Blurred Perceptions

My staycation concluded this weekend, and today my continued exploration into more consistent journaling follows along to document it.  Two particular events stand out in my mind - the exhibit on race at the Chicago History Museum and my start of David Foster Wallace's A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again.  The two don't really have much to link them, but this blog, in an attempt to be something more than a loose amalgam of random thoughts should at least try to cobble together a theme.  That being the case, the theme for today is perception.

I've always been aware of racism, even if, as a white dude from the South, I didn't appreciate the struggles that people of other races dealt with.  I always knew that "racism was bad" and that minorities were subject to issues that I didn't have to face, but much of my understanding was simply a surface one.

The exhibit at the museum turned a lot of the perception of race on its head. Rather than focusing on sympathy for other races and cultures, the exhibit demonstrated that race is a fluid concept, and, to my surprise, a relatively recent one - the word 'white' as it applies to race today didn't even appear until the 17th century.

Apparently, the construct of race was coincident with trans-oceanic travel.  Prior to sailing across the sea, individuals would see gradual shifts in skin color, physical markers, and cultural differences as they traveled long distance.  Once Europeans encountered America, though, they had been shoved on a boat for several weeks or months and then exposed to completely new cultures all at once.  This change from gradual to sudden led to jarring disconnects between two cultures, and in order to explain the differences in terms people could accept, they invited the modern concept of race.  I'd often heard the phrase "there's no such thing as race" (from a biological standpoint, not from the people who claim to be color blind) in the past and believed it - at least in a broad sense - but this exhibit did a good job of summarizing the information in such a way that the point was really driven home.

The theme of perception with David Foster Wallace is much subtler.  I've only read one essay of his in total so far (and haven't read any of his previous works), but his gift for language is readily apparent.  His subject matter isn't shocking or inherently interesting by itself (the essay was in turns about his tennis career in high school and tornadoes), but his ability to weave a story around seemingly mundane matter is incredible.  His tone throughout reminds me of my style at its best moments, but his ability to maintain it is awe-inspiring.  His words flow with such ease that his style seduces the reader into thinking the act of putting pen to paper (virtually or otherwise) is trivial.  The story of his life likely points to the fact that writing didn't come to him as easily as it appears.  This is both comforting and scary.  On one hand, it's horrible to think that the suffering he underwent throughout his life is a prerequisite for beautiful writing.  On the other hand, we all face our own struggles throughout life, and if that's indeed the necessary condition for producing art, then it's comforting to know that we all have some internal muse, however small it may be.

Bring on the Bunting!

Yesterday was an idyllic summer day in Chicago straight out of an early scene in The Music Man (which is appropriate because the musical is set somewhere in the Midwest and Gary, Indiana is a suburb of Chicago).

It was one of those days where Chicago shines in its own unique way.  I'm on vacation this week, so I was able to take full advantage of the day. 

My wife and I started out hanging out on our local beach.  Where we live, the beach typically consists of a grassy park that butts up against concrete blocks that lead down into Lake Michigan.

If you're looking for motion and sand, this isn't the spot to be, but I'm always amazed at how such a large body of water can be so calm.  I live less than half a mile from the lake, and barring some winter spill over onto Sheridan Road, homes that aren't immediately on the beach are at minimal risk for flooding.  If I lived half a mile from the ocean, especially in hurricane territory, I'd need to evacuate for every tropical storm warning.

After hanging out at the lake, we ate at a local diner famous for its seafood.  Chicago isn't known for its fresh seafood, but, given its size as a big city and its culinary reputation, the seafood available in the city is still competitive.  I won't compare the lobster roll I ate to the New England version (at least until I visit New England again later this year), but it's not too controversial for me to say it was delicious (I also liked the Chicago tweak of putting the lobster on a French roll rather than a hot dog bun).

We finished the day in Andersonville, a neighborhood in Chicago that could double for one of the sets of The Music Man.  Somehow, nestled between two major north-south thoroughfares, it's able to retain the cinematic quality of a stereotypical small town.  We even stopped by the local ice cream shop to cap the day.  The staff didn't wear soda jerk attire, but the scoops are hand-dipped and never disappointing.

Andersonville is the type of neighborhood where you'd expect to see bunting draped from every household, and, in a way that's true. Andersonville has its own Chicago twist that's not typically associated with small towns across the US - it's an extremely LGBTQ friendly neighborhood, and, this being pride month, the bunting consists of rainbow-colored decorations saturating the area.  Even when pride month is over, many homes continue to display Hate has no home here signs (translated in many languages) on their front lawns.

And, to me, that's the beauty of Chicago - it somehow merges Midwest sensibility and big city cosmopolitan ideals in a seamless mix.

5 Minutes of Misery

I recently received an email advertisement for improving foreign language learning in five minutes a day.  It was aimed at people who really want to start learning a new language in earnest, and swear they'll set aside one or two hours to get started, but then never have a chance to set aside the time (this was my problem with guitar - now I just set aside 10 minutes and usually, by some miracle, play longer).

I didn't click on the ad, because it was a podcast, and I typically like skimming my marketing barf via reading rather than listening or watching something.  However, it did make me look up "5 minute language learning."   All of the results I found were simply links back to the same advertisement I wanted to avoid.  While looking up those keywords, though, Google did suggest "5 minute journal."  Intrigued, I went back to look into the search today to determine if it may provide tips for bootstrapping my writing frequency.

I was less than impressed.

The 5 Minute Journal is a product.  Its main purpose is to encourage you to write daily affirmations and goals in the morning and again in the evening.  While I think those are some things that one can write in a journal, I'm of the belief that a journal should encompass all thoughts and quirks of the day, not just the positive ones.

