I'd like to say I've been spending the week collecting my thoughts, and that's why it's taken me so long to record my experiences from my first trip back home to Chicago. In reality, my plane touched down in Laguardia at about 10 0'clock Monday night, and I've been frantically trying to get caught up with my school work ever since. It's a gorgeous, sunny day in the mid-50s here in New York, just like it is in Chicago right now (hmmm, that would have been nice, oh, I don't know, a week ago!), I've got a cinnamon crumb apple pie in the oven, and I feel like it's a downright good time to tell you about my wonderful weekend back home.
My preparation for the weekend was less than ideal. I was off school on Thursday, but I had a ton to do. I went for a tranquil run through Queens early in the morning, did laundry, graded tests, cleaned the apartment, packed, and so on. The day felt like it was over before it started, and I had not yet finished compiling the grades I had promised for my geometry students when I was about to pass out at 10 or 11 at night. I decided to wake up at 2:30 in the morning, finish my grades, and then go back to sleep. Grading took a long damn time. By the time I was finished, it behooved me to get ready for work because I had promised to meet a student early and still had some photocopying to do.
I whizzed through the day trying to keep my students focused and myself awake. I gathered my bags after the three o'clock bell struck and zipped out of school. Instead of feeling all that excitement from the past couple of weeks hit the peak of its crescendo like I had imagined it would, I felt sleepy and kind of guilty for mailing it in during the second half of my last class. Oh, well. I could do a better job next week. Now it was time to get to the airport. I took the bus I usually ride to go home, only I stayed on to Laguardia. I became confused when I realized I wouldn't be flying from the same terminal as my last trip to Chicago, so I got off the bus to see if I could figure things out. It happened to be right where I needed to be. I zipped through security, changed into jeans, grabbed a sandwich, boarded, took off, and got some much needed sleep.
I've flown into O'Hare plenty of times, and I almost always experience a rush of nostalgia, a surge of elation at the prospect of being home again. (The one exception was flying home from Hawaii--flying home is unequivocally the worst part about going there.) This occasion blew all the other landings out of the water. I had the Blues Brothers playing on my iPod right before we touched ground. My first glimpse of downtown and the lake and the Northwestern campus just about brought me to tears. Everything flooded back--the people, the places, the smells, the tastes, the feelings--all those things that make up home. And it was all so close.
The air was cool and crisp. The night was fine. Dad drove up to the departures area a few minutes after I called. I was home.
Not much had changed. I walked up the familiar steps to the familiar door and into the familiar room with the familiar soft light and the familiar scent of Lou Malnati's pizza. In the dining room there was Dolores and Dave and Jennifer and Steven and Steven's girlfriend Heather--the first unfamiliar sight of the night--and, looking as distinctive and beautiful as ever, Holly. I missed my sister.
The rest of the evening at Dad's strolled by pleasantly, just like most evenings at Dad's do. When asked about my experiences teaching and being in the Bronx, I had trouble speaking in anything but generalities. It's the same thing I experience when I try to write in this space about what goes on at Bronx Letters. I think I'm still in reaction mode, and everything flies by so quickly that I struggle to hang on to all the little things that make up the day. My teaching experience is only now starting to crystallize. I'll give you some good words on it someday, whenever I have the time.
That first night home was a race to make my time as meaningful as possible with as many people as possible before I passed out. Given that I had been awake since 1:30 am Central Time with only a half hour nap on the plane, I think I did pretty well. I even managed to spend some time with Danimal and Sherri, two of my former co-bakers from a memorable Kim's Kitchen summer that seems like it took place forever ago. I awoke promptly at 8 am Saturday morning, having slept on a futon that I knew quite well when it resided in Zev's apartment some 200 miles away in Urbana. By the way, I apologize for including all these minute details, but there was so much history and familiarity wrapped up in this weekend that I want to write down every little thing, hold onto each part a little bit longer. I also think it's pretty funny that I ended up crashing on Zev's futon like so many times before, and it wasn't in the same city or even in an apartment that belonged to him. Such is life.
I had really hoped to go for a quick run down Sheridan Road, nestled by the lakefront in Wilmette and Winnetka. I even managed to wake up early enough. Alas, it was not meant to be. I had too much to do, too many people to see. Next up was Mom's. I took the red line to Howard and made the familiar switch to the purple line, getting off at Davis (my nostalgia for the L is somewhat dampened by the superior efficiency of the New York subway system, but the L's a lot more scenic). I caught the 250 and took it up Dempster Street into Skokie. Mom was watching C-Span and Spongebob, her typical Saturday morning. I like that Mom and I don't really need to say anything; we just get it. We hung out for awhile, watching cartoons and sharing what was on our minds before heading back to Rogers Park for brunch with Holly.
