Chicago

Let Them Eat Bitterness (August 12, 2010)

Becky SarwateLeave a comment

frenchrev3

I live in a nice building in a not always so nice neighborhood. Two nights ago, an intoxicated member of the “99 Weekers” club took it upon himself to smash the exterior intercom unit of my residence with a baseball bat. “99 Weekers” is a cute name for a tragic situation facing growing numbers of Americans, who have exhausted the maximum unemployment insurance benefits available to them, 99 weeks, without the end result of finding new and meaningful employment.

These individuals don’t want a handout, they want a job, but with increasingly anemic private sector growth, face the prospect of finding themselves permanent members of the new underclass. Without income and with dwindling marketable skills, the disenfranchisement of these former members of the middle is slowly turning to misplaced anger, directed not at the government or corporations, who are ultimately responsible for the nation’s tailspin. Instead we are witnessing the beginning of a modern day class war, waged between the frustrated and desperate “have nots” and the perceived “haves.”

Let me be clear: I am not a “have.” I experienced a childhood of abject poverty marked by abuses and neglect of the most harrowing kind. Be that as it may, I get that my comparatively fancy rental can offer an easy target to a drunken individual who has spent another fruitless day looking for work. On his way home to face an expectant family, knowing he must check his ever diminishing manhood at the door once again, I can understand the urge to displace on an inanimate object. Intercoms can be repaired and I hope that this hasty act provided some form of comfort.

In discussing this incident with a co-worker, the subject of the palpably rising anger of ordinary Americans came up. My office mate astutely observed that we appear to be on the verge of a modern day French Revolution. Only viewed through the cracked prism of America’s toxic partisan politics “holy war,” we are miscasting the players with dangerous consequences.

For example, Michelle Obama is being pigeonholed by the right as the 2010 understudy to Marie Antoinette. The chum being tossed to the public by members of the Republican party, are the images of Michelle’s lavish private vacation to Spain that made the viral rounds last week. Mrs. Obama is a private citizen and does it come as a surprise to anyone that the first family has money enough? Before moving into the White House, both of the Obamas had thriving legal careers and a beautiful home in the Hyde Park neighborhood of Chicago. If the First Lady can afford some time away from the relentless stress of being Barack’s wife, why should we draw erroneous conclusion that she is somehow ignorant of the suffering of normal Americans? This is a logical fallacy being peddled by those who would love it if we could be distracted enough to take our eyes off the real problem: legislative paralysis enabled by corporate kowtowing.

The real Marie Antoinettes in our story are people like former Nixon speechwriter and TV personality Ben Stein, who was quoted recently as saying “The people who have been laid off and cannot find work are generally people with poor work habits and poor personalities…I see people who have overbearing and unpleasant personalities and/or who do not know how to do a day’s work.”

Out of touch much Mr. Stein?

Or how about GOP Minnesota Rep. Michele Bachmann, who called a $20 billion victims’ fund negotiated by the Obama administration for those who have been put out of work in the Gulf, and funded by BP, “extortion.”

No wonder our most currently beloved pop cultural hero is former Jet Blue flight attendant Steven Slater, who assumed his rightful place in the media zeitgeist this week by engaging in the most flamboyantly fabulous resignation of all time. After being hit in the head with a piece of overhead luggage one time too many, Mr. Slater decided he couldn’t wait for the plane to taxi to the gate before telling passengers and co-workers where to stick it. Instead he grabbed the microphone and a beer, saying his piece before deploying the emergency slide – sailing out of the plane and into the hearts of millions of Americans – who applauded Slater’s actions with enthusiasm that only be described as wish fulfillment.

However what really crystallized the idea that we may in fact be headed toward a massive, violent populist uprising was a recent article I read by David Stockman, President Reagan’s director of the Office of Management and Budget. Yes, the following words came from a disgusted member of old guard, “true” and fiscally conservative Republicanism:

“The day of national reckoning has arrived…we will see a class rebellion, a new revolution, a war against greed and the wealthy….It’s a pity that the modern Republican party offers the American people an irrelevant platform of recycled Keynesianism when the old approach – balanced budgets, sound money and financial discipline – is needed more than ever.”

