While looking over (okay, listening to) stats from this year’s Safe & Sound blog, I discovered that more people visited here on May 10 than any other day in 2015. No surprise, really. That’s the day we published Mike’s very moving post called “Our version of all right.” The post was part of his weekly Mondays with Mike series, and I’m republishing it today for any new readers who missed it the first time. Those of you who read it back in May might want to read it again, too — it’s that good.

Beth

Mondays with Mike: Our version of all right

Originally published May 10, 2015

A couple weeks ago as I walked to a sandwich shop I was stopped in my tracks by the sight of a boy in a wheelchair and a man, presumably his dad, collecting themselves on the sidewalk. They had clearly just unloaded from the car parked nearby, and were readying for a walk.

We had a nice visit.

It wasn’t the kind of wheelchair designed to be propelled by its user. It was, instead, focused on holding the boy—who clearly had substantial physical disabilities—in proper posture, with a headrest, and foot rests arranged for that purpose, and with high handles to make it easy for someone else, in this case his dad, to push. Seeing it was a flashback to my own rituals of outings with our son Gus.

The father made a last round of adjustments to the boy’s ball cap, to his seatbelt, and then gathered himself to push his son on a walk.

For a moment, I wanted to walk up to him to say something like, well, I didn’t know what. That it’ll be all right? What the hell did I know about whether it would be all right? And as a frog the size of Alaska grew in my throat, I thought better of saying anything to him just then, because well, a stranger walking up and breaking into tears might not lift up his day.

By the time I left the shop with my sandwiches, and I was more composed, the man and his son were long gone.

This past weekend Beth and I traveled to Wisconsin to see our son Gus, who is 28 and living in a group home with three other guys. The weather was nice, and—though Gus did eventually learn to propel his own wheelchair, I supplied the horsepower this time, pushing him with Beth holding onto my arm. (Whitney stayed in our hotel room, as she is either jealous of or unnerved by Gus; a little of both, I think.)

We had a happy, uneventful visit, like we always do, and are always grateful to have. We took our Zipcar back to our Milwaukee area hotel, visited with a friend who moved up there recently from Chicago, and spent a quiet night.

The next morning, we headed to the Amtrak station and boarded right on time. We sat up front in the disability seats so Whitney had room to stretch out. A woman who was sitting in the disability section across the aisle from us noticed the dog after we settled, leaned over and asked whether we wanted her space, as it provided more space for Whitney.

After a few seconds, she realized we had the same kind of spacious accommodations and said, “Oh, I didn’t see you already have room.”

Minutes later, after the train eased out of the station, she leaned over and said to Beth, “Can I be so bold as to ask how long you’ve had that dog and how it’s working for you?”

Well, 20 minutes later we’d learned that she’d lost her sight in one eye and the other was in bad shape. All to diabetic retinopathy—the same thing that got Beth’s eyesight decades ago. That she was a couple years older than us, and that she’d been diabetic for 50 years. A nurse herself, she’d always been praised by her doctors for being a model diabetic. But that’s not always enough.

She and her husband’s situation is a lot like Beth’s and mine had been some 30 years ago. She’d had good doctors and bad doctors and doctors who had the bedside manner of Attila the Hun. She can see some out of one eye and is in that awkward phase where she is doing just well enough and badly enough by herself to annoy or frighten the people around her. She isn’t blind—yet, but she wants to get ready in case total blindness comes. But how? She needed help but didn’t want to drag down her husband with endless needs, nor did she like losing independence and needing his help. For his part, her husband, a “type A” as she put it, seemed to be struggling not to over protect.

Her experience rang so familiar that it gave me that feeling I had when I saw that man and his son. This time, though, Beth could carry the conversation while I reset myself. Eventually, as Beth and I related our experiences—and how similar they were to our new acquaintance—it seemed almost revelatory to the woman across the aisle.

On her request, I wrote down the title of Beth’s book and said, “I added my email address, too” and let her know she could contact us. We said goodbye and I followed Whitney as she led Beth off the train. An Amtrak redcap came to assist our fellow traveler.

I would’ve liked, I suppose, to tell her everything will be all right. The same thing I guessed I’d hoped to be able to say to the young father on the street.

But I didn’t. Because I couldn’t, honestly. Beth and I are better than all right. But it isn’t the all right either of us had in mind. And it was harder than hell to get to our version of all right. That’s what the father and his son on the Chicago street and our stranger on the train face. Even if they have great friends and family and resources, it’s going to be really hard.

What I realized, though, was what I saw in that woman’s face was not so much a revelation as relief, relief in knowing, even briefly, that she wasn’t alone.

And if I ever see that man and his son again, that’s what I’ll tell him. You’re not alone.

We had a mostly wonderful week—we celebrated Christmas with Beth’s family, we celebrated Beth’s birthday, and we traveled to Wisconsin to see our son Gus at his group home, where we found him in terrific spirits.

And then I read about this. A 19 year-old college student and a 55-year-old mother of five shot dead by police.

