Author: Vickie

The Best of Times: Thoughts on Teaching

On By VickieIn Education, teachingLeave a comment

Watching the current protests occurring on university campuses has gotten me thinking back on my own teaching career and the controversies and protests that I lived through at my own campus.

I spent 25 years as an English professor in Los Angeles, and when I moved to Chicago in 2019, I stepped back in my career and sought a part-time position at a community college in the Loop. Unfortunately, a month and a half into my first semester there, politicians imposed the “14 days to stop the spread” lockdown, which ultimately lasted for multiple semesters. It also resulted in my decision to permanently walk away from teaching. 

I have no regrets. I simply refused to teach under the circumstances given to us during COVID lockdowns. Remote teaching for an at-risk population with limited resources, such as at Harold Washington College, was useless. Maybe not for all classes but certainly for a developmental English course. So I refused to participate. 

When we finally got the green light to return to the classroom, a couple of things proved to me that my time in the classroom was over. One was that everyone on campus was required to wear masks at all times while in the building. For one, I simply refuse to be the mask police. I would never correct a student for not wearing a mask or for wearing one “improperly.” All I would need is one student to complain that I was putting him or her in danger, and that would be it for me. 

For another, I refused to teach wearing a mask. My teaching philosophy requires, first and foremost, developing a trusting relationship with my students. This is necessary in a class when I am asking students to be their most vulnerable. Because there are few things more vulnerable than to write and to hand that writing over to someone for their “judgment.” If I want students to take risks with their ideas and their writing, they absolutely must trust that I have their best interest at heart. And that is not easy when working with a group of students who typically do not believe in themselves and in their abilities and who have families who feel the same. That is not easy with students who have not been prepared for college and who have been allowed to pass through high school without having to prove any competencies. That is not easy with students who have never been held accountable academically.

To wear a mask that builds a wall between us, that hides our expressions, that creates disconnection, that is a visual representation of our fear, and that symbolizes our compliance, was unacceptable to me. I couldn’t do it.

The second reason to call it quits was that the world clearly changed pretty dramatically in the COVID years. Right before the semester started, I was emailed a sample syllabus for one of the classes I was assigned to teach. This is typical. Every college requires information that must be included in the syllabus for each class. And then every department has its own requirements that must be included. After that, the instructor can add his or her own policies. Over the years, I worked hard to keep my syllabi to two pages, front and back, plus a semester-long, class-by-class calendar. The semester we were to return to the classroom, the department chair sent me the sample syllabus with the requirements. And it was 19 pages long. Yes, 19 pages long.

After I got over the ridiculousness of that, my first thought was fine. I will post that on my class website, but I will print out a two or three page version to pass out in class. Can you imagine walking into a classroom and being handed a 19+ page syllabus on the first day?? No one would ever read that. Which means it would simply serve as a “gotcha” for students who happen to fail to follow some obscure rule.

But then I read through it, and I could not abide by it. In addition to all of the new COVID requirements were pages of pronoun policies. And that was that. I decided I wasn’t going to play. So I put in my resignation immediately, and that was it: the end of my college teaching career.

But every now and then, I do get nostalgic. It was the absolute best career. Probably most importantly, it gave me the flexibility to be around when my kids were growing up. But a close second is the absolute joy of working with young people, having high level conversations, and watching when the light bulb goes off as they learn. I also loved the opportunity to be a mentor. And never mind the satisfaction of learning every day while we as a class struggled through an analysis of current events or our interpretations of Anna Karenina.  

Times were not always easy, however. I watched things change over those years, and not always in good ways. I saw trends come and go. I saw the failure of a K-12 education increase each passing year. I witnessed an ideological takeover of the campus. I witnessed targeted racism as a means of gaining power. And not the kind of racism you might think. It was Chicanos accusing blacks and whites of racism. I witnessed new professors claim that requiring students to write essays was oppressive. Yes. Those were some crazy times.

But I could never do it today. It’s even crazier. 

So I have been thinking about some of my best days in the classroom, and four immediately came to mind, one of which was my very last day teaching. Some are dramatic, and some are mundane. I share those days here!

One

My English courses always included a research paper requirement. I never gave students a specific topic to write about. Instead, I required that they tackle a “controversial” issue, which meant something that people argue about on both sides. And I had to provide approval for their topic. 

That approval was important because so often students would submit topics such as “breast cancer.”  Then I would have to explain that breast cancer is not controversial. No one is out picketing in favor of breast cancer or demanding that we need more breast cancer. However, if the student had a particular interest in that topic, perhaps they could come up with something within the world of breast cancer that is controversial: such as an experimental treatment or the practice of a prophylactic mastectomy. 

Back in the early 2000s, gay marriage was one of the most popular topics for research papers. It was so popular that it became a cliche, and I needed to encourage students to think of something more original, something that no one else would be writing about and something I hadn’t already read about. 

One semester, a student submitted the adoption of infants by gay couples as a topic. She was the first to tackle that topic in one of my classes, so I wholeheartedly approved it. She went into the project knowing she was against it, which was fine. I didn’t care if students already had an opinion on their topic. But they were required to include opposition arguments and their responses to them in their papers. I wanted to make sure that they at least considered both sides of the argument.

The semester marched on, and one day right before class, this same student knocked on the window of the classroom door and motioned me to come out into the hall. When I got out there, she broke down crying. Oh no!

Many of the students on our campus came from difficult backgrounds and dysfunctional home lives, so a student in crisis wasn’t necessarily shocking. I put my arm around her and asked what was wrong, expecting her to tell me why she would be missing class today. Instead, she was upset about her research paper. Turned out, after collecting all of her research, she had changed her position on the gay adoption of infants. When she began the process, she was firmly against it, and her family was against it. She thought gay people should only adopt older children. But now, going against everything she was raised to believe, she changed her mind and thought gay couples should be able to adopt infants.

