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From the Archives: An Early SSW; A Close Encounter; Family, Friends, and Enemies

March 31, 2021

[Potential spoilers! If you’re not caught up on your Gunsmoke episodes (as of April 27, 1958), go listen to “Squaw.” Then come back here!]

Email to Colleague Suzanne Lee, April 8, 2016

From: Angelo Bonadonna <bonadonna@sxu.edu>
Subject: Yesterday’s Encounter
Date: Fri, 8 Apr 2016 08:53:11 -0500
To: Suzanne Lee <slee@sxu.edu>

Hi, Suzanne—it was good seeing you not once, but twice, yesterday!

I want to share with you a little outcome of our first encounter yesterday. Each week with my freshman writing class, I engage in an exercise I call SSW—silent sustained writing (the sibling of SSR). Yesterday when we met, I was on my way to class, and so you made an appearance in my lead-in to my writing session, which I’ve entitled “Miraculous Intrusions of the Day.”

The whole thing brings me a big smile (and some tears as you’ll see if you read on), and I’d like to share it with you. Thank you for being part of the miracles in my life. Let me know if you want me to track down and send you an MP3 of the Gunsmoke episode in question. :)

The writing is not complete or particularly polished, but it does, at the end, touch on grief, and attempts to admire a simple and genuine portrayal of it in the Gunsmoke program. On that level, I want to say again, I’m sorry for […] the sadness around much of our experience these days. But anyway—it was nice seeing you! —Angelo

Here’s the SSW I attached to Suzanne’s emaill:

Miraculous Intrusions of the Day
April 7, 2016:

So much happens in a day that is unexpected. I never would have guessed that I’d be telling Suzanne Lee about George Bahumas running up to me from behind and knocking me down—and how, (at least for the surprise factor), she reminded me of him, though as she said, she hoped there’d be a different outcome than the two of us fighting in the grass. [Comment from 2021: The fight with George Bahumas, (my oldest childhood friend), was the only real, Western-style, fist fight of my life. This was true in 2016, and, somewhat surprisingly, it is still true in 2021, given the the events of the past 5 years at SXU.]

But my surprise conversation with Suzanne is not what I planned to share today. I came to write about another unexpected miraculous intrusion of the day, the Gunsmoke episode, “Squaw,” that I heard on the Old Time Radio station during my morning commute. It caught me by surprise. I’ve never been a Gunsmoke fan, though the show does have some powerful claims on me. The TV version was a favorite of my mother, and I have such warm, simple memories of her watching the show in the basement (?) while she cooked. I have such a devotion to Bonanza, and I think some of the qualities of that show correlate, obviously, to Gunsmoke. Then there’s William Conrad, the great radio actor, maybe the greatest radio voice of all time, but someone destined to become TV’s “Cannon”—such a step down from the Matt Dillon he wanted to play on TV, after giving life to the role on radio. All these, and other, ideas are swirling as I was driving down this morning, listening to “Squaw.” By the end of the show, the tears are welling up in my eyes, unexpectedly. And the tears well up now as I write this. Why?

I’m reminded of King Lear, and the way Shakespeare was able to create a genre—the family drama—a category of experience so powerful, so unique, so important—and so likely to be neglected without the writing and art form, as propelled by a great innovator and artist. King Lear is a tragedy—not of civic matters, or personal ambitions, or tempestuous romances—but rather of parents and children, and their inability to figure out life’s complex ways of putting us in simple, necessary, and fundamental relationships. “Squaw” told of a family conflict, father and son, culture and culture, boy and mother, boy and step-mother—and on all levels, from Freudian sexual motivations, to anthropological confusions, to race relations, to 1950s mores, to fairy tale romances, to current xenophobias, and many swirling dynamics in between—the story strikes a chord.

The boy’s father has remarried—to a Navajo squaw, and the boy is now acting out, getting into bar fights in Dodge. So Matt gets involved, and he and Chester make a visit to the boy’s father. It turns out that the father has married this woman according to Indian custom (where the man “purchases” the woman from the father; note to self: really? is there any accuracy to this thread? is this a case of 1950s racism? but that’s another concern), but he has not married her legally. The boy is living in the shame of being a “squaw man.” His father has disgraced him. The woman is the same age as the boy. So there’s also the narrative of the dirty old man living with the young Indian woman. And one suspects the boy’s attraction to his step-mother causes no little stir to the mix of emotions—the strong hateful emotions he feels towards his new mother.

