Author: Becky Sarwate

The “Ike Turner” (September 5, 2013)

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I have lived in the Rogers Park neighborhood along Chicago’s far North lakefront for nearly four years. In that time I have patronized a number of the vibrant community’s watering holes, theaters and restaurants. It’s hard to keep up with the rapidly gentrifying neighborhood’s latest offerings, but in the effort, I try to stay familiar with the old vanguards of the RP as well. These are the small business staples that have persisted through the locale’s long-running artistic community versus gang turf war tensions, and remained for this decade’s infrastructure rebuilding and beautification efforts. A truly democratic process of public line item budget voting buttresses the feeling of personal ownership that has accompanied the area’s evolution. And the hardy businesses that have served customers for multiple generations are like the links between the neighborhood’s turbulent past and promising future. Pockets of living history.

The Red Line tap, situated along a sparsely trafficked section of Glenwood Avenue, looks like a total dive from the outside, perhaps not the sort of place where a single lady could enjoy a cocktail unharassed. I admit to a certain amount of prejudice and caution which played a role in overlooking the joint for so long.According to the venue’s website:

“How far back the tavern goes has yet to be established, but we’ve had personal reports of people visiting the ‘7006 Club’ and the ‘Rogers Park Boating Club’ since the early 1900′s…in 1996, the long popular tap was expanded, refurbished, cleaned, overhauled, painted and reenergized as the The Red Line Tap, so named because of its proximity to the Red Line train, its track, and its route name.”

Upon crossing the threshold for the first time last Sunday, I immediately noticed four amazing things:

1.Advertisements for live music almost every night of the week.

2.A vintage pool table tucked away in the back room, and classic 1980s video game machines near the entry.

3.An eclectic assortment of patrons ranging from hipsters to old men, wearing basically the same clothes.

4.An above-bar advertisement for an $8 shot called “The Ike Turner.”

I am no fan of domestic violence but my curiosity was officially piqued. So I asked the bartender for details. Turns out that $8 buys customers a slap in the face from the barkeep, followed immediately by a generous shot of Hennessey. As the conversation progressed, I noticed a tally board next to the cash register behind the gentleman. To make things more interesting, staff members have sort of an ongoing contest, keeping track of who has doled out the most “Ike Turners.” The current two leaders are several hundred ahead of the rest of the pack. My new friend explained that these folks usually work “primetime” hours – Friday and Saturday nights when the bar is full of drunk, rowdy patrons hopped up on alcohol and rock and roll, looking for a new challenge.

My favorite vignette from the conversation was the story of a victorious local softball team that celebrated with an assembly line of “Ike Turner” shots, each member patiently waiting his turn while the dude in front of him was smacked, then downed his cognac. Apparently the female bartender on duty was really into her work that day, winding up before each face presented itself. The effort to give the men their money’s worth resorted in happy smiles and a stinging palm.

I had one more question for my educator: had any women ever ordered the shot? Nope. Never. Personally I enjoyed the novelty and the backstory of the drink but I was not the least interested in the experience. Mind you I only minored in psychology but I think the reasons for female avoidance of “The Ike” would be fairly obvious. Most women live in a world where threats of violence are a daily consideration. In fact, that was the reason I had avoided The Red Line Tap in the first place. We’re not about to pay for something so ugly, commonplace and psychologically damaging.

But why do the men line up to be slapped? What is it about identification with the victims of a high-profile 1960s and 1970s wife beater that makes otherwise normal men belly up to the bar for subjugation and humiliation? And what of the grotesque underbelly of a section of my gender that takes mercenary pleasure in the idea of oh-so-ironic hipsters and over privileged frat boys paying to be treated like garbage?

As I considered these questions, my laughter died away. True the men who undergo this Red Line Tap ritual are willing participants in the spectacle, not innocent, helpless victims dragged out of cages into the gladiator arena. It’s not meant to be taken seriously. But I can’t help earnestly reflecting upon the ease and comfort with which I slipped into bloodthirsty mob mentality, wishing for a moment that one of the grabby college losers who caused me to prefer the company of my living room to keggers, would show up and order a shot.