By the way, one of the things I prided myself on was not allowing my own opinions to interfere with the conclusions the students were coming to. It was completely irrelevant to me whether or not I thought gays should adopt infants. And the student had no idea what my opinion was. All I cared about was for them to honestly consider both sides before coming to a conclusion.

That was one of my best days teaching.

Two

Another one of my best days happened during my tenure at the same college. In addition to requiring a research paper, I also usually required reading a novel. For selfish reasons, I changed the novel that I assigned every year. That way, I could take the opportunity to do a deep dive and become a student on each new book myself.

This semester’s particular novel was Anthem by Ayn Rand. The class was a remedial English class, so expecting students to read a novella of 100 pages was a very reasonable expectation.

The best part of assigning a novel, at least for me, was the ensuing class discussion. (I really miss those!) The only problem was that a good class discussion required that the students actually read the book. Typically, at sometime during the semester I would give a pop quiz to check on whether or not students read an assignment. Because honestly, if they aren’t reading the assignments, then there is no class discussion. The only alternative for me would be to drone on in a lecture about something that students wouldn’t even know what I’m talking about. Usually doing this once ensured that going forward most students would do the readings.

This particular semester, on the day students were supposed to have finished reading Anthem, I gave a one-question pop quiz. I wrote on the board, “How does the book end?” Then I asked students to write their answer on a piece of paper and then bring it to the front of the class. Out of thirty students, only ten had read the book. 

Then, as I did every semester when I gave this pop reading quiz, I quickly went through the papers and put them in two piles: one of right answers and one of wrong answers. I then read out the names of those who got the right answer and announced that if I did not call their name, they were given permission to miss the rest of class.

And as happened every semester, those whose names I did not read let out a cheer, gathered their belongings, and raced out for an early start to their weekend. Then the ten of us who were left moved our desks into a circle and began a discussion of the novella and of the difference between collectivism and individualism. 

I don’t remember the details of the conversation, but I know that I was on such a high when that class was over. I was looking at ten very engaged students, each willing to share their thoughts on what they read and on the themes of the book as well as possible applications to the real world. I left that classroom so happy, reminded of exactly why I had chosen this profession.

And here is a P.S. because life is funny. When I walked out of the classroom, the Dean of Students was waiting for me. One of the students who had not read the book had gone straight to his office to complain that I had embarrassed him because it became obvious to the class that he hadn’t read the book. The dean scolded me, explaining that I needed to appreciate just how hard his life was, that he simply didn’t have the time to read assignments for my class. After a two-hour meeting, I walked out of his office, went straight to the president’s office, and quit my tenured professorship with only two weeks left in the semester. 

But even so, that was a great day teaching!

Three

When I quit my professorship, I was frantic to find a job because I was a single mom with a mortgage and two children attending private school!

I got a job teaching middle school, believe it or not. And this is where the next best day comes from.

I was teaching seventh grade English, and one of the required books was Elie Wiesel’s Night. As part of the lesson, the entire class took a trip to the Los Angeles Holocaust Museum. I had three classes of students who were well prepared for the visit and who were excited to go to the museum. During the organized tour, an actual Holocaust survivor, Dorothy Greenstein, took the time to speak to groups of students as we made our way through the museum. The group I was with was the last to sit with Dorothy, a woman in her eighties who hid in the floorboards of a neighbor’s house before being caught by Nazis and who still had her number tattooed on her forearm.

She told her story to a group of captivated twelve-year-olds. But just as she began, another teacher wandered through the room, bending down and whispering to students and chaperones that we needed to leave immediately and get to the bus. I was mortified. So this Holocaust survivor was sharing her story, and people were chatting and moving around, standing up and then leaving. I was so angry at the level of rudeness. 

As we walked out, the woman from the museum who was in charge of the school groups stood by the door. I pulled her aside to apologize on behalf of our group for walking out on Dorothy’s story. She told me that if we wanted, we could write her letters, that she loves to get letters from students. She would also reply! I immediately decided that yes, I would have all of my students (95 of them) write her letters. But I would also let her know that she could just write us one letter back that I would share with my classes.

The next day in class, I told my students about what had happened with my group and that I thought we should write her letters. They were all on board! And when they went home to tell their parents about the assignment, many had valuable discussions with their parents, and some learned about their own family history with the Holocaust. 

I collected the letters, put them in an envelope with group photos of each class, and mailed them off to the Museum of Tolerance. 

A month later, I got called to the front office. I had mail.

In the envelope I picked up were 95 letters from Dorothy, each individually handwritten in a note card. I don’t think any two of the note cards were the same. And each one had a different message describing different parts of her experience. I was blown away.

I brought the cards to my classes, and handed them out as they were addressed to each student. They were as shocked and excited as I was. Which made me unbelievably happy. None of this had been wasted on them.

One of my students had an idea. She wanted to make a scrapbook of the cards. We had every student make three copies of their card, and she took those copies and made three scrapbooks. She kept one, I took another (which I still proudly have on my bookshelf), and we drove down to the museum to present Dorothy with the third.

I am still overwhelmed thinking about that. 

Four

The last experience I want to discuss occurred on the very last day I spent in a classroom. My last day was March 19, 2020. I was teaching a developmental English class at the community college in Chicago’s Loop.

I had been assigned this particular class only a couple of weeks before the semester began, which meant that the required books had already been ordered. And that meant I would have to use those books. One of the books was Trevor Noah’s Born a Crime. I groaned when I learned I had to use that book. 

Typically, I like to choose books that are more academic and that are considered “classics.” In my view, students aren’t challenged enough as it is and the more exposure to literature that has stood the test of time (vs currently on the NYT Bestseller list!), the better.