So Matt and Chester make their trip. They find a woman there—both very beautiful and young, and they further find that, though she can barely speak English, and the father can barely speak Navajo—the marriage is one of genuine love. Kudos to the narrative art of the writers—to “condense” that effect, that impression, in a few verbal exchanges. But the power and authenticity of the love come across to us after all these years and differences, and the woman, in her broken English expresses hope that Matt and Chester will come again—and be fed by her. The sense of hospitality—and the promise of family life is complete in the very brief scene.

Matt prevails on the man to come into town on Saturday to have a legal marriage performed. This will help alleviate the son’s angst—or part of it—or so Matt hopes.

But just what is the nature of the son’s problem? He is very deluded, it seems, about his own motivation—and near the story’s end, after all the horrible tragedy of the family drama has unfolded, Matt Dillon makes the observation about what the son thinks was his motivation. Matt calls out his rationalization explicitly. In doing so, he suggests that the boy was struggling with a mix of perturbed, dark, swirling confusions—about sexual desire, cultural bigotry, family loyalties, the father-kill motive, self-hatred, an Oedipal relationship with his birth mother, and a violence born out of frustrations of efficacy.

So many ideas here—but the tears, I’m sure, stemmed from some simplicities—simplicities of portrayal of the love between these two different people, the father and his new wife who could barely speak to each other. Then there was the portrayal of the grief (spoiler, sorry) of the woman for her dead husband, killed by his own son. The portrayal of grief was twofold. Again, I don’t know the cultural accuracy of the portrayal here, but I do feel the respect that was captured. The woman grieved in a song…and in a way that would not have been offered if it were not genuine. And then there was the knife and the blood—and Matt Dillon’s sleuthing of the crime scene, in part, through his explanation of the widow’s severing of two of her own fingers as an expression of grief for her loss of her husband.

More perspective from 2021

Suzanne Lee was one of those dear friends a professor is blessed to have as a colleague. At every phase of my career at SXU, Suzanne was there—teaching, working on committees, writing articles together, collaborating on teams, and helping me and others adjust to new realities in programs and institutional politics. When she became dean, I felt the School of Education had a chance to recover from its disastrous period of rudderless drift it had endured after the long, slow, and neglected decline of the prior dean. And when Suzanne became provost, I reveled in Rick Venneri’s hallway comment to me, delivered in a nod, with a smile and that confidential gravitas of his, “She’s a straight shooter.”

After Angelo died, she and her partner, Judy, appeared on our doorstep with a pecan pie. I was not there—the family was not there—but sister-in-law Jane was, and she relayed to us later the whole episode—how concerned the visitors were about the pie getting to us, how much they had hoped to be there for us. We couldn’t be there because the whole family had flown to Thailand to recover Angelo. And it now occurs to me: have I ever conveyed to Suzanne how much her gesture of kindness meant to me then, and how much it still means to me now?

It’s hard to blame President Joyner for what happened to Suzanne Lee—i.e., her departure from the university. The two apparently were friends and respected each other. But of course, Suzanne is gone, her career truncated too early at SXU. Whether or not it was Suzanne’s choice to leave, I hold Dr. Joyner responsible, in part, for creating an environment where so many careers have ended prematurely because of, in my view, her flawed vision of who we are, what we should be doing, and how we might position ourselves for growth.

It’s appropriate that, in relaying my impressions of Suzanne’s encounter of April 7, 2016, I thought of childhood memories with George Bahumas. Suzanne’s act was so child-like. She literally ran up behind me—quietly—and put both hands over my eyes, so as to say, “Guess who,” without ever saying it. Can you imagine? How did she have both hands free—wasn’t she carrying anything? Could such a thing happen in the 21^th century, with all our sacred notions of “personal space”? Could such a playful encounter occur between a dean and a faculty member ever at SXU?

Update 2021, Looking Back Again, on Angelo, through Suzanne

“Miraculous Intrusions of the Day,” Version 2, would go even deeper into the Angelo archives—before 2008, his year of graduation. Suzanne and I were having a conversation in the second-floor hallway by the stairwell, and Angelo approached to meet up with me for some reason (or maybe not? Maybe it was just one of those chance encounters, where we wound up falling into a conversation because we happened to run into each other? I’m not sure…).

As Suzanne and I conversed, in that animated way we had, I could sense Angelo looking on, maybe too intently, in my peripheral vision. When we finished and Suzanne left, Angelo looked at me, with that grin of his—I mean that really characteristic grin of his that is best described by Virginia Uphues in the documentary (at the 45:29 minute mark).

“What?” I said.

Angelo’s response was destined to become one of my favorite memories of him:

“She digs you!”