The Beehive State of Affairs (August 29, 2013)

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I didn’t enter the world allergic to bee stings. Time was, the pierce of an angry wasp’s lance didn’t accomplish much more than giving some pain and briefly slowing my tomboyish romps. However, through repeated encounters in a variety of strange venues (a sting on the inner thigh in fourth grade whilst sitting on the school toilet, stepping on a bumble bee during an enthusiastic tetherball game at a neighborhood block party, drinking yet another surly insect out of an abandoned can of Coke), the allergy developed over time. For this reason, I carry two EpiPens with me wherever I travel. Because you never know.

This past weekend I journeyed to Salt Lake City, Utah to attend the annual conference of the National Federation of Press Women. I was a first timer, representing the Illinois affiliate as chapter President, and slated to receive two awards at the conference’s concluding banquet for my 2012 work: an honorable mention for theater criticism, and amazingly, recognition as the best personal blogger of last year. The latter of these trophies is especially humbling due to the high volume of competition as well as the tremendously personal nature of my writing in this forum. To be championed simply for articulating the most authentic version of myself is an honor of the highest magnitude.

I had no idea as my Southwest Airlines flight touched the Salt Lake City airport tarmac, that Utah was known as “The Beehive State.” Blame ignorance on a parochial school education that prioritized memorizing the books of the Old Testament above national geography. I assumed the nickname was a simple tribute to the can-do pioneer spirit of the state’s first Mormon settlers, until I encountered countless gardens and urban farms planted past and present in service of LDS naturalistic ideals. Wherever copious plants and flowers go, the pollinating swarms follow, and I spent many of my sightseeing minutes fleeing potential assailants while running uphill in insensible shoes.

In periods of quiet wonder and reflection, many of which I enjoyed as I wandered about the clean, well-planned downtown area of the city, I thought about the team efforts, the worker bee collaboration that led to my presence in that place, moment and time. Because there’s just no pretending I arrived there on my own. In fact in some cases, certain advocates (I am looking at you little sister), dragged me kicking and screaming into following my dreams. The professors, mentors and supervisors who took chances on me when I had no pedigree to warrant them, the loved ones who cheered me through successes and picked me up after embarrassing falls, the partners who suffered through erratic work schedules and meager pay, the strangers who commented and emailed their appreciation. Hell even the hecklers made me a better writer: more focused, determined and articulate in defending a rhetorical point. It truly takes a village to build a successful communicator.

I am not religious. I immersed myself in all things LDS on my trip and while I admire much about the Church’s civic pride and genuine commitment to helping others, there’s also much about the ideology I find objectionable. That said, the trope of the beehive led me to think of collaboration in a new way, no longer an idea from which to literally run, comprised of threatening organisms bent on killing me. Instead I am able to view it as a pleasant image, to hear the telltale buzz with welcoming ears, an ideal of cooperation easily accessible to one self-aware enough to recognize the shoulders they’ve stood upon to access places of pride and accomplishment. I don’t need an EpiPen to protect myself from the love and fortification of my support network, or even the jeering of detractors. Whether flowers or stings, I build strength and immunity to press forward.

The Compliment Refugee (August 14, 2013)

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I was less inclined than usual last Saturday morning to put on my track shoes. A night of post-birthday revelry had left me tired and dehydrated. At the same time, wine and dessert-related bloat precluded the possibility of a lie-in. I enjoyed my 35th birthday immensely but days of decadent, unapologetic indulgence demanded some recompense. With a heavy sigh and one last longing look at my comfy, full-size bed, I grabbed the keys and headed out the front door.

The sun shone brightly, although the air temperature continued unseasonably cool, as it has throughout this Chicago summer. Goosebumps dotted my bare arms but as I trotted toward the end of the first block, I knew a healthy sweat was imminent.

As I settled into mile one, my mind drifted. For many reasons I prefer outdoor jogging to the repetitive monotony of the treadmill: the little obstacles to jump over and run through, the variation of scenery and most especially, the people watching. Lost in my own thoughts, I suddenly became aware of a roadblock on the horizon, in the form of an elderly man shuffling with the help of a walker.

