“Why are you nice to me?”

Was what the homeless guy that I always use to pass on my way to Union at the end of the day once asked me.

My rule about giving to homeless people is – no money – but I will give small amounts of food – crackers, cookies, candy, whatever I have on that day in my bag.

This particular homeless dude was an alcohol steeped little man, about 5 ft. 2 at the most. He probably endeared himself to me because of the alcoholism that has haunted my family for generations, so I would give him something to eat whenever I saw him.

Once he was yelling incoherently to anybody and nobody. That day I had bought him two candy bars and when I stopped in front of him and dropped them next to his side – he started cursing at me that he didn’t want anything! I told him “I don’t care if you eat those or trade them up for something else….but I am not taking them back!” and I continued on my walk.

So the next time I saw him, he was a bit sober, and that is when he said “Why are you nice to me?”

I stopped, turned to him and said “Because you are one of God’s creatures.”

In hindsight I probably meant to say “creations”……..

Let me just say he took the whole “creatures” thing a little badly.

I tried for about 10 seconds to explain to him what I meant and then thought that I might be better off fleeing from his crescendoing rampage about me calling him a creature.

Feature

Your regular program is interrupted.....

due to a certain teenage girl being sick; and a certain mom staying home to deal with her.

Send us cheer.

oh dear

"Hey, there is a nickel!"

I say to my two commuting buddies as we reach the top of the escalator in the midst of the morning crowd coming out of Union Station. I start to instinctively reach down for it and suddenly my love of life took over…..

Over the course of these years working downtown, I have found a fair amount of money on the sidewalks, streets, and inside of buildings.

Too many to count of pennies, dimes, nickels and quarters;

$10 on the ground next to a high end car in the East Bank parking area;

At one of my work buildings - 20 North Clark – it use to have a bank in the lobby - I found a $50 bill on its floor and I turned it into the teller.

She said "Why did you do that?"

I replied "Because maybe the person who lost it will come back for it."

I stood there for a couple of seconds thinking and then said "If they don't come back - do I get it?"

"No, it goes into a special fund" she skillfully replied.

All during lunch that day I kept thinking about what I could have bought with that money and how the teller was going to spend it when it ended up in the special "Teller's Wallet Fund!"

I think that everyone has found money at some point, but how many have found a large bill(s) - $50 or $100?

And I do mean “found” as in somebody “lost” it – not “found” as in “I found it in her purse.”

or worse

N. C. D.

As the powers that be would have it, my “No Complaining Day” has been, let’s just say, extremely difficult so far.

So as not to complain about anything – I will just be stating the following facts as to how my day has been going:

On the way to the train station, on its own accord, the passenger side window of my car fell down into the door - leaving me toasty COLD on this lovely Chicago winter morning.

My commuter train, after I would say at least 60+ years of operation in this Chicago climate, was late getting into the city because of “switching” problems…..possibly the surprising-to-the-train-company each year, "frozen" switches, which they haven’t been able to improve on.

Once getting into this beautiful city, while walking to work, I was splashed with road grunge by a passing cab.

Upon entering my office I was met by an attorney who needed me to transcribe, off of the phone, a long (1 ½ pages single spaced), rambling, mumbling, low-toned voicemail from a man, who to test my no complaining day to its limits, spoke these words “I know this is a very, very long message….” at which point I thought he was wrapping it up, but he then went on for another several minutes of mindless, I like to hear myself talk, yackity, yacking.

Again, I am just stating the facts.

And this is the final fact as of right now....

this has been a very trying, on my last nerve, kind of day of “No Complaining.”

restraining

Borrowing a quote from Drew Carey….

“Oh, you hate your job? Why didn’t you say so? There’s a support group for that – it’s called EVERYBODY, and they meet at the bar.”

A majority of the snippets that I overhear, especially on my walk back to Union at the end of the day, are complaints, bitchings, groanings, cursings that all have to do with people’s jobs. I usually don’t blog about these because as a rule I find them defeating.

Wasn’t there a time when people were happy to be able to support themselves and their families? Jobs were scarce and if you had one at all - you were THANKFUL!!

Now Susan I know for a fact that you have had some big issues at your place of employment and have griped about it.

Yup, you are correct! I could bitch and complain EVERYDAY about something or other that hadn’t gone the way that I thought it should of……but I don’t.

But you could!

But I don’t.

Well maybe all these people you are overhearing are only doing the “once or twice a year, something really devastating happened to them at work” type of complaining.

Maybe. But I vote Not.

As a society we complain way too much – some would say it is “human nature” to complain. Some would say it is a seasonal thing (Cowboy) – especially in the throws of a Chicago winter– that we get grumpy and tend to complain more.