Brunch was tasty. Kristina was sleepy. Back to Evanston to make the switch into Kristina's familiar Rav-4. Eventually we made a left onto Hollywood and I was taking Lake Shore Drive south to the city for the first time since I had my entire life packed into the back of a rented Chevy. The afternoon was spotless but traffic was heavy, so we played a bunch of songs real loud and sang to our hearts' content. Home. We finally made it down to McCormick Place for one of my favorite things in the world, the Marathon Expo. (That's right, I would be running the Marathon the next day; this entry's been so long, I bet you forgot.) Kristina and I got psyched for the race and stuffed on all the free food. I realized that I would be starting from one of the special lettered corrals up at the front. I'm not sure why--maybe I registered early this year or qualified because of my time in 2006. Either way, it was kind of cool.
Saturday night was spontaneous and fantastic. I got to see Beth and Mariya, who says she doesn't think she'll move to New York, so I might just have to follow her to Portland some time. Juan, Rick, and Aaron, three very good friends from middle school through high school, happened to walk past us while we were having tea, and suddenly we had a very large group for dinner. It's extraordinary how the more things change the more things stay the same. There I was, in from New York for the weekend to run a marathon, having dinner next to Aaron Reisberg and talking about books and movies like we were back in freshman year of high school. I don't know how to put the whole thing into words. I'm shaking my head and grinning as I write this; that's the best I can do.
Saturday night was Jon time, but the preceding events left very little of it. I picked up my gear from Skokie and got a ride into the city, but I only had about 2 hours or so of awake time before I needed to get some pre-race sleep. I made the most of my time with Jon and Sheila--who are getting married in less than a year--wow! We talked about teaching and grad school and whatever was on our minds. I miss nights like that. I hope that wherever I end up, those two are somewhere nearby.
Especially if I need to wake up for something. I didn't leave myself much time for sleep, and I probably would have been passed out right through the race (I bet you're thinking about that Seinfeld episode; I was) had it not been for Jon. He was kind enough to wake up at 6 am on a Sunday morning to remind me that I needed to wake up at 6 am on a Sunday morning. I ditched my plans to shower (it wasn't going to help how I would smell in a few hours anyway, so why bother?) and slipped into my marathon digs. I might not have the best time, but at least I could make it look good.
I grabbed a bagel and some water and caught a bus headed for Michigan Avenue. Marathon morning featured the most astonishing sunrise I had seen since Hawaii. Despite getting there in good time, the whole place is swamped with people, and you're rushing to check your gear and stretch and find your starting corral no matter what you do. I made the unfamiliar walk to corral D, and I enjoyed the added leg room it provided. It was sort of like flying first class. The national anthem emanated from the speakers. Standing for the national anthem and realizing that it's for a real life sporting event and you're not one of the spectators is one of the greatest feelings in the world. It makes you feel legit. The elite runners started, then corrals A through C, and we were on our way.
I'll have a detailed post about everything I experienced during the race, but it's a little gross so I'm not putting it into this one. Suffice it to say that the weather was beautiful, even though it crept up near 80 by the end of the race. I ran my best time of the three marathons at 4:06:06, but it wasn't nearly as good as I could have done. I was in a certain amount of pain for the last 3 hours of the race, and it sapped me of my will to break 4 hours. Looking back on it I wish I would have toughed it out and done better, but at the time I would have none of that. One of the highlights of the race was spotting my dad in the crowd and reaching over to give him a high five. That was pretty damn cool.
After the race I sipped a crisp, cool, and, best of all, free pint of Goose Island 312 beer. I drank it while I iced down my knees and struck up a conversation with a Chicago-area teacher. I had forgotten how much it hurts your body and your soul to run a marathon, and how extraordinarily exultant you feel when it's all done. I was lucky that my body didn't hurt too badly after the race. My only trouble walking came from my "roast beef" toes, which both had some nasty blisters.
I could write more about the rest of the weekend, but the action receded after the race. I saw my grandparents, took a whirlpool bath, slept about as soundly as any human being could ever sleep, and saw my former coworkers at Northwestern. Chicago, in many ways, was just as I had left it. I came back and my life picked up where it left off. Much more happened in between the conversations, the dinners, and the drives that filled the weekend, but I think it will take a little time for me to figure out what it all means. All I know is that being back in my city helped me to feel love. Real love. Deep love. And it helped me feel home. I've only been on this earth for 23 years and change, but to me that's the greatest feeling anyone can have. Thank you.