But I also pride myself on being able to find value in pretty much any book and to uncover important lessons and/or themes as well. So I took a weekend before the semester started to read the book.

I decided I would focus on the fact that the book is about the author’s life in South Africa as a child during Apartheid. My first lesson would cover the intro to the book and would include a history lesson about South Africa. I began class asking if anyone knew anything about Apartheid. I do want to add that the class of 16 included 12 African Americans. Only one hand went up, as I suspected. More on that student later.

The lesson began with a video of a stand-up routine by Trevor Noah and a short documentary about Apartheid along with some comments I had prepared. When I finished, I called on the student who raised her hand. I already knew that she would know all about Apartheid. She was sixty-five years old and a midwife from Ghana. She had not been in the United States for very long. 

I turned over the class to her at that point. She proceeded to tell the story of her life, the story of friends in South Africa, and the story of what Apartheid was really like. By the end of the class, she had people in tears. No one wanted to leave, and hugs were shared all around. 

That was the last time I ever saw any of them. The college was closed two days later.

And this is one reason I refused to continue as a remote teacher. What happened that day in class could have NEVER happened if class had been remote. Never. And that day epitomized the reason I was teaching.

That was an incredible day. And an amazing way to end my career.

All three available on Amazon

Thoughts on the Demise of the Tooth Fairy

On By VickieIn familyLeave a comment

In the early 2000s when my kids were very young, I wrote a monthly column for a Los Angeles parenting magazine, but I also spent my free time away from teaching writing opinion pieces, narrative nonfiction, personal essays, political commentary, and anything else that interested me. Some of those were submitted to (and often published in!) a variety of magazines, newspapers, and even websites. Others were never sent anywhere but served as a means of honing my craft. After all, according to Malcolm Gladwell and his book Outliers, I needed to clock my 10,000 hours. So I wrote and wrote.

What follows is an essay I wrote in 2003 – over twenty years ago! The fun part about this is I completely forgot about the day my daughter discovered I was the tooth fairy, leaving me eternally grateful for having captured this in words. 

How about you? Do you remember when your kids discovered that you were the tooth fairy?

Today was a sad day in our house. The Tooth Fairy was exposed as a fraud. My only consolation is that my three-year-old did not witness the unfrocking. Fortunately, my seven-year-old, Emily, promised not to reveal her true identity.

My daughter has had her suspicions. Her so-called friends at school have told her that the Tooth Fairy is really her parents, but she jumped right into the fray and argued on behalf of the Tooth Fairy. Plus, the most vocal Scrooge in her class had yet to lose a single tooth, leaving him a suspicious source. What did he know about the whole affair anyway, she reasoned.

But I have no one to blame but myself. I blew it. I got sloppy.

The Tooth Fairy was also my introduction to the realization that our parents are responsible for many of the wonders of childhood. When I was seven, my best friend told me, through a sinister laugh, that the Tooth Fairy was really my mom. I also argued vigorously against such a thing. But I couldn’t help myself. I pretended I was asleep and waited to meet the Tooth Fairy face-to-face. It was a crushing blow when I felt my mom’s arm under my pillow. Like most kids, though, I recovered, excited to help perpetuate the fantasy for my younger sister.

Emily lost her second top front tooth, leaving a gaping hole in the front of her mouth. After I was certain she had fallen asleep, I snuck into her room. I lucked out. Her head was not even on the pillow as she was stretched out sideways across her bed. But there was no tooth to be found. She had evidently forgotten to put it under her pillow. And I did not see it anywhere around her nightstand. I wasn’t sure what the rule was here. It did not seem right to leave money when no tooth had been left. So I crept back out.

For each tooth, I place under the pillow a golden dollar and a coin from a foreign country. She had already received coins from Mexico, Canada, and Italy. This time I dug out a French franc. Not seeing it necessary to put it back into the basket where I keep all of my foreign coins, for that would mean searching through them all again to find the French one, I placed the two coins on top of the refrigerator.

The next morning, I innocently asked if she had put her tooth under her pillow the night before. She couldn’t believe she had forgotten. But apparently, she also had forgotten where she had put the tooth. We searched everywhere and could not find it. 

“That’s ok,” she informed me. “Grandma says that if you swallow or lose your tooth, you can just write the Tooth Fairy a note.”

Ok by me. I wouldn’t know since I had never swallowed or lost a tooth!

That night, though, she challenged me about the Tooth Fairy.

“Christopher says the Tooth Fairy is really your parents. Is it? Are you the Tooth Fairy? Come on now,.”

“Me?!” I responded innocently. “Why don’t you stay awake tonight and find out for yourself,” I suggested.

“Nah. I’m too tired.”

So when I tiptoed into her room late at night, I felt safe; I knew she wasn’t trying to stay awake. I snatched the note, hid it away securely, dropped off my loot, and tiptoed out. And I slept well that night.

The next morning, she was delighted to discover the glittering coins, but then she said to me, with a gleam in her eye and a smirk on her face, “I saw these coins on top of the refrigerator yesterday!”

What? How was that possible? She is barely tall enough to ride the little kid roller coasters at Magic Mountain. But before I could question her regarding this, she was off to the kitchen. She opened the pantry and proceeded to climb up the shelves until she could reach any goodies that lay on the top shelf. She then turned her head to the exact spot on top of the refrigerator where I had left the coins.

“Ah-hah!” she proudly proclaimed, beaming as a master sleuth who had just solved a crime. “It is you!

What could I say? I was caught red-handed.

Just then, her little brother appeared, wiping sleep from his eyes. “Look what I got, James,” Emily showed him. “I got them from m…o…” I dragged her out of the room mid-sentence.

“Em,” I whispered, “let’s not tell James about the Tooth Fairy. Then you can help me play the Tooth Fairy when his teeth start falling out.”

