat, unapologetic and gleamed with the sparkle of someone important. Like Bosnian Alma, she was always dressed well. She had the sophistication of someone who was alive in 50 years ago, when it was important to look like a lady. Probably because, she was alive 50 years ago.
A few days later, a young woman came around the corner and asked old Alma for change for a dollar. Afterwards, she told me it was her daughter. And she told me stories of her family, how her husband recently died, and her only daughter (who was also a single mother of 1) came to stay with her for awhile.
From that day onward, her voice didn't bother me as much. It was a voice of wisdom and heritage, a voice, though breaking in it's old age, had much more to say about life than I could in my youth.
Alma was gone from work more often after that. She told me it was for doctor's appointments, but never explained why. I never asked. It didn't need to be explained for a woman of her years. And eventually, we parted ways as well. Again, not by choice, but by circumstance.
It's still makes me smile how- in a time where the name Alma isn't a popular one - I've met two of them. And these women, though unsuspecting, both taught me something. They showed me what it means to exist in a world full of so much struggle. And how existing is different from living.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Wednesday Morning Man
There once was an old man. He was a short man, over exaggerated by the hump on his back. He was there every Wednesday, on my walk to work. He held hostage in the skywalk, unitimidated by the throngs of people, the mass crowds of we, dressed in black on our way to the big offices. He blended in and stood out all at the same time; always dressed in a black suit, white collared shirt, no tie. He was balding, and the white hair he had saved was long, floating away from his head, almost as if he had rubbed a balloon on his scalp that morning.
He mumbled as we would walk past him. I could never make out the words he was saying, but I always smiled as I hurried past. A smile, that perhaps, was unnoticed. His glasses were so thick they made his eyes look smaller. In fact, you could barely see him. He was hunched over as he stood, head bent, eyes almost parallel to the ground. It gave him a turtle-like appearance, his suit jacket too big for his short torso and bunching up around his neck.
He never stood still, this Wednesday morning man. Almost as if his arthritis made it hard for him to stand solidly on both feet, he shifted from right to left. Not fast enough to look like he was dancing, but not so slowly either; he had the look of a small child who desperately needed to go to the bathroom.
I never talked to him. I never took one of his flyers. I could only guess they were about being saved, or the end of the world- that sort of thing.
But I smiled, because for some reason, this unitimidating Wednesday morning man, didn't make me nervous. He just provided something different to look at. Something to look forward to in the middle of the work week. While everyone was checking their watches and texting on their cell phones and grabbing a cup of overpriced cappuccino, he was there, standing, mumbling, waiting. Almost dancing. Ready for whatever came his way. Though no one usually did.
I wondered, if this Wednesday man had a family, had a wife to go home to at the end of his routine. Maybe she made him eggs and bacon every morning before he left to evangelize. Or maybe he had nothing and was looking for tips. Maybe he was homeless. I don't know. I wasn't there long enough to find out.
But every Wednesday I think of him. I wonder if he's still there, mumbling his incoherent words, trying to reach somebody.
He mumbled as we would walk past him. I could never make out the words he was saying, but I always smiled as I hurried past. A smile, that perhaps, was unnoticed. His glasses were so thick they made his eyes look smaller. In fact, you could barely see him. He was hunched over as he stood, head bent, eyes almost parallel to the ground. It gave him a turtle-like appearance, his suit jacket too big for his short torso and bunching up around his neck.
He never stood still, this Wednesday morning man. Almost as if his arthritis made it hard for him to stand solidly on both feet, he shifted from right to left. Not fast enough to look like he was dancing, but not so slowly either; he had the look of a small child who desperately needed to go to the bathroom.
I never talked to him. I never took one of his flyers. I could only guess they were about being saved, or the end of the world- that sort of thing.
But I smiled, because for some reason, this unitimidating Wednesday morning man, didn't make me nervous. He just provided something different to look at. Something to look forward to in the middle of the work week. While everyone was checking their watches and texting on their cell phones and grabbing a cup of overpriced cappuccino, he was there, standing, mumbling, waiting. Almost dancing. Ready for whatever came his way. Though no one usually did.
I wondered, if this Wednesday man had a family, had a wife to go home to at the end of his routine. Maybe she made him eggs and bacon every morning before he left to evangelize. Or maybe he had nothing and was looking for tips. Maybe he was homeless. I don't know. I wasn't there long enough to find out.
But every Wednesday I think of him. I wonder if he's still there, mumbling his incoherent words, trying to reach somebody.
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