How much do I love my family?

I love my family. I knew that before, but I realized it full-force after returning from Alabama.

I'm not just talking about my sister, mother, and father. There is my grandmother, 5.5 uncles (only one who lives all that far away; and the half includes a new-ish, not-yet-married-into-the-family one), 5 aunts (again, only one who lives all that far away), and 10.5 (again, one new-ish, not-yet-married-into-the-family one--who I can't wait to meet!) cousins. (And I suppose it would only be fair to also include a mother-in-law, sister-in-law, nephew; oh yeah, and my father-in-law and his wife.)

I know not everyone is lucky enough to be so close to their extended family. During the lesser holidays, like Easter, when my parents aren't in Chicago, I spend it with my relatives and feel enveloped by warmth and love. It is truly spectacular. If I seriously consider it, I'd say family parties are among the most fun I can have in a large (and I mean large) group of people. There's just such a level of comfort among people who have known and loved me for 31.5 years.

And yet, one of the things I treasure the most is how that hasn't remained static for my entire life. I'm able to be friends with my aunts and uncles now, and my cousins, after not knowing them much since I didn't grow up in Chicago like most of them did, well, they've turned into really awesome adults.

Next weekend, we are going out for a Family Dinner. Deciding on the right restaurant took about thirty e-mails, which is what happens when you have twenty opinionated Polish-Czechs trying to come to a consensus. In the past year, we've started gathering, every three, four months or so, outside of the regular family parties for holidays and birthdays, to try new restaurants and drink a lot of beer (in fact, the restaurant was chosen primarily for its BYOB-ness, since, holy crap, the Bartas can put away the zimny piwo). It's fantastic. I love so much that we're getting together . . . because we want to. You know you have something special when you want to spend time with your family outside of the requisite holidays.

I guess the next opportunity for a party will be my graduation. I have made a lot of great friends throughout the whole grad school process, and I want to commemorate it somehow with them. However, all I can think about is: what a great family party that will be!

"There are so many different ways to be connected to people"

Tonight makes twice in one week that I've put on the B-52's "Good Stuff" album. I wonder if it's the weather? I'm sick of the snow and slush, and that album brings up memories of the summer of 1992, when we spent nearly every day at the "beach," and every evening cruising Main, blaring it.

Or maybe it's because I'm watching My So-Called Life again, and I am transfixed by it. My past few free evenings have created a bubble of 1994. I had wondered how well it had aged, and it still hit me the way it did the first time, hard across the chest so it was hard to breathe for a while. I'm a different person now, though, so, while I still love Jordan Catalano, I finally realized why all my friends were pro-Brian Krakow.

I don't know where the show was headed before cancellation. The final episode has so many unfinished stories.

You remember--it was the one with the letter:

Dear Angela, I know in the past I've caused you pain, and I'm sorry. And I'll always be sorry till the day I die. And I hate this pen I'm holding, because I should be holding you. I hate this paper under my hand because it isn't you. I even hate this letter because it's not the whole truth. Because the whole truth is so much more than a letter can even say. If you wanna hate me, go ahead. If you wanna burn this letter, do it. You could burn the whole world down. You could tell me to go to hell. I'd go. If you wanted me to. And I'd send you a letter from there. Sincerely, Jordan Catalano

But it also ended exactly right, with Angela riding off with Jordan, watching Brian out of the window, knowing he actually wrote it.

It was a perfect, perfect encapsulation of what is terrible, tragic, horrific, wonderful, amazing, and inspiring about being a teenager.

Thinking back

The day after I graduated from college, my belongings were packed in the back of a truck, and my parents and I drove to Chicago.

Growing up, every time we'd visit, we'd arrive the same way, from the south, up the Dan Ryan to LSD, and then the home stretch to my grandparents' home just north of the city, in Evanston. Coming up Sheridan Road in Rogers Park, I'd get a thrill of excitement, because to me, Rogers Park was the city. It was the embodiment of everything I believed Chicago to be.

So I was finally there! The city was mine! (Well, sort of. The fact that I lived in what could technically be called a suburb didn't phase me.) Evanston wasn't a typical suburb, anyway. It was a cross between being its own city and a small town.

That summer, I ran the baked streets, getting to know the cafes, vintage bookstores, and thrifts. I worked at a cafe near Northwestern, and I flirted with the intellectual professors who'd spend their Sunday mornings over my coffee and a newspaper. Sometimes nights I'd walk through the neighborhood on the lake, the one with unbelievably fancy mansions and daydream about what it would be like to live in one.

I was lonely still, missing my Kansas boyfriend and worried about job prospects, but it was also a glorious time, filled with newness. The world unrolled itself at my feet, and I could have done anything.

Memories like that rush back at the touch of hot summer wind, or the smell of coffee beans freshly ground. Certain music can resurrect the exact feelings I had at any given moment during that period. The experience is so deeply imprinted upon my psyche.

It goes without saying that there is an entire chamber of my heart devoted to Evanston. I still work here, 9.5 years after that beautiful summer. So I was excited to also do my internship here.
And it's different.

I'm older.

I'm seeing a different side of the city, the one where 25% of the citizens live at or below the poverty line. Where the streets I formerly skipped down, if I turn left instead of right, I discover low-income areas I never knew existed.