I shifted left on the sidewalk approximately a half block’s distance from the man, to give him the right of way. To my surprise, the fragile looking gentleman responded with a rather quick course correction to place himself once again in my path. This was unexpected, but what occurred next, even more so.

He looked me straight in the eye as I made my final approach, and with a huge smile spread across his face, demanded “How DARE you be so beautiful?” Well! I slowed my pace ever so slightly and before I could help myself, giggles tumbled forth. To be sure I was not laughing at the man, but with him, tickled as I was with the unanticipated compliment. Only later did I wonder if he was able to tell the difference. With genuine gratitude, I replied “Thank you sir,” and continued on my way with renewed energy.

As I approached the 5k halfway marker, I reflected upon a couple different themes. The first was wonderment at the marked increase in catcalling palatability when it emanates from an elderly man. What is it about their brazenness that is endearing, where the same behavior from a guy in my own demographic would be received as boorish and imprudent?

But the second set of questions revolved around what the old man saw to elicit these words of appreciation. After all, I was drenched in sweat, unwashed, makeup remnants rolling in beads down my face and neck. Careless visage maintenance after the previous night’s fun. My wild, curly hair was tied back but the forces of adrenaline and Chicago’s famous wind had caused several face framing tendrils to zigzag wildly in all directions. In short, I had not considered myself any man’s picture of desirability as I left the apartment. I concluded that I must be radiating something from within, a sort of attractive vibe with roots planted in a recent acquaintance with internal peace and satisfaction. Unencumbered by the sort of desperate pining and searching which had pretty much defined my conscious thoughts for the first 34 years, I’ve started catching myself smiling good-naturedly at nothing at all. Those intimately acquainted with me understand what a paradigm shift this is.

In the past, my MO was to immediately deny and deflect a compliment, especially one pertaining to physical comeliness. When I looked in the mirror, I still saw the awkward girl with unruly hair, giant Haray Caray glasses and crooked teeth caused by a first grade faceplant into my grandmother’s living room radiator. The dodgy receipt of someone’s appreciation was interpreted as a lack of grace, which I preferred greatly over having to tolerate what I understood to be disingenuous politeness. I’d grow red in the face, avert my eyes and more often than not, issue a curt rejoinder along the lines of “Stop,” or “Your eyes are broken.” I learned the hard way that people don’t typically like their judgment called into question and invariably, the words of appreciation would cease to flow. Relief outweighed the shame experienced as a result of my overt rudeness.

The third theme up for consideration as I completed the last leg of my run was a sort of calm amazement at the clear manifestations of an internal metamorphosis. Not only was I able to accept my elderly friend’s compliment, I was able to share the moment, to be present rather than frantically searching for the escape hatch, offending another human being in the process.

Much later, after a badly needed shower, I arrived at the answer to the old man’s question. How dare I be so beautiful? Hard won confidence: the product of years of therapy, successful career reinvention and the survival of personal struggles that forced me to give myself some credit at long last. That rejoinder may not be sexy and I’m certain it’s more information than my admirer wanted. But how thrilling to finally comprehend (not to just hear the words repeated, but to feel them deep in my bones) that beauty stems not from the perfect coif, flawless teeth or a model’s physique. By appreciating myself more, and permitting others to do the same, a visible, organic winsomeness results. Tom Petty had it right all this time. I don’t have to live like a refugee.

35 to Life (August 8, 2013)

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Well the moment has arrived. Today my friends, I turn 35 years old. Many single women in my position might be drinking heavily while mourning the loss of their prime childbearing years. Thankfully I’ve never valued my uterus that highly, or even thought about it much except as a source of monthly pain and discomfort. Subconsciously at first, then with more awareness as I progressed through the first half of my 30s, I found myself aligning with the philosophy of the title character in Toni Morrison’s novel, Sula: “I don’t want to make somebody else. I want to make myself.”

