Names

Almost everyone I work with has at least two names that they go by. Actually, it's usually only one name, but there is the Spanish version, and the English version. So sometimes Fabian (fah-be-ahn') is called Fabian (fay'-be-uhn). But then there is Jaime, who is also Jimmie sometimes. And there is Francisco, who is also Pancho, and also Frankie. I'm Kati (kay'-tee), but I'm also Kati (kah'-tee). In fact, I'm usually Kati (kah'-tee) when I'm at work.

My mom came to visit over the weekend, and we had a good time. We sampled all the best food that my block has to offer, and we shuddered in the -15 wind chill. We talked about all sorts of issues and occurences, experiences and problem solutions. We went to Holy Cross for mass in Spanish. Mom especially enjoyed the Marimba. I do too, every day at work when I hear them practicing across the hall, and at every mass and recital I hear them play. But it's especially cool when it's your first time to hear them.

They're kids and teenagers, and they're so good they travel the country playing concerts. They're going to Los Angeles next month to play at a convention.

A lot of the Marimba are in my art class. I tutor others of them. One of them is teaching me how to play Marimba. I don't know why I swell with pride when I get to show off the Marimba to people- but I always do. Their skill has nothing to do with me, but I'm so proud to know people with such skill. I had asked them if they would play for my mom after mass.

At the end of mass, Fr. Bruce asked if there were any visitors this week. I flagged him down, and then translated to Mom that I had just told the whole church she was visiting. I glanced over to the Marimba. They were all laughing at me and my eagerness to show off my mom. Fr. Bruce came over, announcing that Kati, the volunteer, had her mom visiting. He asked Mom a few questions into the microphone, and everyone applauded.

After mass, the Marimba showed off a little for her, and then came up and shook her hand, introducting themselves. Mom was so impressed with them.

Yesterday, I told them so. They blushed and acted like it was no big deal, the way teenagers do. But they were pleased.

We had a good and productive art class. The comic book is really starting to come together now, so they're getting excited about it again. They can see the results coming, so they can visualize the finished product. They're also excited about starting up with clay sculpting, so I think that is one more motivating factor. I know it is for me. I can't wait.

Messy art is always the best art.

Sometimes they come up with bizarre and funny ideas- things they know won't happen, but they ask anyway. One guy in particular keeps coming up with expensive things to do as a "field trip" (things that have nothing to do with art in any way, shape, or form), and then asks me to pay for it all. I say, "We've already established that you make more money than me at your part time job. You should pay." They laugh, and then come up with an even bigger and less likely idea. I say, "I'll arm wrestle you for it."

I say that a lot in that class. "I'll arm wrestle you for it." I say it when they ask me if they can do something that of course they can do. I say it when they ask me to do something that of course they would never do. I had my schedule book out yesterday. One of the guys, David (aka dah-veed') asked what it was, and I told him. He picked it up and started flipping through it.

"How much was this, Kati?" (Kah'-tee)

"Free," I said.

He widened his eyes. "Three hundred?"

"No, FREE. I stole it from my father in law."

"You STOLE it?!" he asked, knowing it was just a figure of speech.

I shrugged. "He wasn't using it, so he gave it to me."

Pancho grabs it. "I need a schedule book." He put it under is arm and walked out the door.

"I'll arm wrestle you for it," I called after him.

He walked back in and slammed it on the table. "Alright, alright! Let's go!"

He and the other guys start pushing each other around, mock fighting. I go to put some of the art supplies up. As I walk out the door, the guys sit down and actually start arm wrestling. I can't help but laugh. I say that all the time, but this time the words actually started an arm wrestling competition!

When I come back in, they're all paired up. David and Pancho, the two biggest guys, are paired up. Pancho says go, and David starts to struggle. Pancho says, "I said go, man!"

"Aw, shut up!"

Pancho bests him, and David turns to me, "Come on, Kati! Let's go!"

The other guys egg me on, but in a way that says clearly that they don't expect me to actually arm wrestle anybody.

So of course, I do.

Everyone stops what they're doing to watch. I fully expect to be beaten quickly since David is easily twice my size, but that doesn't stop me from talking smack first. "You can't touch me," I say. "You might as well just forefit now!"

Suddenly, I have a cheering section.

David says go, and then immediately looks panicked. "Oh my god! She's stronger than she looks!" he shouts.

His arm actually starts going backwards. "Oh, you're playing!" I shout at him.

"No I'm not!" he shouts back. (It's apparently impossible not to shout while arm wrestling)

The other guys are laughing. One of them says, "If she beats you, the whole Marimba's gonna know it!" Those words seal my fate. The tides turn, and I am beaten.

They guys seem satisfied that I actually played to begin with, and everyone leaves happy.

Mistaken Identities

I've had two strangers approach me thinking I was Mexican in the past week. And since Mexican women are so beautiful, I am absolutely taking that as a compliment.

