A Charming, Classy Couple

“Ever notice that in Illinois it’s nice to be in a rural area because you don’t have to cringe every time you see a confederate flag?” Marc asked over lunch.  As I remembered our experience every time we had been in rural Maryland, Pennsylvania, and Virginia, I knew he was right.

Veterans march during the short Memorial Day Parade in Mt. Carroll, IL.

Heading back to Chicago from outside of Galena we stopped in the rural town Sycamore, IL for lunch.  We had cooked extra burgers the night before and so in our handy fridge we had our lunch supplies.  We stopped in at a 7-11 to pick up soda (sorry Chicagoans, I still can’t call it “pop”) and a bag of Sun Chips.

So, this brings me to my coming clean session with you all: I’m addicted to Sun Chips.  I can control my desire if it’s original flavor. Even Sour Cream and Onion, to my surprise, doesn’t sway me too harshly.  But it’s the Harvest Cheddar flavor that makes me stuff my face while making yummy, chewy sounds like Homer Simpson.

 We were in front of the Carroll County Courthouse on Memorial Day, surrounded by flags (see the pics).  And it was in this spot where my addiction turned into manipulating those around me.

Memorial Day flags in front of the Carroll Count Courthouse. Sycamore, IL.

 

After Marc noticed that I had been essentially ignoring my otherwise tasty hamburger, he took the bag and put it on the other side of him – far out of reach.  I defiantly took a bit out of my burger.

 He pointed and said – “Look! See! Look at your fingers!” My right hand had turned a shade of unnatural yellow.

 I ate my burger in silence, listening to the hundred or so American flags flap in the wind.

 We finished our lunch and Marc noticed the parking meters behind us and said something about their age. Noticing their analog dials, I agreed that they had a cool factor to them.  It was at this moment I spotted my opportunity.

 You see, a few months ago, Chicago’s long-serving Mayor sold all of the parking meters to a private company – LAZ Parking, LLC.  And yes, you can pronounce that “lazy.” He leased out the meters for 75 years for over a billion dollars. Consequently, in order to raise their revenue projections, Lazy Parking raised the meter rates on the very first day of the contract’s execution.  So, to park downtown, you have to pay $3.25 an hour.  In quarters.  For Marc and I, it was the final straw of being nickel and dimed in this city. But now is not the time for me to jump onto a soapbox.

 Now is the time to tell you how I scored big.

 “How much are they per hour?” I asked, knowing that Marc would take the bait. He stood up and the moment his back was to me, I grabbed the Sun Chips and started opening the bag. I thought the noise would stir his suspicion.

 It didn’t.

Afraid he would figure out my scheme the moment he saw the joy in my eyes, I shoved my hand into the bag and grabbed what I could. 

Scraps.   I couldn’t even grab a full chip, but I wasn’t going to waste anymore time in case my true intentions were to be discovered.  I threw what I had into my mouth and dipped my hand into the bag for a second round. I scored big this time and quickly moved the loot up to my mouth.

I thought the sounds of the crunch would tip him off, but alas, he was too interested in the meters.

For once, I thanked Mayor Richard J. Daley and for that matter his father Richard M. Daley for being half the reason in making his son’s terms as mayor possible. Without them, my diversion wouldn’t have worked.

Perhaps I am proudest not about thinking of the diversion in the first place, but for the quick thinking which followed and continued the farce.

“Wow, you can’t even use quarters in these meters,” he said. “A penny gets you 12 minutes, a nickel an hour and a dime 2 hours.”

“Wow!” I said in a muffled tone. “Is the color of the violation flag the same color on both sides?” I knew that would buy me only a few seconds, but that equates to a whole other handful.

He checked. I nearly bit my pinky finger. 

“What about…” now I have bits of Sun Chips spraying dust with each passing word “…. Spanish? Are the instructions in Spanish?” The air around me turned a beautiful hue of orange. It was desperate, I know. But so was I and it worked, for a short time.

He took one more look at me and I heard him ask: “Spanish?” He looked at the meter for less than a second and asked “Why the hell would it be in Spanish?” He looked back at me and saw the bag of chips in my hand and the lightbulb went off.

We both started cracking up and it took me a few minutes to be able to finish chewing my glorious Sun Chips between the bouts of laughter. 

After we had calmed down a bit, I watched Marc walk around the grounds as I finished my burger and the Sun Chips urge had somehow subsided. As he rounded the monument for Union soldiers, a sneeze caught up with him and surprised him before he could cover his mouth. The sun somehow managed to sneak a few rays of light through the overcast skies – just enough to catch the resulting spray. 

We both laughed because we knew that in addition to bringing our sense of adventure out West, we would also be bringing a whole new sense of class. 

Feeling out of place in the South

After moving to the Midwest in 2005, we both wondered how long it would be until we felt like outsiders. We wondered when the moment would hit us that we had cultural differences from, seemingly, everyone around us.  

It turned out to be the first day. A woman in line behind us at the grocery store did something unheard of in our native New Jersey and latest home in Maryland: she struck up a conversation with a stranger.  Usually, especially in Jersey, when a stranger starts talking to you, it’s a bad sign. And frequently it means that that person has a few screws loose. She turned to us and said, in a strangely happy and excited tone, “I just couldn’t find any popsicle sticks.”