In other words, my building’s intercom box is only the beginning…

Dancing With Myself (August 10, 2010)

Becky SarwateLeave a comment

dog

I had the oddest and oftentimes, the loneliest birthday weekend I can recall. But that seems fitting as we are collectively in the midst of one of the oddest, most lonely epochs confronting the nation. I saw the apprehension and confusion of the country reflected on the faces of my network of friends and family – more of whom are searching for work than actively employed.

The festivities got off to a rough start on Friday evening. Eddie unveiled the news that he has six to eight weeks before his services are no longer needed at the Chicago company where he works as a contractor. Instead of keeping IT development in-house, they are going to outsource to a consulting company in order to conserve cash. Two months is plenty of cushion for Eddie to find a new job, and we are used to this sort of uncertainty in his field, but of course the big question is whether or not he’ll be forced to travel again. We don’t like that prospect much at all, having spent the nine months of our engagement apart, the first year and a half of our marriage, etc.

So Eddie had the weekend away from being the slave to work he has been recently, and for all those hours of devotion, he was rewarded with a hearty “thanks” and the need to start the hustle all over again. The market is still awful as we all know, but as contractors are glorified, overpaid gypsies willing to board a plane to anywhere, they always land on their feet. They just may not know where their feet actually are when they wake up in the morning, and this pattern is certainly disruptive to marital harmony.

Though I am well aware that we’re luckier than many, I was a little bummed. Then some ridiculous family drama occurred that isn’t even worth laying out in detail. But I do have a question: why can’t dilemmas in my family be of the usual kind: pregnancy, divorce, he said/she said arguments. Must they ALWAYS involve one or more felonies?

But I digress. Friday was definitely draining and killed the buzz I started with my friend David, when we left the office early at 3:00 to grab an early birthday drink.

In fact I spent most of the weekend drunk, an idea that would have left me satisfied in my 20s, but this year rendered me bloated, dehydrated, depressed and feeling rather unaccomplished. Sunday the 8th was my actual birthday, and I made plans to duck out with a group of friends to the annual Market Days festival in Boys Town, so Eddie could job hunt in peace. I tried to regain my birthday momentum that morning, feeling I owed it to the gay community. After all, last week saw the empowering strike down of Prop 8 by a Federal court. The weather in Chicago was hot and humid, and with the thrill of victory, the LGBT community was more prepared than usual to party half naked.

My friends and I arrived separately, leaving me with over an hour to wander the festival grounds solo, admiring for the first time in many years the wonderful, colorful, sexy spectacle of it all. It was over 90 degrees at 6:30 PM and I was surrounded by beautiful, dancing men. Things could definitely be worse. I pulled my wild curly hair off my neck, got a class of cold champagne and let my senses be inundated.

Ostensibly, I had called my pals to Market Days to catch the closing musical act of the weekend – Joan Jett and the Blackhearts. Ms. Jett has lost absolutely nothing since her 80s heyday in terms of look, magnetism and talent. A free concert starring a real rock star on my birthday. How could I resist? The set was due to start at 8:00, and around 7:30, I started needling my buddies that we should head over to the main stage. For a variety of reasons, my pleas went unheeded.

By 8:15, the time we finally begin to migrate toward the stage, trying to shuffle more than a few inches reminded me very much of trying to walk a straight line though the streets of Mumbai – sweaty, claustrophobic work. I held hands with my mates and wanted very much to steer the group toward the perimeter, where we could breathe and at least listen to the music. We couldn’t see anything pinned against a dense row of bodies anyway. But there was no appetite for this amongst my (by now) heavily intoxicated friends. At some point, I found myself separated from the group and waited for a reunion call or text message from the right side of the overflowing portable toilets, but this call never came. I finished my current drink to the wailing strains of “Bad Reputation” and “Cherry Bomb” before catching a cab back home.