Some guy in a minivan with an indeterminate accent stopped me while I was walking to work yesterday and asked for directions. I gave him directions, and he thanked me and drove away. This is a happy story for two reasons. 1) I was able to give directions in Chicago. 2) The last time some guy in a minivan with an indeterminate accent stopped me to ask for directions (back in Tennessee), he turned out to be a bit of an, um, exhibitionist. Luckily, it was a whole different guy this time.

Daena has been playing football in the road with some people from the neighborhood. Some of them are kids, and some of them are about our age. The other day, they asked her why they never saw the cameras. Apparently, some of the people in our neighborhood think we are with The Real World. Daena said, No, we're volunteers. They said, Yeah, volunteers with The Real World, right?

*

I'm working on four writing projects right now. I'm most creative when I'm busy, and I hate getting bored at work, so lucky for me, work is getting more exciting.

I'm going to have up to three guys starting CCP lab soon. One of them doesn't speak English very well. The program is in English, but you get to work at your own pace, so I think he'll be okay with that. We also work on outside reading as part of the program. Alberto and I decided we should find a Spanish book to read, so that the class becomes bi-lingual. This should help M. stick with it until he can enroll in Chicago's one highschool that offers ESL classes (English as a Second Language). The other two guys are fifteen and want to get back into school, but are too young to get into Dugan, and have been in too much trouble to get into regular high schools. They really want to go back, so we're thinking we may have more success with these guys than with the first two.

HOPE Program is getting going again. I've been working on tons of paperwork for the city and for the other grants with Yesica. We have a presentation tonight. I'm going to go, but I"m not going to give the presentation. She says this is a very difficult crowd because they are rude and disruptive. It should be fun. I"m also trying to figure out some new places we can go this year to give presentations. And I'm creating the new HOPE Program brochure.

Also, tutoring has been slow over the past few months, because whenever I ask people how they're doing in school, they're always doing fine and never need any help. But the other day, some family members of several of the guys told me differently. So I've also spent much of the week hunting these guys down and telling them I'm going to tutor them. I've got a full roster now. All it took was getting a couple of the guys to agree, and then the others were more willing to admit they were having trouble. And then people I didn't know started asking for help.

My art class hasn't met for awhile because of the holiday break. Then no one came on Monday because there was something else scheduled. I told them that they need to come so we can finish the comic book and start sculpting. So everyone agreed to come tonight. Then last night, Sr. Angie scheduled a Youth Council meeting for tonight. Every member of my class except one is on the Youth Council. So I"m going to the HOPE Program presentation instead. But really, any time now we'll have a comic book completed.

This morning was first Friday breakfast meeting for all of Holy Cross staff. My days usually don't start until noon, but I dragged my tired self up here at 8:30 this morning. Then Yesica and I finished our paperwork for the day, and then I did the internet research for HOPE Program and for my art supply costs, and then it was noon, and I have nothing to do until four when my first... tutee?... comes. So I guess I'll work on my four writing projects.

THE CONDENSATION ON MY BATHROOM MIRROR IS FROZEN!

It snowed yesterday

The whole day. I wake up and the snow is falling. The streets are wet. The snow is not sticking. I eat breakfast and look outside again. The streets are white. People are outside shovelling their walks, but by the time they are through, another blanket of white lays behind them. Sometimes the wind blows fiercely and whips up the snow laying on rooftops and on the streets. It looks like a white sandstorm.

The snow keeps falling.

This morning I wake up and the snow is still falling, albeit only in flurries. I walk to the bus, crunching through the inches and inches of white, thankful that I have snowboots. In places, the city dirt has left a grimy residue, so that they sidewalks are covered with a sickening grey slush. I don't have to wait very long for the bus.

I look out the window and I see huge jagged icicles hanging from the overpass. A train rides smoothly over them, and I wonder if people ever get hurt when the icicles fall. I notice that the trees on Western have a fat stripe of snow covering the northeast side of their trunks, all the way up.

My stop is 47th St. As usual, I opt to skip the 47 bus, and just walk that last mile. The trees on 47th St. have the white stipes on the northwest side. I wonder what that means.

My feet are separated from the sidewalk by two inches of compact snow. I wonder where I'll be able to go running in snow like this. The snowflakes flutter against my eyelashes with a tickling sensation. I walk under a bridge and see broken glass everywhere. But then I realize it is broken icicles.

There is a semi parked on the sidewalk so I walk through the gas station parking lot. The snow melts in strange colors here and greets me with a very strong smell of gasoline. I wonder briefly if the snow here is flammable. Wouldn't that beat all? I decide not to check. I don't have a lighter anyway.