She loved that idea. But then her smiled straightened out. Her mind was churning. “But mom, what about Sant…” At that moment, James came running over, and in typical James fashion, smacked Emily on the arm. He ran off; she ran after him. And the subject was dropped … for now.

Santa was saved by a little boy who was just put on the list of naughty kids.

The latest in my project Praying in Chicago: Religion in the Windy City is now available on Substack. Check it out! Tomorrow’s installment is about my visit to the Seventeenth Church of Christ, Scientist, located in the iconic round building on the Chicago River on Wacker and Wabash.

Substack Church Series

Thoughts on Chatting with Strangers

On By VickieIn Current Events, Self DevelopmentLeave a comment

The other day I had a semi-complicated transaction that required my presence at the bank, something that could not just be done at the ATM outside. Having to go into the bank is an errand I rarely look forward to. When running errands, I often find myself doing everything I can to keep from interacting with customer service people. I keep my head down, avoid eye contact, complete my transaction, and get out of there. Usually it’s because I am simply trying to check off items on my list. But it is probably also because ever since COVID lockdowns, I am shockingly willing to go out in public looking like I just rolled out of bed. (Yes, I am working on that!).

Continue reading “Thoughts on Chatting with Strangers” →

Visiting Holy Name Cathedral

On By VickieIn WritingLeave a comment

This is the first in a series I am writing titled “Praying in Chicago: Religion in the Windy City” that will be published on Substack going forward. You can read the introduction to the project HERE to get more information on what is to come! Then you can subscribe to Substack for free for the rest of the series.

I chose Holy Name Cathedral as the first church I would attend for a couple of reasons. For one, it is close by. And across the street from my gym, which means I walk by it four to five times a week. And second, it is the seat of the Catholic Archdiocese here in Chicago. So that seemed as good a place to start as any.

As for a little bit of history, this Roman Catholic congregation was established in 1852. Right before the church was formed, in 1846, Chicago had a population of around 14,000 people. An influx of German and Irish immigrants, most of whom were Catholic, were settling in large numbers north of the Chicago River. The only Catholic church around was St. Josephs, which was built by the Germans. As a result, mass was in Latin, but the sermons and confessions were in German.

Continue reading “Visiting Holy Name Cathedral” →

Praying in Chicago: Religion in the Windy City

On By VickieIn Writing1 Comment

I don’t attend church. And I haven’t attended church in years.

Currently, I live right in the heart of Chicago: a block off Michigan Avenue and across the street from the Hancock building. And there are dozens of churches within walking distance from my apartment. One day I realized that I had not stepped foot into a single one since moving here a few years ago. Which is strange because whenever I travel, visiting churches is near the top of my list of sights to see.

I’m a bit of an amateur photographer (although I have been hired out a few times for events), but since moving here, I have been drawn to capturing urban landscapes and street photography. You can probably imagine that Chicago has provided me with more material than I could exhaust in a lifetime.

Continue reading “Praying in Chicago: Religion in the Windy City” →

Thoughts on Sanctuary Cities

On By VickieIn Current EventsLeave a comment

I am pissed.

Whether or not that is the appropriate emotion to have, I can’t say, but that is what boils up most days I walk down Michigan Avenue lately.

Sanctuary city Chicago is now learning what it actually means to be a sanctuary city. Before this year, the moniker was just another in a series of virtue signals so often practiced by our politicians to manipulate us and by everyone else on social media to impress their friends and to signal their alignment with the current cause célèbre. 

Continue reading “Thoughts on Sanctuary Cities” →

Photographing the Turmoil: Palestinian Rallies

On By VickieIn Current Events, politicsLeave a comment

There are plenty of mainstream news stories that spark debates here in Chicago. And then there are the niche issues that small groups of people feel passionate about and protest to bring attention to them (and hopefully media coverage).

My city apartment sits in the perfect spot to catch a large majority of these protests. Some groups gather at the small Jane Byrne Park in front of the Water Tower (two blocks from me) to protest causes such as animal cruelty, a Tibetan uprising, Russian war crimes. Larger ones usually meet in the Federal Plaza, Daley Plaza, or Wrigley Square. Other demonstrations are targeted at specific businesses: anti-fur at Louis Vuitton or fossil fuels at Chase Bank.

Protesters march up and down Michigan. They march around the Loop

But most recently, the October 7th attack on Israel has dominated the streets in Chicago and throughout the world. The very next day, a crowd of hundreds showed up at the Israeli Consulate in Chicago’s West Loop. I hadn’t attended a protest in a while – it had been a quiet couple of months. But I made sure both of my cameras were fully charged, the SD cards were in place (yes, I have actually forgotten to replace an SD card that was still plugged into my laptop), and walked the 45 minutes to the Consulate.

Read more: Photographing the Turmoil: Palestinian Rallies

I was nervous. This was before all the photos and videos surfaced from across the world of thousands, tens of thousands, and even hundreds of thousands marching and chanting “From the River to the Sea.” So I didn’t know what to expect. Plus, I had never been to this location before. I’m more comfortable when at a place where other protests have taken place because I know where to get the best shots, where the action is most likely to occur, and where the march will start and end. But here, I was going in blind.

When I arrived, maybe a dozen people were gathered across the street from the Consulate, all holding signs and chatting amongst themselves. I walked right through them but didn’t yet feel comfortable taking photos. I crossed to the other side of the street where a handful of cops were keeping an eye on things. Parked cars lined the curb, so It was difficult to see, let alone get a good shot of, the protesters from there. Still uncomfortable, I ended up leaving the area, walking down the street to the river, and taking some photos of the Civic Opera House while I built up the nerve to go back. Soon, the fear of missing out was too much to resist, and I headed back. By then, many more protesters as well as police had shown up. The police were now setting up barricades in front of the Consulate. I tentatively found a spot behind the barricade, lifted my zoom lens, and struggled to take a few, terrible, shots.