I'll be honest.  I've had a hard time keeping a journal consistently.  While I like writing, I don't generally like writing about myself.  And I find it exceptionally strange to write about myself to myself.  I've heard in many cases it serves as a pocket therapist and in spurring creativity, but that's been a tough argument for me to buy over the course of my life.

Regardless, a journal is about thoughts and feelings.  If in the 5 Minute Journal, I write Today I'm grateful that I have a roof over my head instead of There's a fucking leak in my ceiling after the contractor redid the roof, I got yelled out for not letting the professional contractor do his job, and the contractor isn't responding to me in a timely manner, I'm missing a lot of nuance from my day, don't you think?  By writing the latter, it allows me to vent, put something down that isn't as trite as Life is a unicorn!  I want to get shafted by the horn! and will probably even lead me to think that, in the scheme of things, maybe I shouldn't get so worked up about a leak.  In writing this in about 100 words, I've had the chance to exercise some creativity, vent, swear, and reflect.  An affirmation would simply pack all of that away below the surface until it reappears in one long string of Fuck you!s after another somewhere down the line. 

So, I'll be thankful today that I had a chance to rant about my roof and affirmations.

Toward the Dark Heart of Chicago

So, about those diagonal streets in Chicago mentioned in a previous post...

I found an article asking why they exist and confirming my primary theory.  When Daniel Burnham planned the city, his primary design placed streets on a grid system.  However, his plan also called for diagonal streets to accelerate ingress into the city center from the outer neighborhoods.

Prior to reading the article, the diagonal streets inspired a small blurb of poetry in my mind - "These streets, strange to the rest of the city, are the key to its heart.  Rushing ever faster the closer we come."  After reading the article, the blurb has lost a bit of its luster, though.  

It turns out only one of the streets, Ogden Avenue, was a part of the planned vision.  The source of the article, Chicagoist, added a bit of its own leftist snark in its quote that the diagonal streets "as always, [are] all about buying stuff."  This opinion appears to be predicated on the impression that people only head toward a city center to shop, or simply support capitalism via working or dining or spending money or erecting statues to Adam Smith.  I guess from a deconstructionist point of view, this may be true, though it's a pretty cynical and reductionist interpretation.  Rather than engage in some early college-style light debate about the evils of capitalism and cities' roles in propagating that evil, I'll just be happy with my initial poetic thought about moving toward the city center.

However, the line does lose its luster again when discussing America's second favorite past time to capitalism - expelling native Americans from their homeland.  As with Ridge and Rogers, the diagonal streets don't come from an architect planned expansion but rather from old Indian trails.  Milwaukee Ave. was actually a buffalo transit route to the Chicago River.  American settlers commandeered the routes and established their own lives along the trail (and, in a nod to capitalism, set up toll roads along trails).

A side note - Chicagoist, a blogging site where I used to consume most of my news about the city, is no longer in service.  It was abruptly shutdown by its owner when its employees attempted to unionize for better working conditions.  Maybe their leftist snark wasn't so misplaced after all. 

Long Day Researching the Square

Yesterday's post was a brief story about a Pinkerton detective's involvement in the Haymarket affair.  Today's is about how that story came together.  Even though it was a short piece (310 words), I had to do about an hour's worth of research.

The idea for the story started while watching the Travel Channel's Mysteries at the Museum vignette on the Reno Gang.  In it the Pinkertons set a trap for the gang during an attempted train robbery.  This stoked my curiosity about the Pinkertons and their role in US history, so I started reading the above Wikipedia link.

When I reached a section mentioning their involvement in strike breaking efforts, that led me to think about the Haymarket massacre and its place in America's labor struggles.  I didn't even know if the Pinkertons were linked to that particular incident, and was ready to switch venues if their link to the incident was too tenuous.

Technically, the Pinkertons aren't officially linked to the massacre, but some theories suppose they were embedded within the crowd to foment a riot and turn the public's opinion against the labor movement.  Considering that I wanted to write a story about an infiltrator in the labor movement, this fit my use case well. 

Luckily, many of the other details that helped me shade the story were available - weather, timing of the events, description of the bomb used, etc.  I had to spend some time researching clothing and facial hair styles for men in 1886, but didn't have to dig too deep.  Still, it was fun to attach the story to a historical event and pay attention to the fine points of the day in question rather than ignore them completely. 

A Long Day in the Square

He'd shoved the heavy, spherical object deep in his coat pocket, and was overly conscious of the bulge it produced against his otherwise dapper silhouette.  Still, he'd been excited.  This was his first assignment as a Pinkerton and he'd been prepping for his role since dawn.

The evening, though, turned out not to be particularly inviting.  He was pelted with a steady light drizzle and the skies continued their threat to open completely.  His waxed mustache, newly cultivated on his typically clean-shaven face, drooped under the weight of the water and his new derby sat just too tight on his head, heightening the anxiety he already felt about his assignment. 

"What's the sphere for?" he'd been bold enough to ask.

An annoyed eye looked up, paused and then replied, "It's a diversion.  Nothing more than one of many other articles the anarchists will no doubt throw when the police moved in."

"Why would we want to incite riots among the anarchists?"

Another annoyed glance, "We don't.  We're simply the fuse that will blow the lid off their known violent tendencies."

For reasons he still couldn't discern, he let the tepid explanation pass.  Perhaps he was excited to be a Pinkerton now and didn't want to jeopardize his first assignment.

Still, as the police moved in, he paused.  The argument he'd heard earlier about an eight hour work day made sense especially given the 15 hour day he'd already put in.  But, as the rain increased and the din of the crowd amplified, he became more irritated and was happy to relieve himself of the heavy metal ball that had been steadily bruising his hip bone all afternoon.  As instructed, he lit the small dummy fuse and tossed it toward the uniformed officers before merging back into the crowd.