P.S.: Click here if you want to see some photos from the race. You have to select "Chicago Marathon 2008" from the drop-down menu, and then enter "McHugh" and "9167" for the bib number. They got some pretty good shots of me, and I don't look as beaten-down and devastated as in years past. Good stuff.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Sprung from cages out on highway 9, chrome wheeled, fuel-injected, and steppin' out over the line
In about 24 hours, my plane will touch down in O'Hare. I can't believe it's finally here. I'm bolting school as soon as my last class ends tomorrow and heading for Laguardia. Come on, baby don't you wanna go? Back to that same old place, sweet home Chicago.... I've had the tune in my head all day. I miss my city so much. I miss everyone there. I can't wait!
Everything looks good for the marathon this year. The temperature keeps on creeping up every time I check Tom Skilling's seven day forecast, but the high for Sunday is 74 right now and cooler by the lake. Low to mid 60s is my favorite temperature in which to run, so I'm excited. It sure beats 96 and humid or 38 and sleeting. Last year I was nursing a bum hamstring at this time. This year I'm pain free outside of the typical aches that result from training all summer. My biggest hang-up from my first marathon was that my legs kept cramping up. I'm hoping that the warmer weather will help with that situation because it loosens up the muscles. The silver lining to last year's heat was that it helped my hamstring situation. I'm carboloading as we speak--all rice and pasta all the time. I'll be glad to make an exception for some Lou Malnati's pizza tomorrow night.
I will write all about the marathon experience when I get the chance, probably when I return to New York. If anyone out there is interested in getting live updates of my progress during the race, click on this link. The race starts at 8 am Central Time on Sunday. I think this service sends you updates via e-mail or text message. I can't wait for the race! I can't wait to be back home in Chicago! I can't wait to join my crazy fellow marathoners on Sunday!
I guess we've gotta be a little crazy, cuz tramps like us, baby we were born to run!
Everything looks good for the marathon this year. The temperature keeps on creeping up every time I check Tom Skilling's seven day forecast, but the high for Sunday is 74 right now and cooler by the lake. Low to mid 60s is my favorite temperature in which to run, so I'm excited. It sure beats 96 and humid or 38 and sleeting. Last year I was nursing a bum hamstring at this time. This year I'm pain free outside of the typical aches that result from training all summer. My biggest hang-up from my first marathon was that my legs kept cramping up. I'm hoping that the warmer weather will help with that situation because it loosens up the muscles. The silver lining to last year's heat was that it helped my hamstring situation. I'm carboloading as we speak--all rice and pasta all the time. I'll be glad to make an exception for some Lou Malnati's pizza tomorrow night.
I will write all about the marathon experience when I get the chance, probably when I return to New York. If anyone out there is interested in getting live updates of my progress during the race, click on this link. The race starts at 8 am Central Time on Sunday. I think this service sends you updates via e-mail or text message. I can't wait for the race! I can't wait to be back home in Chicago! I can't wait to join my crazy fellow marathoners on Sunday!
I guess we've gotta be a little crazy, cuz tramps like us, baby we were born to run!
Sunday, October 5, 2008
The Post-Mortem
"Someday we'll go all the way. Someday we'll go all the way."
I'm dealing with the latest Cubs setback--their ninth consecutive playoff loss dating back to that memorable Marlins series in 2003--by putting things into perspective. Eddie Vedder's words are tinged with both hope and lament not unlike Irish songs of yore. Compared to what the Irish went through, a hundred years of suckitude ain't so bad.
The parallels between Cubs history and Irish history are unmistakable. The Irish fell under British domination and spent hundreds and hundreds of years trying to earn their freedom. The harder they tried, the more catastrophic was the disappointment. They fell under the spell of charismatic leaders who failed to deliver what they promised. They crumbled under the weight of their own history, unable to shed the memories of past failures with every new effort. Their culture cranked out stories, poems, and songs of pain, suffering, and sorrow tinged with that maddening sliver of hope. Were the songs and stories chronicles of past times or prophesies of what was to come? It's the concept expressed so beautifully by John Cusack (are we surprised with a last name like that?) in the movie High Fidelity: "What came first, the music or the misery? People worry about kids playing with guns, or watching violent videos, that some sort of culture of violence will take them over. Nobody worries about kids listening to thousands, literally thousands of songs about heartbreak, rejection, pain, misery and loss. Did I listen to pop music because I was miserable? Or was I miserable because I listened to pop music?"
