Chicago

Unsolicited Arrogance (October 10, 2013)

Becky SarwateLeave a comment

“Good advice is often annoying. Bad advice never is.”

-French Proverb

I’m a huge fan of pithy, enigmatic quotes, but the Frenchies couldn’t be more wrong on this account. After weeks of sitting on the receiving end of advice from friends and strangers alike, I can confidently declare that really tone deaf guidance is more offensive than the helpful variety. Although when it comes to perfect strangers, I’d rather prefer they offer nothing at all.

For several months I have been grappling with a progressively debilitating case of pompholyx eczema on my hands. It is a particularly mercurial form of the skin affliction which affects only one of out every 20 eczema sufferers. Its causes are mysterious and there is no known cure. Available treatments offer limited results, are typically expensive (Coming soon in my annual blog series: America’s Healthcare System is Still Broken – Part III, wherein I examine an employed woman with a “Cadillac” health insurance plan dropping $540 on necessary medications at the local CVS), and bear the threat of their own detrimental side effects.

The attacks are affecting my work, exercise and wellness routines and most certainly, my self-esteem. It is my firmly held belief that creative types such as writers are already cursed with inordinately high levels of insecurity and self-consciousness. The misfortune of contracting a disfiguring and crippling chronic condition compounds the pain of profile immeasurably.

For the most part, friends and colleagues who want to discuss my illness and treatment course are loving people who mean well. Though there are times I’d rather reflect on something, anything besides the constant burning itch and unattractive qualities of my hands, I have patiently indulged their collective desire to help. I’m confident that I’d have much bigger problems to deal with if these souls lost interest in me altogether. And there have been times where the sincere pain I see in the eyes of a valued friend, envisioning my suffering, acts as an imperceptible balm for the heart and soul. May I never grow so cranky from inveterate discomfort that I stop appreciating these overtures.

I have noticed a real peculiarity, however, on the part of people who don’t know me from Adam. And it has taken me the more by surprise since I hail from, and still reside in Chicago, a bustling metropolis known for harried citizens who shuffle quickly down the streets, avoiding eye contact at all costs. It’s as though my embarrassing malformation has become community property. I can be quietly minding my business, reading a book or what have you, staring out the window of a CTA train. And it’s just then that an interloper crashes my reverie, feeling fully empowered to question and offer unwanted, asked for counsel about my “problem.”

I give you two anecdotes from the last 10 days, by way of example.

On my way home from a particularly dispiriting workout at the gym, where my hands cracked and bled profusely after relatively mild strength training, a man seated next to me posed the following question: “Excuse me, but I’m a professional chef and I have to ask. Did you burn your hands?”

Before I could organize my thoughts, humiliated blood rushed to my cheeks. I love the anonymity that city life offers and I was suddenly acutely aware that the hated eczema came with a price I’d never anticipated. I no longer blended. Once I recovered from this horror, I grew incensed by the man’s impertinence. The visibility of my affliction does not make it a topic for public discourse, and the whole “I’m a professional chef” declaration seemed to suggest that this show of concern was merely an excuse to talk about himself.

This was one for Ms. Manners. What do the rules of civility say about my obligation to indulge and respond to such unwanted conversation? I downshifted to the sunny disposition I typically reserve for telemarketers and unwashed tavern suitors: a dead eyed, nail-to-the-floor bitch stare accompanied by as few words as possible, spoken with flat affect. To my later amusement, the man seemed to take this disinclination for engagement on my part as a character flaw. I had to appreciate the irony.

But you know, CTA weirdos and miscreants abound, and I was ready to chalk it up as a one-time, annoying encounter. Until last night.

I was on my way home from the pharmacy chatting with my younger sister on the phone. I reached the station where I was to change trains, when a young woman tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around briefly and pointed to my cell. I figured she wanted directions or something and would understand to seek them elsewhere. Alas, she wouldn’t let up and I told my sister I’d call her right back. The most creative fiction writer in the world could not have devised what I heard next:

“Sorry to bother you, but you know, doctors aren’t going to tell you that it’s all the toxins in your body causing that problem with your hands. What you need is a colonic. It will clean your system and fix you right up.”