When I arrived home at 9:30 PM, I thought Eddie might be free. He said he was getting to work when I walked out the door at 4:30. Later, he claimed an early case of “writer’s block,” that rendered him useless until 7:30, but I suspect this “block” arrived in the form of a nap or a Bollywood movie from Netflix. In any case, it seemed my return home was an ill-timed irritant.

By now truly intoxicated and disgruntled (can’t a girl get a little attention on her birthday!?), I poured myself another glass of wine and strapped on my iPod. I made my way to the balcony toward the rear of our apartment, and as I walked, inspiration struck! I had been denied companionship, affection and live music this weekend, but I would after all have the celebration of my life I sought. I made a playlist that began with the first songs I could remember loving as a child: “Xanadu” (Olivia Newton-John), “Celebration” (Kool & The Gang) and “Ride Like the Wind” (Christopher Cross). I worked my way through the decades: through Madonna, Whitney Houston, Survivor, Patty Smyth, Dr. Dre, New Kids on the Block, TLC and ended up at Justin Bieber (yes, I adore “Somebody to Love” – suck it), Rihanna and Kings of Leon.

Did I mention that this musical retrospective of my life came replete with dancing? Oh yeah baby. I was getting down on my balcony and lip synching as though my very life depended upon it. After awhile, I started noticing blinds being drawn up on a few of the windows across the street. Fine. I was not going to let self-consciousness end the first truly good, abandoned time of the weekend. So on I danced, and as I did so, snatches of memory flashed through my mind, each new song bringing its own associations. Some made me laugh and smile. More than a few brought tears. I am certain that I appeared for the entire world to be in the midst of a schizophrenic breakdown, but it was cathartic and reminded me that I had lived. Despite the loneliness that currently threatened to overtake my spirit, I existed. I had been places and done things – all of which took up valuable real estate in my consciousness. I could recall these associations and wade in them through the medium of interpretive dance.

After two hours of this mad reminiscing, I wore myself out (naturally), drank a Gatorade, popped a couple Advil and went to sleep. I wasn’t worried about what I had done without any longer. I was raring to get up the next morning to begin the next 32 years of my life. What would the soundtrack to those years sound like?

Dirty Dancing: The Classic Story on Stage

Becky SarwateLeave a comment

I am an unironic fan of 1987 coming-of-age film classic “Dirty Dancing.” In my humble opinion, there have been but two actors within the last 30 years able to pull off a seamless transition between the best in song and dance, and the virile masculinity of a rugged action star. Those two actors are the gone-too-soon Patrick Swayze, and the thankfully still-kicking Hugh Jackman.

There are, of course, many other reasons to love the movie. That soundtrack. Jennifer Grey’s beautiful curly hair. The nostalgia for the early 1960s. But really? “Dirty Dancing” turned Swayze into an icon — deservedly so.

And yet, the film is not without its problems, one of them being its virtual disregard of the Civil Rights era. Sure, heroine Baby Houseman has vague notions of joining the Peace Corps and making a difference, challenging her father to walk the walk of upper middle class white liberalism by accepting her relationship with dancer Johnny Castle. But as Baby herself notes in the movie, as well as in Broadway in Chicago’s production of “Dirty Dancing,” “You told me you wanted me to change the world, to make it better. But you meant by becoming a lawyer or an economist, and marrying someone from Harvard.”

The stage musical, directed in this limited Windy City run by James Powell, attempts to address the sociopolitical shortcomings of the source material in its first act. Making much over Neil Kellerman’s revisionist humanity (in the film, the character is a proud one percenter), actor Ryan Jesse gawkily and charmingly plans a Southern Freedom Ride with several members of the resort staff. There is a community listening of Martin Luther King Jr.’s “I Have a Dream” speech around the vacation bonfire. The scene enriches the fun and frothy experience of the production’s striking and sustained song and dance display.