Do we root for the Cubs because we're masochistic? Or are we masochistic because we root for the Cubs?
Ireland tried a lot of different things in their quest for freedom from the British. They tried getting angry (like the usually mild-mannered Derrick Lee, who slammed his helmet to the ground after a strikeout, his only at-bat that didn't result in a hit last night). They tried getting political (like so many Cubs who insisted all season that the past would not affect them, particularly Lou Piniella). They went to the Spanish and the French, enlisting help from overseas (Fukudome). They turned to their Catholic faith (the holy water sprinkling before the Dodgers series). They also turned to drinking (yes, I'm looking at all you Cubs fans who know there's some vodka mixed in that orange juice as you read this at 10 am). The result was a ton of great, if tragic, stories, but no progress toward their independence (Bartman, billy goats, Leon Durham, black cats, you get the idea).
Luckily for the Irish, while they couldn't forget about their oppression, their oppression forgot about them. The British had to concentrate on World War I and its aftermath, and keeping Ireland in check was no longer on their list of priorities. The Irish never earned that great victory that had eluded them for a millennium; they sort of won by default. That didn't prevent them from claiming that a drunken raid of the Dublin post office in 1916 was the final turning point. I don't know how this could translate to the Cubs. Maybe some disease outbreak would force baseball to quarantine the 29 other teams, while Wrigley's unique blend of filth, stale beer, and urine troughs would inoculate the Cubs from its effects, thereby making them champions by default. I'm sure we'd take it at this point. The more important thing is that Ireland finally lifted itself up from the bowels of its history and rode the "Celtic Tiger" to become a normal, modernized, fully-functioning place, kind of like the Boston Red Sox.
Even though this series was doomed from the start, I still thought they would come back last night and eke one out. All they needed was one win to lift the pressure. I could not believe they looked so tight. You knew things were bad when the leader of this team, Ryan Dempster, threw seven walks in the first game of the series. He set the tone, and we were nervous in every facet of the game from there on out. The usually happy-go-lucky Alfonso Soriano looked as if he was awaiting the electric chair in every dugout shot of him last night. No one stepped up to break the funk and breathe some life into the team. James Joyce wrote, "History is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake." That team was stuck in the nightmare last night with no alarm clock in sight.
My advice to Cubs fans would be to go out for a walk, read a book, or hug someone you love. Hell, watch the Bears--they're playing the Lions this week. Forget about last night, but don't forget the spirit of those 97 wins. It was a fun season. And who knows? Maybe we'll get lucky and have our own World War I break out. Here's to wishing.
See what I'm talking about:
I'm dealing with the latest Cubs setback--their ninth consecutive playoff loss dating back to that memorable Marlins series in 2003--by putting things into perspective. Eddie Vedder's words are tinged with both hope and lament not unlike Irish songs of yore. Compared to what the Irish went through, a hundred years of suckitude ain't so bad.
The parallels between Cubs history and Irish history are unmistakable. The Irish fell under British domination and spent hundreds and hundreds of years trying to earn their freedom. The harder they tried, the more catastrophic was the disappointment. They fell under the spell of charismatic leaders who failed to deliver what they promised. They crumbled under the weight of their own history, unable to shed the memories of past failures with every new effort. Their culture cranked out stories, poems, and songs of pain, suffering, and sorrow tinged with that maddening sliver of hope. Were the songs and stories chronicles of past times or prophesies of what was to come? It's the concept expressed so beautifully by John Cusack (are we surprised with a last name like that?) in the movie High Fidelity: "What came first, the music or the misery? People worry about kids playing with guns, or watching violent videos, that some sort of culture of violence will take them over. Nobody worries about kids listening to thousands, literally thousands of songs about heartbreak, rejection, pain, misery and loss. Did I listen to pop music because I was miserable? Or was I miserable because I listened to pop music?"
Do we root for the Cubs because we're masochistic? Or are we masochistic because we root for the Cubs?
Ireland tried a lot of different things in their quest for freedom from the British. They tried getting angry (like the usually mild-mannered Derrick Lee, who slammed his helmet to the ground after a strikeout, his only at-bat that didn't result in a hit last night). They tried getting political (like so many Cubs who insisted all season that the past would not affect them, particularly Lou Piniella). They went to the Spanish and the French, enlisting help from overseas (Fukudome). They turned to their Catholic faith (the holy water sprinkling before the Dodgers series). They also turned to drinking (yes, I'm looking at all you Cubs fans who know there's some vodka mixed in that orange juice as you read this at 10 am). The result was a ton of great, if tragic, stories, but no progress toward their independence (Bartman, billy goats, Leon Durham, black cats, you get the idea).