I believe my mind actually went somewhere else for several seconds. I was paralyzed and emotionless, incapable of doing anything more than standing and blinking. Then a well-bred autopilot functionality kicked in. I thanked the women for her counsel, told her I had a train to catch and walked away.

What. The. Hell. My beloved and hilarious friend Beth summarily labeled this “The Magic Poop Theory,” offering me my first genuine laugh of a trying evening.

This pattern of unmitigated gall has instilled more than a wish for invisibility. I am left wondering about the crust of people. When did it become socially acceptable to identify people’s physical ailments and then discuss bathroom cleansing rituals in the same breath? I mean, shouldn’t she have bought me dinner first?

I don’t know if anyone who might be tempted to quiz me about my hands will come across this blog post, but just in case let me be clear. John Q. Public: your desire for information and need to pass yourself off as an expert of some sort pains me more than the pompholyx. Real talk. I am under the care of several physicians and have tried more remedies in the last several months than you can imagine. You do not have the answer, and even if you did, frankly, your disrespect for my personal space and privacy renders me unwilling to hear it.

I read somewhere recently that there is strong connection between chronic conditions and the development of agoraphobia. At the time, I found the relationship puzzling. How could the spirit crushing itch and burn with which I struggle lead to a fear of open spaces? Turns out I was missing the Jean Paul Sartre principle so important to this correlation. Hell is other people, or in my case, outsiders who mistake my condition’s perverse visibility for a “Help Wanted” sign.

Running From Consumerism (September 18, 2013)

Becky SarwateLeave a comment

I tend to view myself as an independent thinker. I’ve been a target of mass marketing, commercialism and political ideology like everyone else. But historically, I’ve congratulated myself on the ability to understand exactly what I’m hearing and maintain my own truths against the assault of outside influence. Deluded fool that I am. While out for a regularly scheduled run last Friday evening, I stopped dead in my tracks near the completion of mile five to face an uncomfortable truth: I am a member of the culture of consumerism’s well-tended flock of sheep.

It all started innocently enough. I jogged past a café and noticed an adorable red bicycle locked to a post. I own a cutie pie 2011 model red Schwinn Madison myself. However L’il Red is a bit beat up after high volume use, and an unfortunate wreck last Election Day that left me with a shattered tailbone and sacrum. I am healing slowly and nearly ready to terrorize the streets again. Thus I’ve been debating whether to take L’il Red to the bike hospital or upgrade to a newer model. So as I blew by the café and thought, “Oh! Sweet bike. I want!,” the reflection seemed appropriate.

Other thoughts of which I had no apparent control didn’t seem so logical:

Breezing past a convertible: “Wouldn’t I look cool driving that?” When I have my wits about me, I am THRILLED not to be a car owner. I live in the City of Chicago and wouldn’t go back to the parking hassles, gas prices and city sticker bullshit for anything.

“Those boots would look great with my long trench coat.” No they wouldn’t. I am a sensible shoe wearing lady – gym shoes, flip flops, hiking boots – and when I must dress it up, comfortable flats. Also, I never wear that trench coat. There’s this long, annoying slit in the back and when those famous Chicago winds kick up, the damned thing flies right open.

Trotting past a 7-11 window display: “Pepsi-flavored Cheetos are coming to the US? I have to try those.” I certainly do not. I loathe Pepsi products and the idea of uniting the flavor of the too syrupy cola with cheese flavored processed food should have immediately produced a stomach turn. Plus, um, I’M RUNNING AND THOUGHTS OF CHEETOS HAVE NO PLACE HERE!

And finally, the best for last: “Insidious Chapter 2 made $40 million at the box office last weekend. I wonder if it’s as scary as Saw.” No I don’t! You want to know why? Because I’ve never seen Saw. I avoid horror movies like so many Pepsi-flavored Cheetos because dammit, real life is scary enough. I can’t abide the sight of blood and violence, staged or otherwise. I watch most episodes of Grey’s Anatomy though my hands for Pete’s sake.

Oh the self-flagellation I have deservedly experienced since the conclusion of that eye opening jaunt around the neighborhood. Like the character of Silas, the albino Opus Dei monk featured in The Da Vinci Code, I feel the need for metaphorical bloodletting in order to cleanse myself of lemming disease. This might sound arrogant or naïve but I truly misunderstood the degree to which I am a product (pun intended) of the constant barrage of sales messaging. But now that I am aware of it, I vow to be more on my guard.