Alas, those attempts at serious conversation ultimately go nowhere at all in the second act. They are lost in a bewildering rotation of scenery and set pieces, interspersed with small snatches of dialogue from characters who would probably break the metrics functionality of their Fitbits in 2015, there’s so much walking on and offstage. That’s a fair metaphor for my overall assessment of “Dirty Dancing” the stage production: Too busy and unfocused, too much green screen and too much promenade.

The show does have a full awareness of its camp, which is a plus. In an amusing dance training montage, the terrific Gillian Abbott and Christopher Tierney, as Baby and Johnny, move through a series of natural events (swimming, rain, etc.) that simply can’t be staged believably with only lights and moving parts. So the technical team and actors give up entirely and hand the audience a knowing wink, infused with affectionate warmth and respect for its inspiration.

The work is nothing if not faithful to the ’80s cultural phenomenon of “Dirty Dancing.” Most of Baby’s classic wardrobe is carefully re-created by Costume Designer Jennifer Irwin. In fact Irwin does a spectacular job overall capturing the trends and style of the “Mad Men” era, with a modern stage nod to vibrant color. The dialogue is purposefully intact, not withstanding some edits and the addition of scenes that as mentioned, beef up some side characters and attempt to provide historical context.

True fans of the film will enjoy Broadway in Chicago’s mounting of “Dirty Dancing.” And they will be positively overwhelmed by the vocal talent of Jennlee Shallow and Doug Carpenter, who evenly distribute subtlety and show-stopping power in new renditions of standards like “In the Still of the Night (I’ll Remember)” and “(I’ve Had) The Time of My Life.”

But the show has its limits, despite trying to be everything. And that won’t be enough for “Dancing” newcomers. This becomes painfully apparent throughout the production’s second act. A lot less of everything would amount to more.

“Dirty Dancing” runs through August 30 at the Cadillac Palace Theatre, 151 W. Randolph, Chicago, IL. For information or tickets call 800-775-2000 or visit the Broadway in Chicago website.

Gang Members Get Schooled in the RP (July 29, 2010)

Becky SarwateLeave a comment

gang-member-signs

I grew up in Chicago, and couldn’t be more proud to call this busy, diverse metropolis my home. Most of my youth was divided between the neighborhoods of Ravenswood (where my tiny Lutheran grade school sat) and Portage Park, where my folks bought a home in 1985. I attended a fairly rough Chicago Public high school, but no venue was better suited to teach me the street smarts that are necessary in life. Instead of lamenting my lot, I celebrated it, somehow realizing that overprotection doesn’t well prepare one for the adult world.

Thanks to my secondary education, I learned a lot more than how to write an essay or dissect a fetal pig. I learned how to jostle myself and my heavy book bag through a tight crowd, without letting the bigger, meaner looking kids intimidate me. I learned how to focus and avoid the distractions of cross clique trash talk. I learned how to look beyond graffiti and grime to appreciate the architecture beneath. Most importantly I learned that all of us kids, regardless of race, religion or socioeconomic status, wanted the same things: good grades, parental approval, freedom and a love life. We also rebelled against the same influences, albeit in our own different ways: authority, convention and the status quo.

Though there were some dicey and violent incidents that occurred on school grounds, I developed a sixth sense for staying away from trouble, in ways I might not have had I attended a more pristine institution. Gang activity was always around, but if you steered clear of the people sucked into that world (and you well knew who they were), everything was copacetic. I learned to feel sorrow, rather than disdain, for the peers who found their lives over before they really began- often from broken (and notably fatherless) homes, victims of world weary hopelessness at an age that should be flush with promise and opportunity.