Knowing about the urban problems that Evanston's pretty, tree-lined streets cover up sour my memories of the perfect college "town" I used to know. It's hard to enjoy its beauty when I know about the uneasy alliance between the priviledged and unpriviledged.

But sometimes, sometimes sometimes, I'm able to walk into the organic cafe that's near my internship, sit down with some tea, and be transported back, unfettered, in the glorious spell that this place once cast upon me.

Super Tuesday

I voted today. Did you?

My dearest one says it so eloquently:

"Yes, I am political. My heart swells with pride when I go to vote. So maybe it's not surprising that this brought tears to my eyes. I rarely ever cry when I'm hurt or sad but I do it all the time when I am filled with hope, with inspiration and grace. There's something going on right now in this country, there is a wind of change, and for one of the first times in my political life I am full of hope and joy. That's the kind of feeling you want to pass along."

When I was very little, one year I asked my mother who she voted for. She said, "It's a private matter, who you vote for. I don't have to tell anyone." And she didn't.

I think you should be so strong in your conviction that the person you vote for is The One that you shout it from the tops of buildings, but I've always remembered what she said, and that turned voting into a special thing for me. It makes me appreciate a democracy where I'm not beholden to anyone, and my vote is my own action.

Now I think my mother was close-mouthed about it because we lived in a conservative, wholly Republican area. Maybe she was worried I'd blab to my classmates that she voted for a Democrat? A few years ago, we were talking about the ways that Kansas has changed my parents, made them more conservative in some ways. I think my dad was talking about his job and social services, but my mom pounded the table and said, "I am never going to vote Republican!" I was so proud!

The first time I voted, I was 19 (I think). I just missed Clinton's first term, but I got to vote for his second term. And I'm sure I voted for him. My family (at least on my mom's side--not sure about my dad's) has a long Democratic history that I'm proud of. I'm sorry I don't remember it--did I vote in the town where I went to college, or in my hometown? I don't know.

And since then, I've voted in every election, though the one I will remember most was in Alabama.

Tim and I may have gone about things in the wrong way, transferring our residency to Alabama instead of keeping it in Chicago for those two years. Because of that, we had to pay out-of-state tuition for my first semester at school. But that debt aside, I wouldn't change what we did for anything. Within a month of living there, we had the car tags and license changed, and with that, registered to vote. We were there for the second Bush election, but more importantly, the local election as well. There is no better way to feel like a part of the community than to vote for your representatives, I think.

One evening at the theatre, I mingled with the young professionals of Montgomery at a martini night. A young African-American woman came up to me and introduced herself. "I'm running for circuit judge," she said, and at that moment, I couldn't have cared less what she stood for. I was just thrilled to see a woman who seemed to be my age, striving for judge-hood. I wrote down her name, and included it on my cheat sheet that I took to the polls voting day.

Voting day, I left work early, but it seemed like everyone else did, too. I left my apartment and walked through the park to the Modern Art Museum that sat in the middle of it. This museum was the most beautiful building in Montgomery, if you asked me. The outside was ringed with Greek columns, and the foyer was a two-story high atrium. It was gorgeous and stately.

I got in line behind, I swear, about three hundred people. The line wended its way throughout the museum, and people were able to pass the long wait by looking at the art. I remember the last stretch before the auditorium was the high school hallway, where the more talented students from area high schools were able to display their work. Finally, I reached the auditorium, and walked up to the stage. It was a punch ballot, and I was worried that I'd accidently punch the wrong name, or I wouldn't punch it correctly, and it would be a hanging chad fiasco. I so desperately wanted my minority Dem vote to count.

As it turned out, Montgomery, both the city and county, surprisingly went Democratic (despite the ubiquitous "W - The President" bumper stickers on all the cars), but I was still so proud to have been a part of it all.

Snowy

We've had a winter storm this week. It's beautiful, the way the snow has blanketed everything in about 10 inches and brings purity to all the ugly winterness, but it's fairly miserable if you want to do anything other than cozying up at home.

It's been snowing a lot this year, which reminds me of being a kid. Is it just wistful memories of snow-filled Christmasses, or is global warming really putting a crimp in winter precipitation?

The sad reality of snow in Chicago is that it's pure white for about 30 minutes, and then it's grey slush as traffic plows through it. And the salt! While I appreciate its qualities for easing my morning commute, it's scary to see the big trucks out constantly, spraying chunks every time it snows. Even after the snow melts and the streets dry, a passing car will kick up dust that lands, salty, on my tongue. Or worse still, the air I breath is saturated with it. My chapped lips taste salty after I walk the few blocks to the train.

When I was a kid, after a big snowfall, I'd go outside with a big mixing bowl and fill it full. I'd pour orange juice or Coke over it, and enjoy my slush. I even remember once at Hannah's house, sweetening milk with sugar and frozen strawberries for our "ice cream." It was such a treat. I loved it so much. I think if I could, I would make my snow slushes still. Adulthood has not cooled my love of slushies.

It verges on tragic, then, what is happening to the environment. Tim reminded me that during wars, warriors would salt the earth to prevent any life taking root after.