Listen, we can say we don’t know for sure what happened, and we shouldn’t rush to judgment. But screw that. We know this: The Chicago Police Department is under fire for very good reason, and even after the Laquan McDonald video surfaced, even after the Mayor’s crocodile-teared speech, somehow the police officers in this instance were still inclined to shoot first and not answer questions later.

What details have surfaced would indicate that there was a 19 year-old raising some hell in his own household—but armed with a baseball bat, not a gun. He graduated from a very good high school, was in college, and had not exhibited any such behavior until recently. I can’t know, but conditions like schizophrenia and bipolar disorder often strike 15-25 year olds. I’ve known some. And they did some crazy, scary stuff. They didn’t get shot. But they were white, and lived in places where the first inclination with good kids doing bad things is to not shoot, but to calm and control and manage, so everybody lives to keep trying.

As for whether race has anything to do with all this—if you can still hypnotize yourself into thinking it doesn’t, I got nothing. Look, I get why some of my fellow white people get perturbed by the terms “white privilege” and “black lives matter.” I confess: I get irked by “white privilege,” though I completely agree that in lots of circumstances, I’m going to be treated differently—and better—than I would be if I were black.

My issue has always been semantic: How I’m treated should not be considered a privilege, but something owed to everyone. But the truth is, the term is effective—because it’s drawn attention to this disparity. So if “white privilege” is irksome to some, so what? Also—the alternative is to turn it around and say the people who aren’t getting their due are “disadvantaged” or the like. Which, intentionally or not, kind of puts the onus on them. Quit complaining and get advantaged!

And in an ideal world all lives do matter. But it’s clear that often—not everywhere and not every time and not in all circumstances and not in everyone’s eyes—but in many, too many instances, black lives have not mattered. If you don’t like “black lives matter,” try these two: “All lives should matter.” Or how about, “black lives matter, too.”

I’m not sure what to do, and am open to ideas. I didn’t vote for this mayor either time, and that didn’t help. Maybe I’ll join the next march, but I don’t know if the current powers-that-be give a damn.

For now, given that the deadline for tax-deductible contributions is approaching, I’m going to support the national work of organizations like the Southern Poverty Law Center and Equal Justice Initiative.

Here in Chicago, there are great people fighting the good fight. Check out the non-profit Invisible Institute, which has done grueling work in helping to assemble a public database of complaints lodged against police; records, that were, incredibly, not available until some good people had the gumption to fight a long fight.

Another Institute effort is the Youth/Police project. Check it out: Chicago, we have a problem. You can support the Invisible Institute by visiting this page and scrolling to the bottom.

The Institute’s complaint database work was done in partnership with the Civil Rights and Police Accountability Project. It’s a program of the University of Chicago Law School’s Mandel Legal Clinic, which you can also support via donation.

Whether or not you support these particular efforts, I hope you’ll find and share ways we can do something about the problem. It’s not a South Side or West Side thing, or only a Chicago thing, it’s on all of us.

Am I the only one having a hard time remembering that today is a Friday? That it’s December 25th? Christmas Day?

Above-freezing temperatures in Chicago today are making it feel more like opening day than Christmas day. My great-niece Floey and I celebrated birthdays this week that pretty much trumped (oh, that word!) Christmas. This past week two dear friends lost their mothers, too. We find ourselves reflecting more on their losses, and our losses, than we are on the “magic of the holidays.”

And then there’s this: We already celebrated Christmas with our extended family last Sunday. Shouldn’t Christmas be over by now?

About my extended family: All six of my brothers and sisters are grandparents. My oldest sister Bobbie and her husband Harry have three great-grandchildren. As Mike Knezovich likes to say, “It’s not a family, it’s a nation!” Buying Christmas presents for the entire Finke Nation is out of the question. So we pick names, and you have to make a gift for the person you choose.

The gifts were pretty outstanding this year, but the one our son Gus got from his Aunt Bev in Michigan was my favorite. Some back-story to explain the gift: my sister Bev’s son (Gus’ cousin Brian) came to the United States for a visit in August, 2015. Brian teaches English in Japan, he’s an accomplished photographer, and…he’s a Cubs fan. Anyone who follows this blog knows that Mike Knezovich is an ardent White Sox fan. The Cubs were playing the White Sox when Brian was In town. It was a given. They’d go to a game together.

The Cubs have a tradition: When the Cubs win, they fly a W flag at Wrigley Field. When they lose, they fly an L flag. Cub fans love waving their own W flags in the stands when they win, especially when they’re on the road. They don’t wave L flags when they lose, though.

When crazy ol’ Uncle Mike realized that White Sox all-star Chris Sale was likely to pitch on the day he’d be going to that game with Brian and family, he got what he calls “a brilliant and evil idea.” Mike went online, ordered an L flag (yes, they sell them), secretly folded it up and stuck it in his back pocket on game day. Mike’s Monday’s with Mike post about that game explains what happened in the ninth inning:

White Sox leading 3-0 after a dominating, 15-strikeout game by Chris Sale. Top of the ninth inning. Two out. I reach into my pocket. And then…a home run by Jorge Soler off our closer David Robertson. I took my hand out of my pocket.