Several months ago, I relocated with my husband to the lake front neighborhood of Rogers Park. This area, from the 1970s until fairly recently, was well known as one of the most dangerous places North of downtown. But like every other waterfront locale in Chicago, Rogers Park has enjoyed a boom in development and gentrification. However, this economic rise is exclusive, and one of the many reasons I take issue with the policies of Mayor Daley. It is not difficult to walk the streets and encounter the faces of those who have been left behind: the homeless and mentally ill who line up to solicit change from commuters disembarking the Red Line, the pre-op transsexual, shabbily made up, and furtively looking for love at the local bars, the exhausted mother with five children who walks down the street, heavy with grocery parcels paid for with limited WIC card means.

Part of the reason I was drawn to the area is that it reminded me so much of my high school experience. But now, unlike then, I am in a position to advocate on my neighborhood’s behalf. I am enjoying the diversity, the richness of my daily experience and I do not want to see people with limited opportunity and resources driven from the area. Through my day job as an activist for human services, my involvement with the Rogers Park Business Alliance, and through connections with the local alderman’s office, I am striving to make sure that the wealthy white collar crowd doesn’t make diversity an endangered species.

However, just as it was in high school, gang activity in the area threatens to encroach upon the collective peace of mind, and efforts to uplift the community. As a student, as I mentioned already, I knew who the players were and how to keep my distance. I do not always have this same benefit today.

On Tuesday night, around 9 PM, not an hour after alighting from the train and walking through my front door, on the same street that serves as playground to scores of unburdened neighborhood children enjoying long summer hours, two rival gangs (the Latin Kings and the Grand Disciples – well known to residents of Chicago) decided to open fire on each other on the crowded block. After talking with my neighbors, I learned that the melee was started over the same tired “turf wars” that have always accompanied gang activity. I am happy to report that no civilians were injured in the event, but that was just dumb luck, rather than deliberate consideration on the part of enemies, who might otherwise be friends if not for the brainwashing of their organizations.

I stood on my porch watching as Chicago’s finest chased, and then apprehended the gunman. This was met with a loud whoop of approval from my apparently fearless fellow citizens. A few brave and sporting souls even assisted the police by loudly tracking the suspect’s movements. The victim was loaded into an ambulance, and witness statements taken, before the police moved onto to deal with the next violent crime.

These bystanders, my neighbors, were the true heroes of the evening. Not only did they set aside concerns for their own safety to aid and abet the law, but they stood their ground on that street corner – at times the crowd six people deep. They were sending a message to those who would engage in violent crime: “This is OUR turf damn it and we are not afraid of you!” Is it any wonder I love the neighborhood?

The recent Supreme Court decision to strike down Chicago’s handgun ban, and the City cash crunch that is increasingly forcing the layoff of public servants, seems to suggest that incidents like Tuesday’s may become more frequent. I already overheard some of the people in my building (notably white and upper middle class) discussing plans to relocate. That would be a shame. Stay and hold your ground. Learn through exposure, as I once did, not to let the bigger, meaner kids intimidate you.

A Generation X Bedtime Story (July 20, 2010)

Becky SarwateLeave a comment

Once upon a time, there were three high school girlfriends who planned to grow up and cut impressive business figures. All were students in a prestigious International Baccalaureate (IB) program at a respected Chicago Public School (that didn’t used to be an oxymoronic statement in the mid 1990s). Each had their own field of study where they planned to make their bones.

Ally, a lover of history and politics, attended the University of Chicago, and graduated in 200o with honors before entering the consulting field with a renowned Windy City firm. She worked long hours but traveled to many places and amassed a solid wad of cash that she hoped would prove to her conservative, immigrant parents that she had, in fact, made it. Meanwhile, she attempted to quash the persistent voice that periodically yelped, uninvited, “but I am not making a difference!”

Becky attended a respected Big 10 University, earning a Bachelor’s in English Literature, followed several years later by a Master’s. In the interim, she told herself that writing was just a hobby, certainly not lucrative enough, and that degree collection was just something to check off her “bucket list.” By way of distraction, she tried to content herself with climbing up the corporate ladder, having reached middle management at a giant non-profit, and the security that comes with it (high salary, 401k, and 5 weeks vacation time).