I responded with an East Coast shrug, mean to ward off strangers by connotating my overall indifference to her plight. Usually doing so is a defense mechanism for when the person – eventually – goes bat sh*t crazy on you. Meaning, if you show them you don’t care, you can much more easily back away.

But she continued. After reminding us that the white bread we bought for a specific purpose (grilled cheese on wheat just doesn’t do it for us), she couldn’t help share that this year instead of giving candy to the trick-or-treaters on Halloween, she would give away pencils.

Pencils. 

I bet she’s not the most popular house on the block with the neighborhood kids. But in the end, I don’t think she was crazy. She was just very friendly. Very… Midwestern.

And thus, we were introduced to Midwestern culture. A kind of culture where you can talk to anyone for any amount of time about any subject – and it will probably be all okay in the end. No need to get ready to jump into your fake Bruce Lee pose, unlike if you were in New York, your immediate safety is not in threat by a conversation with a stranger. 

So now that we’ve adjusted to Midwest culture, what would it be like for two liberal, gay, white, men, from the northeast, and a gay-married couple to travel to a state that is both southern and Midwestern? 

First, I should say that overall our experience in St. Louis was fantastic. Everyone we met was welcoming and kind. We did not directly experience any outward hatred, judgement, or prejudice.  In fact, St. Louis seemed to be a rather open city, especially to LGBT individuals and, from what we hear, especially so relative to the surrounding counties and countryside. 

There was one moment, however, where you could still see the institutions of yesteryear in today’s times. In St. Louis, it is commonplace to have gated neighborhoods. You can easily spot these sections of town when you see a street closed off with barricades.  

We drove into one of these neighborhoods just to drive by some of the mansions.  Mainly to gawk.  Actually, only to gawk. We came through the entrance, which had no markings of privacy or private property – including no “no trespassing” signs.  Just barracades moved off to the side as though they were waiting for some state emergency to keep the zombies out.

“This is very old money,” said our friend Rumi; who sat in the driver’s seat after expressing an intererst in driving our Element. We saw the stately mansions, with their manicured lawns, and more rooms than any individual or family really knows what to do with. 

And then we saw the flashing lights behind us.  We were being pulled over by the neighborhood’s private police. And he was armed. 

He questioned why we were in the neighborhood and, in the kind of tone that only police officers can get, told us that we were trespassing on private property. We will leave immediately. We needed to turn around right now and leave immediately. 

I don’t know what bothers me so much about this experience. In the end, no one got arrested. No one got called any names. I suppose it was that I didn’t like the way the officer spoke to my friend, the only person of color in the car. But I think it was also the sense of entitlement.  The sense that we were trespassing on private property that really was like any other street. Or, very frankly, the “private” streets that primarily housed white people living in their mansions and are protected from people who may look differently than them by armed guards . 

I know that is probably prejudiced of me to assume all of the above. It is. But it is also true that unfortunately history is on my side. 

Now mind you, I’ve experienced “neo-segregation” before. I grew up in a very racially diverse town of Montclair, New Jersey, but it was also economically segregated and somewhat racially as well.  The public schools I went to looked like some kind of  version of Sesame Street. My high school was well attended by nearly every race, creed, orientation, ability, etc. But yet, walk into the cafeteria at lunchtime and you could quickly see the manifestation of people sitting with people who are just like themselves. 

Segregation knows no boundaries and all you have to do is live in Baltimore for a short time to directly experience urban segregation. Marc and I helped to revitalize a neighborhood, Mt. Vernon, only to see it gradually become more and more white. And more and more boring, in our eyes. 

And do I need to tell you about the history of Chicago? To gloss over the entire subject, let’s just say that the Cubs-Sox division in this city is a stark reminder of how this city naturally separates itself into enclaves. 

I need to be clear that I understand that I’m probably not being fair to that officer and to St. Louis.  But every now and then, you can get a glimpse of the history of our country in modern times. 

But I contrast that with our experience at dinner that very night. We were invited to Rumi’s brother’s home to help celebrate Rumi’s nephew’s graduation from high school. It was great to meet part of the family of one of our great friends.  Rumi and his brother emigrated to the U.S. from Bangladesh. At the dinner party, we met a number of other people who became family friends after doing the same thing and found a sense of community with each other.  

After telling the story of our experience in the exclusive part of town, I was met with nods of understanding. And then I was told that a few years ago a number of art students set up non-violent protests about these “private” neighborhoods. They set up barricades to the barricades, artistically decorated totem poles that drew the attention of passerbys and, eventually, the media to the purpose and modernity of these private neighborhoods.

But it was at this party that I truly saw the spirit of St. Louis. Two queer men, one of them Jewish, were openly welcomed into the home of a Muslim family and were embraced with the welcomeness that every guest should experience.  And it was then that I felt that no matter the history of our country and of Missouri, maybe the future didn’t need to feel so dark. And that maybe, just maybe, if you feel out of place, you can surround yourself with people who understand and welcome you to a place where you’re different, but also just like everyone else.