Tag: Goodman Theater

Lunch Money Reparations

Lunch Money Reparations

At the Goodman Theater Chicago’s Storytelling class, teaching artist Julie Ganey prompted us to write a “story of changed perspective” based on Goodman’s production of Margaret Atwood’s Penelopiad. 

I had a story in the can, Lunch Money, about a changed perspective, and decided to revise it for the storytelling assignment before I saw the Penelopiad performance. When I finally saw Peneliopiad, I couldn’t see the change in perspective theme—still can’t. Did Penelope change her perspective? Did Odysseus? Who? What? 

Had I seen Peneiopiad first (one of the best productions I’ve ever seen in any theater anywhere), I would have written about an experience in honest storytelling.  I have lots of those. But, alas, it’s best I don’t sermonize on truthtelling. The following is my change-in-perspective story, which I’ll soon be reciting in person at the Goodman Theater’s “Lobby Stories.” If you’re a regular blog reader, thank you; you’ll understand why retelling this story is important.

Lunch Money Reparations

Reparations are a program of acknowledgment, redress, and closure for a grievous injustice. — From Here to Equality, Reparations for Black Americans in the 21st Century, by William A. Darity, Jr. and A. Kirsten Mullen 

When I started working as a part-time receptionist in downtown Chicago, I lived with my nine-year-old son in a high-rise apartment and periodically spent more money than I had. Glitzy earrings or a new red lipstick often called to me as I passed through Marshall Field and Company on State Street. I once had my entire purse stolen off the counter as I adjusted my scarf in the mirror. 

Over the years, I’ve faced down quite a few street scams and purse snatchings. The worst was the time three teenage boys trapped me in a revolving door at the old Carson, Pirie Scott building. One had yanked on my purse as I entered, but I grabbed the shoulder straps while the accomplice pushed the door in the section in front of me. The accomplice stopped abruptly and held his hands on both glass doors. This left each of us stuck in a different section of the revolving door, awkwardly staring at each other through the glass. They all ran off when a security guard came to my rescue.

I added this grievance story to others like it. Joining the ranks of privileged pseudo-traumatized victims, I loudly condemned an exaggerated version of the bands of criminals marauding downtown Chicago. 

As a pensioner, I’ve inoculated myself against criminal assault by carrying nothing but my iPhone and a pocket-size purse where my bus pass, credit cards, and a small amount of cash are stored. Costume jewelry and cosmetics are no longer a retail draw. But I cannot resist accepting Dutch treat lunch invitations from friends, paying no attention to my budget or bank balance. 

One day, I sat waiting for a fellow retiree, Peter McLennon, in the lobby of a busy hotel where we’d planned to have lunch. I delved into my ever-present iPhone with heightened curiosity to see if anything big had happened between the time I had gotten off the bus, walked the two blocks to the hotel lobby, and plopped down in the overstuffed chair. 

I was so engrossed in the breaking news of a car accident on a distant highway that my senses were dulled to a body stirring in the chair next to me. When the body started in on her story, I momentarily jolted to attention. 

“My husband beat me for the last time. I been hidin’ in a women’s shelter but he found me, and now I need to move.”

“What?” I said as much to her as to myself since I was not quite tuned into her voice, my mind drifting in and out of her story while half-wondering what happened to the people in the car crash that was reporting out of my phone behind the now blank screen. 

“My social worker found a place in Cincinnati. They gonna hold a room 24 hours. I need $19 for the bus. Can you lend it to me?”

“What?” I looked around to see if Peter was nearby to rescue me. 

She repeated her story, adding some details about injuries inflicted by the husband. 

“As soon as I get situated in Cincinnati with a place to stay and a job, I’ll pay you back.” 

I tested her by asking if she was taking the mega-bus since $19 didn’t seem like enough money for a bus to Cincinnati. That stumped her, but she recovered nicely by describing where the bus station was. 

And for one shimmering split second, we caught each other’s eyes and I sensed she knew I was on to her. But she kept up the hustle. I admired that. She was working hard for her money.

I unzipped my little red purse and happily handed her my $20 lunch money. Before I zipped up, she was gone. The scam worked. Relief washed over me as I exhaled the stress of her desperation. Even if I doubted her, she deserved all the money I had for all the years I’d spent harboring both silent and noisy racial bias.

When Peter arrived, he commented on how serene I looked. As we walked toward the restaurant, I asked if he could pick up the tab for lunch. 

“Yes, of course.” He said.

And I didn’t even have to tell the story. 

 

Tommy at Woodstock

Tommy at Woodstock

Two neglected shoeboxes of faded and forgotten memories sit on the top shelf of my bedroom closet. They are filled with negatives, a noun I’ve not heard nor used since the Aughts gave us cameras on our mobile phones. I had used all types of cameras in my life from a Kodak Brownie to a 35 millimeter Pentax until photographic film and developing became too expensive in the 2000s. All my cameras had film that I’d drop off at the corner drug store or a camera shop for developing. I’d then mark time for a week or more waiting to hear that my pictures were ready for pick-up. The much anticipated package included the developed photos and their corresponding negatives.

A negative is the reversed image of the picture that can be used to develop another print. They were produced on small strips or sheets of transparent plastic film. Eight or ten miniature negative images appeared on each dark strip. If I wanted to reproduce a photo, I’d hold the plastic film up to the light, protect it from my fingerprints, search for the picture I wanted, cut the tiny square from the strip, and take it to the store for developing.

There’s no logical reason I packed old negatives in archival boxes and stored them on the top shelf of my closet. In order to get to them, I need to unfold the step stool, risk pinching a finger or two, and trust my balance will hold as I climb each step to reach the shelf. I have no intention of ever looking through the negatives in order to develop old photos. Most of the corresponding pictures may be in musty albums in my bookcase. I’m never drawn to those either.  

A few years ago I acquired a photo scanner. I offered to pay my teenage grandson to digitize my photos as a summer job. 

“I don’t know how to do that,” he answered.

“It’s easy. I’ll show you. You can do it at home and upload to your computer.”

“Naaw, I don’t think I’d like that.”

All hope drifted away then, that any of my relations would be interested in the photographic documentation of my life. I can’t blame him. I was never curious about details of my parents’ or grandparents’ lives until recently. How can I tell him that when he nears his sixties or seventies he’s going to find himself wondering what I and his other ancestors did during our lives? More importantly, how will he come to know that factors outside his control, passed down generation after generation may be the source of his own physical or mental hardships?

A production of the rock opera Tommy will be onstage this summer at Chicago’s Goodman Theater. 

“Wow! You saw Tommy at Woodstock?” exclaimed a theater-goer when we were in line to purchase tickets. 

Woodstock cachet seems to increase with every passing era. Forget the old photos. My-grandmother-went-to-Woodstock is probably the only legacy my grandchildren will ever need.