Then I noticed that a number of photographers had moved into the street and surrounded the parked cars. That gave me the courage to do the same. So I found myself dodging cars speeding down the street trying to get to the other side and get some photos. It didn’t take long for the protesters, whose numbers were swelling, to spill out into the street too. And as much as the police tried to keep them limited to the sidewalk, they continually lost ground until ultimately the protesters, now in the hundreds, took over the street.

As a side note, at a smaller protest on my street, I ran into the policeman who I had seen previously at the abortion protests, and when things got heated, he seemed to be in charge of quelling the tensions. I thanked him for what a good job he does. I have seen him handle some really tense situations. He was thankful but also shrugged, humbly claiming that he was just doing his job. We chatted for a bit, and one thing he revealed is that Chicago Police had changed their policy on protests – they now tend to be less confrontational. So if a protest spills onto the street, the police allow it. 

“It’s safer to just redirect traffic around the block than to try to keep the protesters out of the street,” he explained.

So it was no surprise to see this protest take over the street as well. 

I continued to struggle to get more comfortable and out of my head. Suddenly, I sensed commotion behind me. Protesters were swarming a woman. Quickly, a couple of cops dragged her away and behind the barriers across the street. I did manage to get one photo of the police yelling at her and of her sign. I still have not done a very good job of catching confrontations like that. Inevitably, those photos are either terribly out of focus or someone’s head has popped into the shot. She was a middle-aged woman, and her sign read, “Stop Hamas from Raping Israeli Women.” She was the one and only counter protester that day (and so far that I have seen at any of the Palestinian rallies). And she stood alone across the street with her sign the entire time.

By now I had gotten my sea legs, so to speak. And I was soon weaving my way through the crowd, snapping pictures as if I belonged there. 

After about an hour, the protesters began their march into the Loop. A red pickup truck led the way. In the bed of the truck were a few men holding Palestinian flags, a huge speaker, and a man chanting on a microphone. On the top of the truck cabin was a man standing tall and waving one, sometimes two, flags.

I learned early on that I like to be out in front of the march. This is often where you find the media – the news cameras, a reporter live on air, and the professional photographers. I laugh when I stop to look at myself. There I am, racing around, dodging photographers and cops, running backwards, climbing planters, and placing myself in the middle of the street to get the best shots of the leaders.

I found my spot at the front, and bike cops lined the curbs on both sides of the street. I ran alongside them, head on a swivel. At one point, I saw that we were coming up to the underpass for the “L.” I positioned myself so that I could get a photo of the man on top of the truck waving the flag as they were going under the tracks. That would be a great shot, I thought.

I got myself in position and waited for the picture I wanted. Just then, the man I had my camera aimed at looked down at me and smiled. My stomach clenched. I framed the photo. I pushed the shutter release. I dropped the camera and gave the man a smile and a thumbs up. Then the truck moved on. I froze. 

That moment reverberated through my bones. I attend these protests not as an ally or a counter protester, but simply to capture them as best I can. I also am strengthening my creative muscle as I scan the landscape looking for interesting and unusual color combinations, shapes, contrasts, expressions, people, stories, etc. I also appreciate seeing what is happening firsthand rather than having the event filtered through the wrong-every-single-time media.

Needless to say I was horrified by what happened in Israel on October 7. In fact, that is a gross understatement. As with most people, the evil committed was beyond human comprehension. I assumed that the people who would show up at this protest less than 24 hours later would not only be vehemently anti-Israel, but I assumed also anti-Jew. I expected cheers for the death of those Jews in Israel. There had been no time yet to think about what led up to this or to what would come next. So yes, I was nervous.

But what I didn’t expect and didn’t prepare for, especially in my role as a disconnected, invisible observer, was that I would experience human moments. A connection. And I couldn’t shake it off.

That would be the last rally held at the Israeli consulate. The next few started at Congress Plaza and marched up and down Michigan Avenue. I scoured my sources to find a pro-Israel rally somewhere in the city, but I couldn’t find anything. I later read that there was one at a synagogue out in the suburbs that was attended by Governor Pritzker. Throughout the city, I have never seen a single Israeli flag, any posters, or graffiti. Last week, however, I finally saw some of the flyers featuring kidnapped Israelis posted near my apartment. Within two days, they had been torn down, only the corners where the tape was hard to remove remained. 

After a couple of weeks, I finally read about an Israeli rally to be held at the Federal Plaza. As I walked down to the spot, my heart pounded. There had been no pushback against the Palestinian rallies, but I knew this one could get heated. In fact, I assumed that the reason there was no support shown for Israel in the city was for fear of safety. As I got about a block away from the plaza, I could see two bicycle cops down the road. I knew immediately that something was wrong. A rally like this would require dozens if not hundreds of cops. 

When I got closer, flyers posted on poles surrounding the plaza were covered with a red CANCELED stamp. A few cars circled the block with Palestinian flags waving out the windows. A few people wandered around confused. And a group of skateboarders raced back and forth practicing all kinds of tricks. I can only guess the organizers were concerned about safety. I haven’t seen any announcements of a similar rally since.

At a Palestinian march a couple of weeks ago, people first gathered at the Chicago River along Wacker Drive. The march was advertised as moving north on Michigan, so when the police closed the Michigan Ave bridge, I made the decision to move to the north side. For over an hour, I stood across the river from the rally and the speeches, hoping that I made the right decision and itching to get all of the photos I was now missing. 

The police presence on my side was building and building. Dozens of bike cops, multiple unmarked vehicles of higher-ups, and five mounted police. Dump trucks blocked the bridge and traffic was stopped on Michigan in both directions.

I asked a number of cops which way the march was headed, and not a single one knew. “We’ll see,” was the most common answer. That surprised me. I figured the march had at least been coordinated with police, especially since streets would need to be shut down. “We’re waiting for them to let us know.”