***

I'm back at work now. Not that I had taken a vacation, but I'm back to doing my normal jobs now. We had sports tournaments and movies during the weeks that school was out. Jessica and I finished the Hope Program presentations for my art class. Jessica's another peer educator in training. Yesica took a few weeks off, so we finished without her supervision. I guess we're trained now. So more work is to come.

I apparently don't have any students for the CCP lab yet. At least, no one has told me if I do, and no one is here now. I'll probably see Bridget or Alberto today, and get the low-down on CCP plans for the year.

I hope it starts back up soon. I get bored way too easily.

Today I begin the final push to get my art class to complete their comic book. I want to start sculpting already. And I know they do too. That is going to be fun.

New Year's Eve- rated PG for language

Michael was put out that Holy Cross was having an alcohol-free New Year's Party.

He said, New Year's is all about the alcohol. Having New Year's without the alcohol is like having Christmas, but without Christmas trees, and without any mention of Jesus!

I asked him to exlain.

You see, way back in Ancient Egypt, where the first New Year's celebration took place, Secca, the Lion-headed Goddess, who was always full of rage, decided that she wanted to consume the world. Thoth (we think- it might have been Isis) didn't think that was such a good idea, so he (or she) made beer- the first beer- and gave it to Secca, who really really liked it. Secca liked it so much, in fact, that she drank until she was so drunk she forgot all about her plan to consume the world.

And now Holy Cross is trying to take away the true meaning of New Year's!

Anyway, I decided that, damn it, we're in Chicago, and I want to go to a big Chicago party with fireworks! We didn't know where we could find one, but a few people uncertainly suggested Navy Pier, and that sounded good to me, so that's where we went.

We took the train into the Loop in search of food. Our goal was to find some Chinese take-out, but we couldn't. The only restaurants open were fine restaurants, and we didn't have enough time or money to go to those. We finally found a Subway that was open, and got a sandwich. Carry-out only, so we sat at a bus stop across from a bank being guarded by cops with machine guns and ate there. The cops with machine guns were friendly. We waved at each other and called a few words back and forth.

Then we took a bus to Navy Pier.

Now, here's a cool thing about public transportation in Chicago. All CTA rides (trains and buses) were free last night. And all the bus drivers we came in contact with were exceedingly friendly. It was really neat.

We strolled into Navy Pier with about 30 minutes left before midnight. Now, in keeping with the true meaning of the holiday, we had to find some beer. We wound up moseying into um, I think it was called Billy Goat Tavern. We pushed our way to the bar, where three bartenders were hurriedly running back and forth. We waited about ten minutes before we wound up talking with a waitress with a thick German accent. She said she had been waiting for 20 minutes already, and that that was incredible, and not good at all. Finally, one of the bartenders took her order, but got it wrong. he tried to get her to keep the lagers, when she had order light beer. she kept saying no. So we offered to buy two of the lagers, and two ladies offered to buy the other two. Michael and I stood there with our lagers for another ten minutes, money in outstretched hand, trying to pay the bartenders for our holiday beer. It was getting near midnight, and they were still ignoring us, so we left, with the lagers, and found us a spot on the lakefront.

"To Secca!" I yelled. We toasted and drank.

"To Thoth, or Isis, or whoever-it-was!" I yelled. We toasted and drank.

"And to a damn good year!" I yelled. We toasted and drank.

The crowd was huge and happy, and music was blasting. The lights of the city on a clear night were sparkling off the water. I had free beer in one hand, and my very lovely husband in the other. And we were in Chicago, and damn did it feel nice.

Michael doesn't like beer, so he poured half of his into my cup. I'm not much of a drinker nowadays, so I couldn't finish that beer and a half. I wasn't drunk, but stood in awe anyway, as huge explosions of light ripped across the night sky. With all of our amazing modern technology, it is an invention from Ancient China that still gets me to jump up and down like a kid, wide-eyed with awe and fascination.

Afterwards, some people in the crowd lit up sparklers. I still don't like those much.

The crowd surged back toward the city. I found that there were random places that you couldn't walk through without yelling. Everyone yelled. Then a few more steps, and everyone was quiet again. At the entrance of Navy Pier, the crowd shoved together in a bottle-neck, rubbing up against each other, slowly moving forward. I mentioned to Michael that that was the gentlest mosh pit I had ever been in. He said that, not exactly in those words, he had been thinking the same thing.

Everyone in Chicago is a different color, and they speak different languages. I love the diversity here. It's comfortable to me. We walked a good mile through a part of town that I had never walked through before, and saw a skyscraper that looked like a castle. The crowd was still swelling around us, slowly breaking off into smaller pieces. When we reached the train, we saw a guy too drunk for his own good, and we were glad that he had people who cared about him with him- he was trying to go over the edge onto the tracks. They were restraining him bodily.

We hopped off the train and walked about a mile through our own Mexican Little Italy neighborhood, which is also a neat area. Once home, i climbed into bed, sleepy and content.

Here's to a the end of a damn good year.