Got a bridge to sell me?

The Comfort Zone (September 15, 2015)

Becky SarwateLeave a comment

48 hours ago. I’m writing the first part of my story from the middle of a 26-glacier tour in Whittier, Alaska. Although afflicted with acute motion sickness, I’m pumped full of Dramamine, roaring through Prince William Sound on a catamaran. Moments ago, with cold 65-MPH winds whipping through my hair, I was hamming it up with victorious lunges on the upper deck for my friend Beth’s camera, channeling Saturday Night Live sketch character Mary Katherine Gallagher. Did I mention I’m incredibly fearful of the ocean? Superstar indeed. As I write while breathing the sea air, I feel fucking invincible. I am a conquerer – of myself and my demons. The toughest terrain of all.

The choppy waters of rural Alaska are decidedly not my comfort zone. By nature, I’m at home in the concrete jungle, born at Northwestern Hospital in downtown Chicago, graduating from high school at an inner city institution where metal detectors greeted me in the morning and members of the Chicago Police force jostled alongside students during passing periods. I was riding the El unaccompanied in junior high and the lakefront, Lincoln Park Zoo and other Chicago landmarks comprised the biggest, most dynamic backyard for which I could have asked. The ghosts of Carl Sandburg, Frederick Olmstead, Frank Lloyd and Richard Wright, as well as the modern influence of media powerhouse Oprah Winfrey, provided a trove of inspiration.

I should have been content staying energetically still in one, huge, diverse and creative mecca. That’s what they said. What right did I have to want more? Yet want more I did, having been born with what one might call a restless spirit. And I denied it for a long time. For too many years, I accepted the projection of others without question, permitting myself to be labeled as one for whom nothing would ever be “enough.” Pick your place and occupy it – literally and figuratively. What was good for my great-grand working class German and Italian parents should have been sufficient for me. They hadn’t crossed oceans and fled poverty to produce a fly by night hippie with an acute case of wanderlust. Consistency and routine meant stability and anything else was just ungrateful and irresponsible – an unacceptable aberration.

I wanted too much. Even I believed this. My desires and curiosity outstripped my socioeconomic station, my gender and despite being labeled a gifted student, even my intellect. As a little girl, it was ok to have dreams. Fantasies were healthy, but it was better if they stopped way short of disruptive – the princess waiting for rescue, the bride-to-be with a pillow case veil, the happy mother tenderly watching over her brood of baby dolls. I could devour the popular choose your own adventure novels of the 1980s, but I could not have it all. It wasn’t possible. It was greedy – maybe even dangerous.

Lord knows I tried to make “normalcy” enough. But my ambitions were stubborn and kept defying me. During my high school years, I was a member of the Chicago Children’s Choir and was fortunate enough to travel and perform with the group across such far flung locales as Poland, Russia and South Africa. I was told by so many adults that I was enjoying a once in a lifetime experience. But there’s nothing quite as subversive as books, travel and an romantic imagination. I ate watery borscht at a dormitory in Ekaterinburg, called my younger sister from a pay phone at the summit of Table Mountain and fell in love with a boy on a balcony as the lights of Warsaw twinkled behind us. With each soul quenching expedition, a little voice in my head asked, “Once in a lifetime, huh? Says who?”

My parents indulged my underage journeys, mostly because it cost them nothing financially. The scholarship kid. I’d sew those oats then settle down into regular, whatever that meant. After graduation, I headed off to Champaign, Illinois, a sea of suburban white people, corn and fraternity/sorority convention. As the pent up tidal wave of a dysfunctional home and the smallness of my new world washed over me, I descended into drinking, drugs and other dangerous behavior. The adventures of the past were behind me, all there ever would be. I can admit now to a passive effort at killing myself from depression and boredom. Ironically I’d become too complacent to participate in my own self-destruction. I deferred to substances to finish the job. But perversely, my tolerance for numbness only grew. I earned a degree in English Literature, minoring in Psychology but all I really learned was how to fake it. I read the works of Shakespeare, the poetry of the Harlem Renaissance, but I wasn’t brave enough to follow their examples and live a multi-dimensional life of my own creation. It was just too scary and heretical.