Still if you’d asked me in early May, just three short months ago, about my feelings as I approached the milestone birthday, the reaction would have been visceral. A sigh, a cringe, a stated desire to filibuster the inevitable. To put it bluntly, I was not at all content with the state of my life. I’d just lost my full-time job, was immersed in a committed relationship that increasingly left me wanting and struggling with a variety of stress-compounded ailments: chronic migraines, recurring eczema and insomnia. There’s nothing like aging another year to remind one of diminishing time, and goals yet to be accomplished.

A lot has changed since a personal low in late Spring, some of these metamorphoses owing to good old fashioned hard work, some of the alterations out of my control. Relentless pavement pounding and networking produced a mercifully brief period of unemployment. In just 10 weeks I traded the dole for a big career step up, landing a position as a Marketing Manager at the tenth largest insurance brokerage in the world. With regard to so many variables, the new job is far more suited to my talents and temperament, and I envision at least several contented years in the role. It was also mid-May when I was formally sworn in as the President of the Illinois Woman’s Press Association, an organization of communication professionals founded in 1885. With an alacrity of which I force myself to publicly own some pride, I ascended the ladder from new member to Commander-in-Chief in just three years. I am proud of the work I am doing, capitalizing on the organization’s tremendous historical assets to recruit a new generation of talented communicators.

Shortly after taking the oath of office, I received notification that I had been recognized as the Best Personal Blogger of 2012 by the National Federation of Press Women. I’ll travel to Salt Lake City at the end of the month (the first time I have vacation days and income with which to board a plane since Summer 2011) to attend the NFPW Conference and accept the award. I’m learning to balance the responsibilities of my day job with the time I need to set aside to complete personal writing projects, because it’s clear I must have both. In numerous professional ways, I’ve never felt more fulfilled. And it seems that as I grow and mature, the ultimate late bloomer, I find these vocational endeavors yield the give and take I’ve been unsuccessful in eliciting from personal relationships. The more work I put in, the more of my soul I pour into words and administration, the higher the dividends. I have full control without subjective variables. Tremendously gratifying.

Though my last effort at love went bust, even that failure carried valuable lessons that are fortifying a current state of equilibrium. I realized that at this point in my life, I have no inclination to divide my internal resources and time. Slowly but definitively I became aware that I was turning into a Jill of All Trades, Master of None, chipping away at overall satisfaction. I shared every idea and strategy I had for trying to make our union work, but when I wasn’t met in the middle in creativity and effort, I let it drop. This may not sound like a big deal, but it really is. Friends and foes alike have described me as “relentless,” and in general, I don’t mind a stubbornly persistent reputation. But it has its downsides. Sometimes one (me) can doggedly pursue something when it’s obvious to common sense that it’s time to surrender. It’s not that my inner voices failed to notify me in the past. I am just learning to heed the warnings and walk away with more of my dignity, as well as mental and physical health, intact.

Make no mistake, I still have my issues with aging. The body seems to injure more easily and heal more slowly with each passing year. Trying to stay in some sort of physical shape demands a little more dedication. The forehead creases and crow’s feet that grow incrementally deeper can be mitigated with Botox injections, but I am aware this is merely cosmetic. The character of Truvy in Steel Magnolias throws the quintessential truth bomb when she states, “Honey, time marches on and eventually you realize it is marchin’ across your face.” I am aware of the years lost in sedentary depression and confusion that I can never reclaim. All that said, I recognize that I wouldn’t be able to stand back and appreciate the accomplishments I’ve amassed – a loving family, a great network of friends, a thriving career – without the benefits of time and experience.

So today I celebrate movement out of the desirable 18-34 year old marketing demographic. My age doesn’t render me less cool. On the contrary. I know what I want, need, think and feel more than ever before. I’ll blow out 35 candles in celebration of the greatest gifts my time on this planet has given me: adventure and self-awareness.

New Girl (August 2, 2013)

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New Girl

This week, I’m pondering the implications of being the literal new girl at the office, as well as an evolving version of my personal self. No longer the serial monogamist in search of a romantic partnership to verify my lovability and human value, I have made a conscious decision to draw my self-esteem, as I wrote last week, from “multiple jobs well done.”