Carol also attended the University of Chicago, and stuck around after earning her B.A. to take up a law degree. Carol married young and started a family but balanced these demands with those of a well compensated, high power corporate attorney. Like Ally, Carol’s parents were also conservative, hard working immigrants, who looked at their daughter’s full plate and satisfactory income with a strong sensation of pride. But Carol lay awake at nights wondering if her young daughters would ever feel the same about all the time she spent away from home.

Ally, Becky and Carol, as close as friends could be, inevitably drifted a bit in their 20s. Marriages were celebrated, babies born, and relocations carried out. Through the time honored tradition of the 10-year high school reunion, aided by the social bonds of Facebook, the three women reconnected. On a Saturday night in July of this year, the ladies met at Carol’s place for a dinner party. Husbands and children (one of them the unborn baby that Ally is expecting in December) completed the former threesome.

But for these new family members and the obvious passage of time, Ally, Becky and Carol found that their dynamic was relatively intact. Conversation, laughs and intimacies came as easily as ever. However, when the inevitable question presented itself – “So, what are you up to?” – it was apparent for the first time that evening that in fact, a whole lot more than anyone suspected had changed.

Ally relayed the news that several years back, she had left consulting to return to school, earning her education certificate. She now lives in the Jefferson Park neighborhood of Chicago, teaching math and science to middle school kids. She earns considerably less than she once did, but owned that if she had been honest with herself as an undergrad, this is the career she always wanted. The happy smile that set her face aglow, as she held hands with her husband and discussed the impending birth of their first child, served as testament that Ally had found what she was looking for.

Becky mentioned that she had toiled in a variety of corporate operations positions, with a number of successful outfits that granted her incremental increases in title and salary. Becky would begin each role, flush with enthusiasm, only to find herself curiously bored and burnt out in two years or less. One could, in fact, set their clock by this pattern. In May 2009, after the death of a very close friend, she indulged the long haranguing voice that told her life was too short to let this cycle continue. She left corporate America to strike out as a freelance writer by night, publishing in a number of circles, then took a huge pay decrease to manage communications and social media for a human service coalition by day.

Carol just returned to Chicago from Boston, where she moved with her family to accept a lucrative law firm position. She had lived on a property she co-owned with her parents, and could never understand why she wasn’t happier. A few months ago, Carol and her husband finally figured out that Beantown was a dead end. Carol resigned, sold her share of the property and returned to the Midwest. Her hubby accepted a full-time position which covered the family’s immediate financial needs, and Carol was able to tell her daughters that she’d never miss another minute of their lives.

Meet Ally, Becky and Carol – the anti-hippies. Whereas the flower children of the 1960s have been castigated for fomenting the freewheeling, idealistic social revolution of the time, before promptly “selling out” and morphing into the very institutions they once decried, it would seem that certain members of Generation X are playing out this drama in reverse. Raised in the 1980s “Me Decade,” they went through their formal education with tunnel vision, like good little disciples of Gordon Gekko. “Make money, earn awards, plan for retirement,” was the mantra, and they sure did their best to stay on the train to financial and professional glory.

But at some point, independently, and often in separate parts of the nation, these three woman took a good look inside and realized that unhampered ambition may have been good for the bank account, and great for the bragging rights of their folks, but awful for their souls and life satisfaction.

For years now, the death of idealism has been mostly accepted as fact. But the conversation which exposed these changes in destiny gives pause, followed very closely by excitement. Is this idealism in its new form? Not the college-aged anarchistic and rootless version, which is destined to burn bright before blowing out. What we find instead is a slower, more methodical, but eventually, more certain feeling that we must do more for our communities, our families and ourselves?

It seems there is hope yet – hope for more than a predetermined greedy, lazy, shortsighted, and selfish path through life. Lives are changing one mid-30s crisis at a time.

Sleep well.