Lessons I’ve learned through the school of hard knocks. This is my catch-all, miscellaneous category if you will, where I address topics that don’t quite fit into the other categories.
Sometimes I have crazy ideas. Okay, maybe a little more often than sometimes. If you’re a regular reader, you know what I mean. Well, my latest idea–actually, I’ve thought about this one for years–involves renting an empty storefront. I would paint a simple sign in the window: NIHIL. I would set up a desk with a computer where I could write. I would also surround myself with my books in bookcases. There would be inviting desks, tables, and sofas for the curious to come in and be creative. Or, if they’re not creative, reading would also be permissible. If no one came in, I would sit there in public view writing my blog or working on my website. Anyone would be welcome to come as long as no one talks and interrupts the creative process of anyone present.
For the uninitiated who entered and asked, “What does ‘Nihil’ mean?” I would say, “Nothing.” Or perhaps, I would say nothing. And they would catch on to the fact that they were not supposed to talk. I would point to the available furniture. If they left, so much the better. This way I could keep writing. If, however, they stayed quietly, I would feel as if I had accomplished something.
This is a crazy idea for me because I do that at home right now. Whenever I’m at home I sit at my computer writing something or other without any interruptions. Or I read. Some people can’t do anything productive at home, but not me. I’ve always been at my most productive while at home! Besides, I can’t afford to rent an empty storefront.
Domestic violence is a genuine problem in many households. Law enforcement and public servants are required to report all incidents of domestic violence regardless of the victim’s wishes or fears. For example, if a man physically abuses a woman, she should report the violence to the police to prevent future abuse. If the neighbors suspect that a woman is being beaten because of loud pounding sounds and her cries for help, they should call the police. If the police arrive and suspect that there was any physical violence involved, by either party, they must act to stop the violence. If the police observe any physical injury, they must investigate and determine the cause and perpetrator, and arrest the offender for domestic violence. If the victim refuses to press charges, the police must still arrest the offender if they suspect that the victim is in fear for her safety once the police leave. The police have the authority to make an arrest based on the physical evidence they observe for the safety of the victim. In the past, such incidents of domestic violence have resulted in death when the police did not act appropriately. In fact, police very thoroughly investigate most domestic violence calls to prevent further violence. And all public servants–police officers, paramedics, teachers, social workers, etc.–are required to report domestic violence if observed.
When Tiger Woods had his “traffic accident” last Thanksgiving Day, I’m sure that police officers and paramedics across the country immediately suspected domestic violence based on their own firsthand experiences dealing with domestic violence on the job. This was a most unusual traffic accident. The timing was also suspect. On Thanksgiving Day everyone is supposed to spend time together as a family. But Tiger was driving at 2:30 AM. No one ever mentioned whether his home was his destination or his point of departure. Regardless of direction of travel, if you’re coming home or leaving home at 2:30 AM on Thanksgiving Day, you’re asking for trouble. And why was Tiger laying on the ground unconscious and barefoot. Who drives barefoot at 2:30 AM? How fortuitous that his wife Elin was there where his Cadillac crashed and at the precise moment that he needed help. Luckily, she had the foresight to bring a golf club with her to rescue Tiger from his metallic coffin. She broke a window to get him out. But why were there two broken windows?
Also suspicious was Tiger’s cooperation with the police investigation. Why didn’t he just meet the police investigators immediately upon being released from the hospital? Why did he avoid the police and have his attorney present Tiger’s driver’s license and vehicle documents to the police? I’m sure the police would have noticed whether or not Tiger’s injuries were consistent with a minor crash in which the air bag did not deploy. Without physical evidence, domestic violence cannot be proven. Was he protecting Elin? Was he ashamed to admit that he was a domestic battery victim? Was he protecting himself from future violence by not accusing her? Well male domestic battery victims´allegations are never taken as seriously as the allegations by a female victim.
Imagine if Elin was lying unconscious and barefoot under the same circumstances with Tiger standing over her holding a golf club. The paramedics show up and immediately suspect domestic violence. Elin appears to be the victim, so the police are called. Tiger is immediately arrested for domestic battery. All the evidence–whether circumstantial or not–points to domestic violence. The authorities would rather err on the side of safety rather than risk seeing the victim suffer more violence.