I say let's try and mix it up for a day – just for one day – DO NOT complain about anything at all.

Zilch. Nothing. Nada. Shutty. Zip it!

Wouldn’t that be nice?

My “no complaining” day starts tomorrow, being today is shot because I am complaining about complaining.

Waning

Nope...when he got married he was 28.

Is today’s overheard sidewalk snippet from my morning walk to work, which, as usual, got me recalling....

In the late 1970’s I was engaged to a rock –n- roll drummer – he and I had dated all thru high school, we graduated, I got a ring, we set a date, secured the church, reception hall and while waiting for the big day....I got a phone call from a mutual friend, he wanted me to know that my fiancé had a girlfriend.

WHAT?

A fiancé and a GIRLFRIEND?

Now that wasn’t going to work.

Seems he had met Teri while playing a gig. She was cute, petite, bubbly, had a huge set of knockers, and she put out - ALOT.....the deal was sealed.

I was devastated.

I moved out of my parent’s home, got my first apartment with a good friend and I focused on my job.

A scant two weeks after moving out, I started dating a guy that turned out to be my future husband and within 6 months, from start-to-finish, we were married.

During the time prior to my wedding, a wise aunt of mine told me – “Sues DO NOT get married until you are in your mid-to-late twenties. You change a lot during that time period and who you are now in your early twenties – will not necessarily be who you are in your mid-to-late twenties. Your ideals change. Your wants and needs change. In essence you mature.”

She tried to pass on her lived out wisdom to me.

I didn’t listen and boy-oh-boy, was she right.

I did change. A lot.

He changed too – he got even more selfish.

The cutesy “let me play wife and take care of most everything – all the while working full time” role wore thin real fast. By my mid-to-late-twenties I was desperately in need of something different – I was miserable in my marriage – so we did what those around us were doing....we had a couple of kids.

Now that was thinking!

I not only had myself, my husband, our house and a job to take care of – I now had two small children that looked to me for their every breath and care.

Let’s suffice it to say I finally got some courage after 20 years of abuse (slow learner) and filed.

So my Aunt’s sage words were right on, but I was too starry eyed in love to listen. I wonder if the guy they were talking about had a wise aunt? If so, at least he heeded her advice.

paid the price

“I was raised in poverty in Nigeria….”

I have seen her get on the train countless times. Over laden with a backpack and assorted bags, glasses falling down her nose, a stocking cap on most winter days, all combined making her look much older than her years. She usually comes up top, near where I sit and regardless of how crowded it is, she makes her way thru to the last possible seat – even if it means the little “love seat” at the very end, where anybody who has commuted for any length of time, knows is just for one person and their bags.

For some time I have judged her harshly – due to her sense of entitlement of the last possible seat - even if that entailed making 20 people move and undo their settled commuting areas. Not a glaring at, making comments to some around me, type of judging, but that quiet, deep formed from childhood, glancing judgment.

Did I mention she is black?

Raised in the 60’s it was ingrained in me that people were to be judged by the color of their skin and to some degree that is still deep inside of me.

So this morning when my regular commuting buddy didn’t show up – I settled into the loveseat up top and pulled out my assorted things – MP3, coffee, local paper and I got ready for a nice quiet ride into the city. At the train’s second stop the upstairs became quite full and I was relieved that there would be no more people jostling their way thru, so I could just get down to the business of commuting.

I looked up and saw her excusing herself thru everyone’s space, knowing that the only possible seat available for her was with me - on the loveseat.

She spoke softly to me in accented English, excusing herself and stating that her hands were so cold from distributing pamphlets at the train station for a candidate that she is supporting for President. She went on to say that she almost didn’t make the train – but was glad she did and that she found a seat.

My prejudices started to melt away. She is an American. Her brother and she were born here to Nigerian parents, whose marriage, like many, crumbled when she was very young. Her Nigerian grandmother came to the states and took her, her brother and their Mom back to Nigeria and helped raise them. She shared with me how her grandmother instilled in them that faith, family and education were the most important things in life.

They were raised in poverty, without many of the essentials that we could ever imagine living without. She was thankful though that they had shelter, food, each other and she and her brother were able to attend, because of many sacrifices, a Christian school. After they completed high school the family moved back to the United States, settled in Aurora, and they graduated from colleges, all the while their Mom continued to work and they made due.

She told me rich, faith-filled stories on our commute down this morning. How God has been so good to her and her family and she encouraged me to continue to pray for my immediate and extended family and that we too will be so richly blessed.

The train was pulling into Union when she gently asked me if it would be okay if she gave me her email address – so that we could continue our conversations.

As of this morning I have a new friend and she is black.

And I am already richly blessed by her tender spirit and beautiful smiling face.

Race