So I waited. As time passed, the air electrified. As police descended, the tension increased. As the crowd on the other side of the river grew, and the chanting got louder, we anxiously waited to see what would happen. It was almost more nerve-wracking to be watching from afar than to be in the middle of things.

The most surreal part was the contrast that I was immersed in. On my side of the river, brides and their bridal parties lined up along the river for their wedding photos as if nothing was going on. Amongst them was a street performer playing guitar and singing, “I’ve got sunshine, on a cloudy day.” But on the other side of the river, thousands were chanting “Resistance is justified – when people are occupied” and “Biden Biden you can’t hide – we charge you with genocide!”

Turned out, I guessed wrong. The group headed south down Michigan instead.

Since the bridge was closed, I had to race down the steps to cross the Michigan Ave bridge on the lower level – a scary proposition itself. Another contrast! The shiny decorations, the lavish landscaping, the storefronts, and the the picturesque view of the Chicago River above as opposed to the dirty, grimy, dark, graffiti-covered, tent-filled underworld thirty feet below.

As I mentioned earlier, I am most comfortable up in the front of these marches, so I spent the next five or six blocks working my way up to the front. As the group passed Starbucks, someone with a megaphone accused the company of supporting Israel. People turned to the coffee shop to yell “Shame, shame, shame!” Inside, employees quickly locked the doors. But that was it – the group quickly moved on.

Another incident that occurred that day was when we heard a loud bang, followed by expanding smoke and a burning smell. I shrugged my shoulders at that. I’ve seen that before. But then came repeated booms. Fireworks? Gunshots? Smoke bombs? They continued and were only about a block in front of me. The march stopped moving forward. But the chants continued as if nothing had happened. I wasn’t nervous as much as curious. Also, my instincts wished I was closer (who am I??).

Soon, the crowd moved along, and nothing else of note occurred. It wasn’t until I got on social media the next day that I found out what happened. The group of the Black Hebrew Israelites that is regularly stationed outside of Millennium Park on any given weekend was the catalyst. One of the previous times the Palestinian supporters marched down Michigan, a scuffle broke out between the two groups. I did happen to be standing there for that. And as typical for me, my photos of that interchange did not come out at all. 

But on this day, apparently the Black Hebrew Israelites were prepared. They were on the other side of the street, so I couldn’t see anything. But videos online show the groups throwing things at each other and using flag poles as weapons. I can’t figure out who was throwing the fireworks or smoke bombs or whatever was being thrown. And no surprise that I cannot find anything in the media about it either.

I do feel like I need to add a note here that a group of people wearing yellow safety vests is always present at these gatherings. They keep the group contained to the rallying location. They organize the marchers, making sure that the vehicle carrying the megaphone is in front, followed by the people carrying the banners. Everyone else is to stay behind the banners. They dictate the speed of the march. They determine which direction it moves (left at the corner, straight at the intersection). But most importantly, they reign in the dozens of young men, the Palestinian keffiyeh wrapped around their heads so that only their eyes are visible (or those dressed in black bloc) and waving the Palestinian flag. These men are filled with testosterone, adrenaline, and rage. They race out in front, sometimes running ahead of the group, triggering cops to react. They climb on top of bus stops, up scaffolding, onto traffic lights. They shake the doors of the locked Starbucks. They tag walls, statues, bus stops, and sidewalks with the words “Free Palestine.” They challenge the police.

There are a few of what I want to call “elders” who seem to be tasked with managing these young men. And I have to say, it is remarkable to watch them and their ability to de-escalate and get things back under control. A few stern words coming from one older man that I saw at every one of these, and the young men fall into line. He jumped in between these men and the Black Hebrew Israelites, ensuring nothing more than words were thrown. They coordinate with police. These protests would not be possible without those men keeping a lighted fuse from burning all the way down in a crowd of thousands. I have the utmost respect for them, for I am sure that they understand that should this all break down, the messaging is lost.

I attended the most recent protest this past weekend, held at the Water Tower and followed by a march down Michigan Avenue. And a few things I want to point out. For one, these marches in Chicago don’t seem to have nearly the agitation as those that I am seeing on social media, particularly in New York City or in London. Secondly, the crowds are made up of all ages. The young people, many of whom are probably students and organizers, tend to be in the front holding the banners or refusing to follow the directions and running around in front and up on bus stops. But behind them are people of all ages. Infants, toddlers, teenagers, adults, elderly, many who are there together as families.

Finally, I had an interesting experience as I was walking home from this rally. An older Palestinian gentleman’s car was parked right off MIchigan Ave. HIs portable speaker blared (Palestinian?) music, and he stood leaning against the passenger side door. As I walked by, he called out, “Thank you! Thank you for your support.” I stopped and told him “Of course.” He signaled for me to stop – he had something he wanted to say – and he turned off the music. He spoke in heavily accented, broken English, but the gist of what he wanted to tell me was the following.

He wanted me to know that I am a good person. Allah had brought us together so that we would have this conversation, so that we would connect. He wanted me to understand that there are innocents being killed in Gaza but that they will be in heaven, because they are innocent. And we all need to stand up for these innocents. He thanked me over and over again, stressing the goodness he sees in me and the importance of us making a connection like this. Because it is all about connecting with each other.

I was looking into the eyes of someone who could be my father, my kids’ grandfather. He was full of light and of love. He was grateful but he was saddened at the killing. And he wanted to make a connection with me at that moment.

I can’t say that I have been at these protests because I support the Palestinian point of view. I have struggled with this issue for decades, completely confused about who, historically, the good guys are and who the bad guys are. Again, absolutely do not be confused about the objective fact that those who participated in the October 7th attack on Israel are evil incarnate. I am referring to the bigger picture here. I have sought books, articles, videos, and even friends, asking them to explain their views. But I always leave more confused. Both sides of this issue believe they have been wronged. No, that word is too weak. Both sides feel that they have been persecuted. And slaughtered. No one will convince either side that this is not true.