I have been on the job a full two weeks in my new position as a Marketing Manager for a major insurance brokerage, and only today did I sort out where the kitchen garbage can is located. Until now, I’ve been tossing food scraps in the waste bin under my desk, resulting in some fragrant 5:00 PM aromas for my cube mates. Why then, you may be wondering, did I not ask one of my colleagues to point me in the right direction? For complicated reasons, I associate a high humiliation factor with having to articulate a question and await an answer that should be obvious. I accommodate these irrational emotions by dithering and substituting while I keep vigil, watching the kitchen (conveniently viewable from my seat) until someone reveals the answers I can’t bring myself to solicit. Just beforenoon, I watched a man pull out a rather unassuming looking, large drawer that divulged the trash receptacle.

This pattern of reticence has already produced several minor intrigues as I acclimate to my new professional surroundings: The Case of Locking Myself in the 17th Floor Stairwell, The Quandary of 2nd Floor Gym Entrance, and my personal favorite, The Great Working Overtime Needlessly Debacle.

It occurs to me that this stubbornness in requesting simple information has played a very large role in personal problems I’ve faced over the years. I certainly can’t be helped if I never ask for it, but when I find myself marooned on an island, it’s easier to self-shame for not speaking. The alternative – relying on another only to be let down, a verification that my need didn’t matter enough – cyclically repeated itself throughout an overall hellacious childhood. I learned to navigate bureaucracies on my own through trial and error, leaving myself plenty of time to rectify missteps before the final deadline. If this was inefficient, it was certainly empowering, and from a young age, I started to receive compliments from other adults regarding a preternatural level of responsibility and organization. I became addicted to this type of affirmation and my personal mantra quickly became “ I don’t need anyone. I can do this on my own.”

The thing was, I secretly and desperately wanted to let go sometimes. I wanted to be that kid who could call their helicopter parent to set things right. I wanted Mom and Dad to tell off the person making my life hard, without making a scene or ending up in jail (as happened more than once) throw money at the silly, juvenile jams I’d gotten myself into, let me come home when things got rough and while you’re at it Mom, could you feed me and do my laundry too? But these options were not available to my sister and I. There was no such safety net and we were forced to live by our wits way before we should have been required. My parents lived on another planet when it came to grasping adult responsibility and all you can do when the garbage piles up in your home, when the IRS seizes your family’s bank accounts and the mortgage goes into foreclosure, is plan your escape – in great detail. Survival mode can be useful in the sense that it doesn’t allow much time to slow down and think about the horrifying reality of the moment.

I’ll be 35 next week. I have plenty of time for assessment now. That’s what this blog, and the work I do with my therapist has been about – taking apart all the pieces of me and having a good look at them. And as I’ve stopped running myself in high octane circles, I’m able to sit still and consider that I took the same approach to many of my failed romantic partnerships. I’ve engaged with them in the same way I once interacted with my parents: “I expect you to fail me. I won’t tell you what I need because dammit, you should already know. And when I exhaust myself from doing too much, things I’d like you to help me with that my pride won’t allow me to articulate, I reserve the right to silently resent you.”

I’ve already implemented small changes. With my last ex, I think uttered the phrases, “Don’t go, I need you,” and “I can’t do it alone,” more times in 14 months than the previous 14 years. I gave him the chance to do right, and also the opportunity to disappoint, before I drew any conclusions. The fact that ultimately, our dynamic wasn’t compatible, is the result of fundamental differences rather than self-fulfilling prophecy. I don’t feel weaker for the metamorphosis. I am as capable as I’ve ever been, minus the fear of abandonment I’ve allowed to be mistaken for arrogance. This more balanced approach takes far less emotional toll. When I reach out for help only to have my hand slapped away, the outcome is about the other person’s limitations, not my unworthiness.

It’s a work in progress. I’ve shown marked improvement when it comes to big ticket issues: health concerns, the celebration of personal achievements, reaching out to a good friend when I’ve had an epically bad day. But I’m still working on the trickle down. Maybe this new girl should kickstart that process by asking where the recycling bins are located so I can get all this scrap paper out of my desk drawer….