Let’s be realistic. A man can be arrested merely for an allegation of domestic battery. No physical evidence is necessary. It doesn’t matter if the offender is a high-profile celebrity or not. Charlie Sheen was arrested for domestic battery based on allegations. (Of course, Sheen also has a history of domestic violence.) In the past, when allegations of domestic violence weren’t taken seriously, physical escalated to physical abuse involving hospitalization, or even death. So, nowadays, law enforcement errs on the side of safety. The defendant will have his day in court where the burden of proof is on the prosecution to prove that a crime has been committed. But if the victim is a man, no woman’s group will ensure that he gets equal treatment under domestic violence laws. Domestic violence is not about equality.
Junk is something you wish you had soon after you throw it away. Garbage deserves to be thrown away.
In Chicago, people put their garbage out to be taken away. Sometimes, they put out old furniture to save parking spaces. Sometimes people have things they no longer want in their house because this junk is just taking up space. They want to get rid of it, but it’s good junk. However, they lack the desire or time to give to a charitable organization or sell it on the Internet. So, an alternate solution is putting things out with the garbage in a highly visible place. This way, passersby will see it and salvage it. They’ll bring it into their own home for an undetermined period of time–usually until it becomes their junk, which in turn they must also be put out with their garbage. This is one of the many ways that Chicago recycles. It’s the Chicago Way!
In the past, I have put out old furniture with my garbage because I was tired of it and so I bought new furniture. Once you decide you need new furniture, the old furniture becomes junk. However, there are many other people who would love to have your junk because for them it would be a step up and they will be insulted if you call their new living room furniture junk. Nothing is more difficult than restraining yourself from calling someone’s furniture junk. Especially if you’re visiting a neighbor who offers you a seat on your old sofa. How can you say something nice about something you threw away?
Junk Bought, Antiques Sold
Of course, I have also been the beneficiary of Chicago recycling. It takes a little bit of luck and timing to profit from something that I refuse to call garbage picking. This reminds me of a sign Mark Twain once saw at a store: Junk bought, antiques sold. So, these found objects are either junk or treasures, depending on your perspective. Well, I have found some treasures that I can’t imagine why they were thrown away. Granted, they were exposed for all garbage pickers to see. And see them, I did! Once, I found some treasures of my own. I wasn’t really looking for them, but I couldn’t miss them either. In Beverly, we must put out our garbage cans out in front of our house once a week for garbage pickup. This is my first Chicago home that requires me to put my garbage cans. At all the other homes where I have lived, our garbage cans stayed in the alley where all garbage cans belong. I still haven’t gotten used to putting my garbage out in front!
Anyway, one night I’m driving home from work. I see everyone’s garbage cans out in front, and I realize that I had forgotten to put my garbage cans out. At times like these, I realize that it’s good to keep up with the Joneses. So, while I’m making a mental note to myself, I see a garbage can that is oddly shaped. Or so it seems. Then, I notice that there is something leaning against a garbage can. I slowed down and I realized that they were oil paintings. But it is dark, so I’m not sure if I believe my eyes. I stop and inspect them more closely. They are, in fact, oil paintings! I found three oil paintings of flowers. Nothing valuable like a Picasso or a finger painting by one of my sons, but they are still incredibly good paintings. I’ve always thought about buying paintings to decorate my house and suddenly I have some. For free! The wooden frames were made in México.
I keep one by my computer to inspire me whenever I write. Doesn’t that painting look beautiful? I’m thankful to whomever threw those paintings away because they were tired of them. Let’s see how long they remain my treasures!
I have been dreaming for as long as I can remember. Unfortunately, I don’t always remember my dreams. Immediately upon waking up, I feel a little confused as to which is the real world, and which is the dream world. In moments like these, the dream world seems more real than the real world that I had pleasurably avoided while sleeping. As a boy, I used to dream about eating candy or Twinkies. In my dreams, I had every toy I ever wanted. My favorite toy in the first grade was G.I. Joe, but I didn’t have one. Some of my friends had G.I. Joes, so I would play with them at their house. So, at night, I would end up dreaming that I was playing with my very own G.I. Joe. I remember one dream where I realized that I was about to wake up, but I wanted to take G.I. Joe with me to my waking world so I could play him after school, or whenever I felt like. In my dream, I consciously placed G.I. Joe under my bed before I woke up. I kept reminding myself, while I was dreaming, that when I woke up, I would finally have my own G.I. Joe. I really believed I could do it. But, alas, I woke up and I soon as I remembered what I had done in my dream, I looked under my bed. But G.I. Joe was gone. AWOL! I tried it a few more times–unsuccessfully!