I know, I know. Hamas is a terrorist group. Obviously. That isn’t what I am talking about. I am talking about the people. I know, I know. The Palestinians voted for Hamas to run their government. Well, I didn’t vote for Biden. And I refuse to be held responsible for what happened in Afghanistan under his leadership during our abandonment of that country. I refuse to be held responsible for what is happening at our border during his presidency. I didn’t vote for any of it. Plus, from what I understand, the last election in Gaza was in 2006. How many today would support Hamas? And from what I understand, 50% of the population is made up of children, none of whom voted for any of this either. 

Protests like these take a lot out of me. They are emotional. My adrenaline is pumping. My head is on a swivel, hyper aware. And I learn something every time. I learn about topics I know nothing about. I learn the arguments on both sides of a current issue. I learn about passion and conviction. I learn about people and human nature. Believe me, it isn’t always good. But sometimes it is downright inspiring.

And sometimes, I make a connection.

But it’s real. It’s life. It’s living.

So until the next demonstration! (and why do I have a feeling that this turmoil is only going to increase over the next year…?)

Oh, and here are all of the photos I’ve taken of the Palestinian rallies: Part 1 and Part 2. For other posts on protests, HERE is info on the abortion protests in Chicago, and HERE is a post on my visit to Washington DC during an anti-war protest.

Recently released!

Captain and the Greyhounds by Vickie Oddino

Available on Amazon

Photographing Protests – the beginning

On By VickieIn Writing1 Comment

On June 22, 2022, the United States Supreme Court overturned Roe v. Wade, as expected. And the pro-choice crowd took to the streets.

A hobby I’ve practiced for decades is photography. So after moving to Chicago in 2019, it seemed natural to seek out photography groups on Meetup. For those who don’t know about Meetup, it is a website where you can search for groups in your area who have similar interests as you. Pretty much every interest you can imagine has a group, especially in a big city like Chicago: history, singles, paddleboarding, dancing, women lawyers, Korean authors, hiking, etc.

One of the photography groups I found was Chicago Streets and Beyond Photography. They had planned an outing to photograph the first protest of the court ruling on Roe v. Wade at the Federal Plaza in downtown Chicago. We met a couple of blocks away beforehand, and the organizer gave us some tips on how to take photos at protests before we headed over and quickly lost each other in the crowds.

Continue reading “Photographing Protests – the beginning” →

Making the Call

On By VickieIn family, Self DevelopmentLeave a comment

Traveling two thousand miles and more years than I would like to admit, I found myself at my reunion chatting with people I didn’t even know in high school. But I also found myself reconnecting with close friends that have drifted away over the years. I love that whenever we see each other, the time apart disappears. 

But this time, Stacy looked different. After a few questions, I learned that her mother had lung cancer and had just received bad news from the doctor. She probably had only a couple of months to live.

The two of us became fast friends back in fifth grade when my family moved to a house right around the corner from her. We shared countless hours talking about whatever it is that young girls talked about, and probably still talk about.

Read more: Making the Call

In high school, however, we starting drifting apart, mostly thanks to boys. She was the first to have a boyfriend, and then senior year I was dating someone. That pulled us to different sets of friends. Once we headed off to colleges in different states, we drifted even more. She still held a treasured place in my heart as one of my best friends, but we truly were no longer close.

Through the years, I had always liked her mom. As I recall, she had been a model when she was younger, modeling hairstyles. And I seem to remember that she frequently changed her hairstyle. She was a small, striking woman whose powerful presence filled a room. She always had something to say, an opinion to give. Stacy was the youngest of three, and the frankness that her mother used with her was in stark contrast to the protected speech my mom used with me.

My clearest memories are of her either smoking cigarette after cigarette, or of her sitting at the kitchen table with an enormous pile of pistachios. She busied herself working to get the tiny treasured seed from the hard shell to distract her from picking up another cigarette. It seems to me that the cigarettes typically won.

To me, her mom was unconventional. Not only did she speak freely, but she had her own antique store down at Laclede’s Landing at the Mississippi River called The Finer Things. Visiting her store was an exotic adventure. I remember that some friends felt badly for Stacy because her mom never threw her birthday parties, you know, the ones with pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey, a piñata, and a big birthday cake. But that wasn’t her style. And Stacy never complained – and she didn’t seem to be any too worse for the wear.

As we grew into adulthood, Stacy often mentioned how much her mom liked me and how she often asked about me. Every time she would say this, I would be completely caught off guard. I couldn’t imagine why she would have liked me. Of course, I was always polite to her, but I was taught to be polite and respectful to all grown ups. But I don’t remember actually having what could be called an actual conversation with her. In fact, I can’t remember having an actual conversation beyond general pleasantries with anyone’s parents.

When I had my own children, I watched as they easily chatted with their friends’ parents. And when I served as host, their friends didn’t hesitate to approach me to talk about what was going on at school and at home. Sometimes they would even confide in me. I never would have had such conversations, let alone initiate a conversation, with one of my friends’ parents.

In fact, I was talking to one of my high school friends recently about just this. I dated a guy during our senior year and then for three years in college. As we reminisced, it occurred to me that I basically never talked to his mom and knew nothing about her. But I spent a lot of time with his family: dinners, holidays, even weekends in the Ozarks. Yet I was so uncomfortable around her and remained mostly quiet.   

Not only was I quiet, but, especially in junior high and in high school, I was so nondescript. No one noticed me. I was the perennial follower. And in high school, when I did take some leadership roles, no one noticed. I was constantly left out, my absence going unnoticed. In fact, at this very same reunion, the committee published a little book with information on each classmate and what they had been up to since graduation. And my page somehow was left out. How apropos.