Luckily for the Irish, while they couldn't forget about their oppression, their oppression forgot about them. The British had to concentrate on World War I and its aftermath, and keeping Ireland in check was no longer on their list of priorities. The Irish never earned that great victory that had eluded them for a millennium; they sort of won by default. That didn't prevent them from claiming that a drunken raid of the Dublin post office in 1916 was the final turning point. I don't know how this could translate to the Cubs. Maybe some disease outbreak would force baseball to quarantine the 29 other teams, while Wrigley's unique blend of filth, stale beer, and urine troughs would inoculate the Cubs from its effects, thereby making them champions by default. I'm sure we'd take it at this point. The more important thing is that Ireland finally lifted itself up from the bowels of its history and rode the "Celtic Tiger" to become a normal, modernized, fully-functioning place, kind of like the Boston Red Sox.
Even though this series was doomed from the start, I still thought they would come back last night and eke one out. All they needed was one win to lift the pressure. I could not believe they looked so tight. You knew things were bad when the leader of this team, Ryan Dempster, threw seven walks in the first game of the series. He set the tone, and we were nervous in every facet of the game from there on out. The usually happy-go-lucky Alfonso Soriano looked as if he was awaiting the electric chair in every dugout shot of him last night. No one stepped up to break the funk and breathe some life into the team. James Joyce wrote, "History is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake." That team was stuck in the nightmare last night with no alarm clock in sight.
My advice to Cubs fans would be to go out for a walk, read a book, or hug someone you love. Hell, watch the Bears--they're playing the Lions this week. Forget about last night, but don't forget the spirit of those 97 wins. It was a fun season. And who knows? Maybe we'll get lucky and have our own World War I break out. Here's to wishing.
See what I'm talking about:
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Looking for home
It's 10:10 p.m. and I still have so much work to do.
The Cubs just dropped their 7th straight playoff game a few minutes ago. The apartment smells of tzimmes and matzo ball soup and latkes. I miss home.
I spent the day doing my best impersonation of my grandmother (0kay, I wasn't screaming "Marvin!!!!!" at the top of my lungs), and it was pretty tough. I made matzo ball soup, tzimmes, kugel, latkes, and brisket for a group of friends. It was my first time entertaining at the apartment, and it went quite well, despite the fact that I was slipping into a deeper and deeper depression with every Dodger that crossed home plate. The food was pretty damn good, I have to say. I was pleased with how it all turned out, especially my Pushing Daisies-inspired pear pie with gruyere cheese baked into the crust. It was an effort, though. It gave me a ton of appreciation for what my Nana does year in and year out.
I'm so easy to adapt, and I roll so easily with whatever happens that sometimes I forget to stop and remember what I've left behind. Sitting in my living room shoveling in mouthfuls of kugel with a bunch of people whose company I really enjoy still couldn't erase the fact that this was my first Rosh Hashanah not spent at my cousins' or my Nana's. I don't know if I always adequately express how much I miss all of it, all of them, but I do. Very much.
Time to grade some tests. I wish everyone a Shanah Tova. Let's kick some Dodger ass tomorrow, huh?
The Cubs just dropped their 7th straight playoff game a few minutes ago. The apartment smells of tzimmes and matzo ball soup and latkes. I miss home.
I spent the day doing my best impersonation of my grandmother (0kay, I wasn't screaming "Marvin!!!!!" at the top of my lungs), and it was pretty tough. I made matzo ball soup, tzimmes, kugel, latkes, and brisket for a group of friends. It was my first time entertaining at the apartment, and it went quite well, despite the fact that I was slipping into a deeper and deeper depression with every Dodger that crossed home plate. The food was pretty damn good, I have to say. I was pleased with how it all turned out, especially my Pushing Daisies-inspired pear pie with gruyere cheese baked into the crust. It was an effort, though. It gave me a ton of appreciation for what my Nana does year in and year out.
I'm so easy to adapt, and I roll so easily with whatever happens that sometimes I forget to stop and remember what I've left behind. Sitting in my living room shoveling in mouthfuls of kugel with a bunch of people whose company I really enjoy still couldn't erase the fact that this was my first Rosh Hashanah not spent at my cousins' or my Nana's. I don't know if I always adequately express how much I miss all of it, all of them, but I do. Very much.
Time to grade some tests. I wish everyone a Shanah Tova. Let's kick some Dodger ass tomorrow, huh?
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