A joyous Mike and a disbelieving Brian after the game (photo credit Bev Miller).

A nerve-wracking ninth inning for sure, but the Sox did end up winning, and with that, Mike reached back into his pocket again, and this time he unfurled the L flag –ordered just for this purpose. Five of our family members there at that game were Cub fans, but they took crazy Uncle Mike’s antic in stride. Once home, they described Uncle Mike parading the flag down the ramp as they exited the ballpark and unfurling it on the subway, too. “You wouldn’t believe how many people stopped and asked to take his picture!” they marveled. “He’s gonna be all over Facebook.” Cub fan Bev was one of those photographers, and for Gus’ Christmas gift she framed one photo in an “I heart Dad” picture frame.

Funny. Writing about all this, and thinking of Brian’s time with us in August, family coming from near and far to see him, the joy Aunt Bev put into taking and framing the photo for Gus, Mike’s hearty laugh when he opened Gus’ gift last Sunday,our upcoming train trip to Wisconsin to deliver the gift to Gus…I’m finally feeling the Christmas spirit.

Hard to imagine what our son and the very polite Brewer-fans who work with him will make of the photo when we hang it on Gus’ bedroom wall tomorrow, but I do know this for sure: Gus really does love his crazy old dad. And what a coincidence. So do I. Merry Christmas, everyone!

Here’s the guest post you’ve been waiting for! Floey’s account of her tenth birthday celebration in Chicago Monday…

by AnnMarie Florence Czerwinski

Here we are at Chicago’s Christkindl Market after the polishing.

I experienced a birthday of a lifetime. I got to go to the ocularist with my great ol’ Aunt Betha.

It was a little freaky but it was really cool. First probably the weirdest part. The doctor pulled out her eye with a suction cup thingee! Then he let me watch him clean it.

He rubbed this gooey stuff on it rubbed it on different wheels and then rinsed it off then we left.

We walked to the Christkindl Market to eat some good food and then walked to the Bean.

By the way I fixed Betha’s cell phone, too.

The end.

Back to Great Ol’ Aunt Betha: It’s true! Floey did fix my cell phone – the VoiceOver app I use to make it talk wasn’t working, and like all ten-year-old kids in America in 2015, Floey knows how to slide and tap her fingers on an iPhone screen to make it do what it’s supposed to do.

PS: Janet, Floey’s mother, asked me to add one detail her ten-year-old neglected to mention in this guest post: before Floey and I left his office, the ocularist did remember to use that “suction cup thingee” to pop my prosthetic eye back in.

This holiday season has me more moody than I can ever remember at this time of year. Part of it is just missing departed loved ones more. And then, well, just about everything going on in the world seems to be stupid right about now.

So early Saturday afternoon, as we rode the Blue Line to The Gift Theater in Jefferson Park, I wondered if attending “Good for Otto” — a play that focuses on people’s struggles with depression and other mental health challenges — was such a good idea.

A scene from “Good for Otto.”

It turned out to be just what the doctor ordered.

First, the backstory. Beth’s posted here before about The Gift Theater, and its co-founder Michael Patrick Thornton. The short of it is, Thornton befriended the renowned Tony-winning playwright David Rabe years ago. And when Rabe wrote “Good for Otto,” he chose to make its world premiere not in New York, not at the Goodman or Steppenwolf here in Chicago, but at The Gift.

The theater itself is tiny. It’s a storefront theater, to be sure — but it must have been a very small store. The production features an alley set — that is, a bank of people (two rows here) sit on one side of the stage, and two rows sit opposite. Each side of the audience faces the other as the players carry on in the middle. And you do see each other’s reactions.

The main stage was the same floor our chairs sat on. One of the therapist’s chair used throughout the performance sat not four feet from Beth and me, and we had to mind our own dogs not to obstruct actors as they came and went.

And they came and went in that tiny space a lot  — 15 of them — impossibly and gracefully thanks to an ingenious loft staging.

I’ll spare details —  not for fear of letting a spoiler out — it’s not the kind of play that can be spoiled. I’ll say this: It runs three hours. I never last three hours at these things. But I wanted the intermission to end so I could get back to all these people. They are troubled. But there are laughs. A lot of them, and they’re all laugh with but not at.

Don’t take my word for it  — read this glowing review in the NY Times  — yes the Times had a reviewer go to a theater that holds 47 people and is located in a relatively obscure (but charming) neighborhood in Chicago. Even better (to us locals) is Chris Jones’ review in the Chicago Tribune.

If you’re in the Chicago area and love theater, go. It’s a gift (sorry). And it’s been extended until February 7.

If you’re not a theater buff but have experienced depression or other mental health struggles  — or have been close to someone who has (in other words, everybody else on earth): Go!

In the play’s array of portrayals of struggling characters you may well see bits and pieces of yourself or a loved one or friend who has struggled in the same ways. And that may be uncomfortable, but to me — and clearly it was  for other audience members  — it was an opportunity to connect, and to not feel alone.

More than anything, for people who have struggled with mood issues or brain chemistry, the play makes clear that the struggle is worth it.

Happy Holidays everyone.