So why would this woman who somewhat intimidated me, somewhat left me in awe, have noticed me?

At the reunion, Stacy explained what her mother had been going through since her diagnosis and once again reminded me how much her mother always liked me. Again, I was taken aback, surprised that she would have even remembered me. After all, her parents moved to Florida right before high school graduation, and I had only seen them a couple of times since high school and not in probably 10 or so years.

I asked if it would be ok for me to call her mom when I got back home to California. Stacy said her mom would love that. 

Once back home, I was haunted by the fact that Stacy’s mother was dying. I had not yet lost my parents and was trying to imagine what it would feel like to know losing one was imminent. For days, I held the phone number in my hands, afraid to pick up the phone. What would I say to her? And to add to that, what do you say to someone who is dying?

One day, without allowing myself a moment to think about it, I simply picked up the phone and dialed the Florida number. A woman’s voice answered.

“Mrs. Finer? I asked. And yes, my friends’ parents were and continue to still be “Mr. ___ or Mrs. ___. No first names here, even at this age.

She knew right away it was me.

We spoke for about ten minutes. I told her a bit about what I was doing and where I was working. I asked her how she was feeling. Suddenly, I was no longer afraid. It turned out that I did know what to say to someone who was dying. I told her how sorry I was. She explained that her life had been so wonderful, that there was nothing to be sorry for. Besides, she said, she did this to herself – you know, all those years of smoking. But she was happy. She told me she was blessed to have married the greatest guy around and to have had so many wonderful years with him. She was blessed to know her grandchildren. Life was good.

She then told me to take care of Stacy, that this would probably be very difficult for her. At the time, that was unexpected, but now as a mom, I completely understand it.

I promised I would. I didn’t tell her that we lived 2,000 miles away from each other and rarely spoke. And then it was time to say goodbye. How do you say goodbye to someone when you know that this is the last time you will speak to her? A simple goodbye doesn’t cut it, and you can’t casually throw in the often said “See ya later” or “Talk to you soon.” Because you won’t. So I simply said “I love you.” She told me I deserve the best in this life, told me she loved me also, and hung up. I was overcome with grief, my body convulsing with each sob. But at the same time, I have never felt so good.

A year later, a friend and surrogate uncle to my children suffered a devastating heart attack. I had planned to visit him in the hospital as soon as he was allowed visitors. But then my young daughter got sick – a high fever accompanied by severe hives that covered her entire body. Days elapsed, and I could not get to the hospital. I was busy calling in sick to work and trying to calm my daughter. I finally admitted to myself that I would not make it, so I picked up the phone and called his room. When he answered the phone, he was in great spirits. I explained why I had not been to visit. Not to worry, he said. “I am not ready to go yet. The garage is such a mess; I couldn’t die before cleaning that up!” I was pleased to hear him so upbeat. 

He graciously accepted my apology and assured me that he was doing great. Again, at a loss for words at such a scary time, I found myself telling him, “I love you!” before hanging up.

He was dead a week later.

At the funeral, shock hung in the air. Many people shared stories of why they didn’t visit Arnie in the hospital, of why they didn’t call. Some were busy, some didn’t think it was that serious, some didn’t want to be in the way, some assumed he had enough visitors and one more might just be too much, and some just didn’t make it a priority and find the time.

I was overcome with grief at the loss. But at the same time, I felt good. Even though I didn’t know that I would not be speaking to or seeing Arnie again, I had a sense of peace. 

Picking up the phone is sometimes the greatest gift we can give . . . or receive.

Just released!

Captain and the Greyhounds by Vickie Oddino

Available on Amazon

Thoughts on Books and the Family Dog

On By VickieIn Captain, Captain and the Greyhounds, Dogs, family, WritingLeave a comment

Today is a huge milestone for me.

Seven years ago I started this blog, and I had no idea what I was doing. But the first two posts take on whole new meaning for me today. The first blog post was titled “Captain!” It was only a few paragraphs about the family dog and the fact that he was the inspiration for a screenplay I was woking on.

The second was titled “Captain and the Greyhound.” It’s purpose was to announce the name of the screenplay (which has since changed to Captain and the Greyhounds!). It also consisted of only a few paragraphs.

Read more: Thoughts on Books and the Family Dog

If fact, it should be no surprise that the dog in the blog photo is that same dog, Captain.

Since then, this blog grew into something completely different. I only wrote two other posts concerning the screenplay. As part of my research, I visited one of the few remaining greyhound racing tracks still in existence: Tucson Greyhound Park. The place was completely run down and close to closing. And the few people who were there were very suspicious of me, an outsider, assuming I was there for nefarious reasons. You can read about my trip to Tuscon in Part 1 and Part 2.

The rest of the posts on this blog have been a sharing of my thoughts on a very wide range of topics. I love writing here. It has served as a great outlet for my ideas and inspiration. 

I did complete the screenplay. I shopped it around and een had some bites. But then Trump got elected and those bites ran scared, certain that the economy would collapse and World War III would break out. People were hesitant to fund unknowns, especially in entertainment.

Many years have passed. I still have Captain, who is now 15 years old, and I live in Chicago, having lost track of my Los Angeles contacts since then.

But I have now come full circle. Today, the book Captain and the Greyhounds, a children’s chapter book aimed at 6-11 year olds, has been published!

It’s about an adventurous terrier mutt who is busy planning his escape from the people who adopted him – until the greyhound next door goes missing, and he learns the importance of family.

If you have children, grandchildren, know children, know people with children, or you enjoy reading, you can order the book on Amazon! And let me know what you think. My goal is to turn this into a series of books.

Also, please don’t forget to leave a review!

Just released!

Captain and the Greyhounds by Vickie Oddino

Available on Amazon