Of course, I’ve also had some scary dreams. They seem to have different themes depending on my age. From Kindergarten through about the fourth grade, I used to have dreams about running, but not really getting anywhere. Usually, I was being chased by someone from the neighborhood who wanted to beat me up, the Werewolf, Dracula, or some other creature from a horror movie. I always woke up before I was ever caught. I would also dream that I was walking to school, and I would be about halfway there, when suddenly, I would realize that I was completely naked. How could this happen in the first place? I’m sure I would notice when I left the house that I had forgotten to put on my clothes. Especially if it was snowing as it did in some of these dreams.
My favorite dreams from that era when I was about ten or eleven involved some of my female classmates. I dreamed the most about a mexicana named Yolanda Gonzalez. I never even thought about Yolanda once while I was awake. I didn’t sit by her, and I never went out of my way to talk to her. Then, one night, she walked into my dreams. She was interested in me romantically. Why didn’t I ever see her in that light before? In my dream, I called her, “Querida” just like Gomez called Morticia in The Addams Family. When I woke up, I realized that Yolanda did resemble Morticia somewhat. They both had long black hair and large, beautiful eyes. The next time I saw Yolanda, I was absolutely sure that she loved me! She had told me so in my dreams. I sought her out. We would talk when we “accidentally” bump into each other in the playground during lunch. Well, maybe it wasn’t true love, but she did take at least a liking to me because I was paying so much attention to her. After Yolanda was no longer in my life and dreams, I dreamed about other girls whom I never even had considered in my conscious world. I even dated one of the girls of my dreams.
As I grow older and wiser, I now dream about sleeping in late and realizing that I should be at UIC teaching my Spanish class! Sometimes I dream that I teach two classes and then go home. Suddenly, I realize that I left UIC before I taught my third and last class. But by the time I realize this, it’s too late to go back to teach it. Who knows what I’ll dream of when I reach my next stage!
Reading has been my lifelong passion. I have always loved reading! Even when I went camping with my friend Jim, I took books along. He took this picture of me reading while I was so engrossed in reading.
I loved the first grade when we started reading. At that level, it didn’t matter that I didn’t know English. Our homework involved reading to our parents at home. My mother thought that was too much trouble for her after a long day’s work, so I would read to my abuelita. Unfortunately, not only did she not speak English, but she was also blind. But she loved it when I read to her. And I was grateful to have someone to listen to me read.
When I was a little older, I used to go to the library to read. I mostly read joke and riddle books, but that still counts as reading in my book. In the seventh grade, Divine Heart Seminary let me check out books from their library via the USPS. I only remember two of the books that I read. One book was about Father Damien who was a missionary on a leper island in Hawaii. And the other one was Fighting Father Duffy who was a U.S. Army chaplain during World War II. Now why would the seminary only send me books about priests? I’ve always wondered about that. Not!
I like reading at the library because I had more privacy. If mother saw me reading comic books or even books, she would criticize me for being lazy. When I finally bought my first car, I would drive to Marquette Park just to read in my car. When I would come home, my mother would ask me what I did. When I told her I went to the park to read, her blood would boil. Then she would tell me about other constructive things I could have been doing around the house.
In general, the uneducated masses don’t understand why anyone would want to read a book. When I worked in the peanut butter factory, I always carried a paperback in my back pocket. Whenever the production line stopped or I was on break or lunch, I would pull out my book and start reading, even if I had to stand. No matter who my boss was, he would come by and tell me to pick up a broom and start cleaning up my area. No one at the factory really understood why I liked reading so much.
Ironically, the books I chose to read were the books that I refused to read in high school. In high school, I spent most of my time reading chess books. For two years my life revolved around chess. But once the assigned books weren’t required reading, they piqued my curiosity. Why were they required reading in the first place? So, one by one, I read all the books I once rebelled against. Suddenly, I felt a certain sense of fulfillment.
In the Marines, I bought the Great Books set and I would read them every free moment. My fellow Marines thought I was a bit crazy, but that’s why no one started any trouble with me. That and I told everyone I knew kung fu. No one wanted to risk starting trouble with me.
Chicago USA 