Let’s jump 12 years, two failed marriages, 6 administrative and/or corporate operations positions and one suicide attempt ahead. To what most of us know as rock bottom. As I surrendered myself to personal therapy, Al-Anon and other resources for the clueless, fearful co-dependent, one truth was abundantly clear: this shit? Not working at all. With nothing else to lose, it was clear there was only one option left if I was going to keep living. Different. Denying my inner anachronist was no longer tenable. If I was going to make it in this world, it was more than past time to let my freak flag fly high. If I was going to be at all, I needed to try to have it all. And I understood that in both the short and long term, fighting for my right to live as I must was going to be uncomfortable as hell.

This is me today. From 8:30am – 5pm, Monday-Friday, I indulge my competitive, scorekeeping self, the WASP-raised Becky that requires financial solvency as a jumping off point for safely underwriting fantastic departures from the norm. I’m a Sales Communication Manager at TransUnion, a global information solutions company that serves businesses and consumers in 33 countries worldwide. I help my department reach lofty revenue targets by crawling inside the customer’s head to develop strategic marketing plans. It’s storytelling meets psychology. Hello practical degree application.

I’m also a parched academic, with an insatiable thirst for knowledge, musty books and journals. In 2007, I earned an MA in English Literature from Northeastern Illinois University and retain strong campus ties as a student mentor and frequent collaborator with former professors. In 2012, I was honored with the NEIU English Department’s first-ever Alumni of the Year Award. My freelance work as a Chicago market theater critic for EDGE Media Network is an extension of my passion for literary scholarship, and also works as an affectionate nod to that dreaming, journaling little girl who longed to spend life in the library stacks.

But that’s still not enough. To be 100 percent authentically me is to acknowledge the stubborn, truth-seeking journalist, chasing stories while building a creative network for communicators of all professions. I’m the 49th President of the Illinois Woman’s Press Association, founded in 1885 and celebrating 130 years in 2015, as well as the Recording Secretary for the National Federation of Press Women. I’m a five-time national award-winning reporter, blogger, newsletter editor and critic who’s written for Contemptor, Politicus USA RootSpeak magazine, NewCity, Make It Better and StreetWise. I author a personal blog and publish my collected works at beckysarwate.com.

Finally, I’m an urban romantic and devoted family woman, still smitten with my younger sister Jenny after 35 years and quite possibly the most immature, silly aunt walking the streets. I realized along the way that parenthood is not for me, because as Toni Morrison memorably wrote for the title character of her novel Sula, I realized the thing I really need and want to make is myself – a beautiful product wholly unfinished.

I remain a born and proudly raised city slicker, residing in the Ravenswood neighborhood with my partner Bob and our menagerie of pets. But I step out of this world often as an adult who’s finally accepted stagnancy as my natural enemy. Maybe I should save for retirement, but I’ve made my peace with living for now because later is…later man. I can’t wait for the hypothetical. I want all I can have, right now. So instead of monitoring mutual fund performance, I’ve strapped on a sari and toured the temples of India, tentatively tiptoed to the Israeli/Lebanese border, cried overwhelmed tears of joy at Westminster Abbey and run the national finals of the Great Urban Race across the mountains of Vancouver.

No one ever told me I could try it all, be all the women I am at once. It’s work and I’m frequently exhausted. I am judged, second guessed and predicted to fail at every turn – by myself as well as the world at large. It’s risky, scary and expensive to indulge all myselves – in every costly sense. But I know now what the alternative is. Despair. I’d rather be tired and stimulated than rested and yearning. That’s existentially dishonest and I know it. The balancing act isn’t easy but dammit it’s necessary because my essence has no single dimensions. Corporate shark, writer, community organizer, lover. I am all of those things and I MUST scratch all of the itches. That requires a constant battle with a familiar enemy – the comfort zone.

I won’t let ANYTHING stop me from grabbing life by the balls and squeezing every last incongruous, exhilarating and frightening drop. Not even myself. I am the urban woman who writes stories while wearing stylish sunglasses and speeding through Arctic ice floes. If that’s uncomfortable for me or anyone else, fuck it. I can’t be otherwise.

The “Ike Turner” (September 5, 2013)

Becky SarwateLeave a comment

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 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.