And that smile. And then, of course, my smile, because I did not expect him to say that. I didn’t feel a need to explain that I wasn’t Suzanne’s type. It was true that she dug me—and I dug her. Suzanne and I had such a friendship, one filled with sparkling eyes on both our parts and lots of inappropriate language (mostly on her part). Angelo’s observation was one of those moments where you see your kid has not only grown up, but is celebrating a kind of adult thing—here, love and friendship—in a way beyond the silliness and worry of the family drama (to get back to Lear and Gunsmoke). Angelo, in his natural hippie-speak, was being himself, capturing a truth, celebrating his dad, inhabiting the chance moment, but not letting it go till the love was communicated. I put it in the category of another comment he had made a few years earlier, where, after I had driven through the night on the last leg of a long family vacation, he commented (sensing, no doubt, my need for validation of my driving prowess), “You’re a warrior!”—a statement he made without irony, and one that caused (and still does cause) those suffusions of the heart that the recipient (till now) doesn’t talk about. Such power we have for one another as family and friends in affirmations like these. So seldom, it seems, do we (or I at least) use this super-power. It came spontaneously and naturally to Angelo in moments.

I think now of my trollish ways of interacting with loved ones, and I want to do better. And I’ll try.

Thoughts on the release of the Angelo documentary revision and the 10-year anniversary

Gen and Moira’s revised documentary on their brother, Angelo, has been posted! It’s here! And it reminds me:

Angelo was a new entity, the likes of which the universe, in all its miraculous and endless diversity, had never yet experienced prior to his existence.

In combining the genres of home movie and documentary, Genevieve and Moira have given our family a reminder, and the world a fresh glimpse, of that “new entity.” They’ve done so with grace and generosity, and we (his family and friends and yes, the universe) owe them a debt of gratitude.

Angelo had characteristic gestures that were uniquely his. But he also had the most common of all things—a charming smile, for example. Some of his better qualities should have come with a warning label. His smile, for instance, was so expansive and so charming that you had best learn to mistrust it at some point, or he would find some way to put you in an impossible bind (usually involving bungee cords). He was common and unique, but most of all, as one interviewee says (wink), “he was sweet.” His story is compelling and intriguing, as you might imagine when a young, charismatic, socially-conscious, world traveler and raconteur dies unexpectedly.

But this project was done by Gen and Moira as a simple gesture of love—for their brother, for their parents. Over the years since its first release in 2013, Gen stayed with the project, and nurtured it and its possibilities—which have ever been growing, and in different directions, in the background of her evolution as a filmmaker. Her commitment has been gentle—the best kind of long-view living-with her art and memories and care for her family.

I look at the evolution of this documentary and I’m reminded of the value of effort, commitment, process, patience—and yes, grief and love and affection—and sibling privilege, obligation, and commitment, and love of parents….

I look at this documentary, and I think of all the clips—where did they come from? I think of the “new” audio interview with Moira at age 6; of the “new” clips from the original interviews; of the new clips from the new interviews, and yes, from a technical point of view, I think of all the frame-by-frame editing, the color grading, audio normalizing, captioning, and organization and re-organization. I think of a story about a girl named Lucky, and how did that make it in?

Angelo was a new entity that the universe in all its diversity had yet to experience until 1986-2011. But the lesson I learn most from this documentary is that, special as he was, Angelo was but an example of the humanity that is all around us every day—that humanity that is so fragile and evanescent and moved on from, and, worst of all at times, ignored and discarded in our crass and dangerous and neglectful world. Angelo has now been gone 10 years, and also not at all. We’re just lucky enough to have a documentarian, an archivist, a “sweet remembrancer” as the Bard would have it (in the words of one of his more crass tragic heroes), who keeps him coming back at us, in different angles and moments, all with a universe of insight into that new entity that he once was, and still is, in and beyond these fleeting clips, pictures, and comments.

No explanation is needed of Angelo to those who knew him. He’s right there in our memories, animated in the full explosiveness of song and dance and eating and arguing and smiling. But to those who didn’t know him, they can catch glimpses of him through this documentary—and in ways that will make you feel the loss many of us have been struggling with and turning the corner from—with success and failure, and smiles and tears, and hope and love.

Watch—and try not to miss him. Thank you for that, Gen and Moira!

The Day Before February 5 [2021]

[Note: This entry is an example of two SSW sessions written during workshop with my freshman writing class at the start of Spring Semester, 2021. SSW stands for “silent sustained writing,” a weekly practice of 40-minute writing sessions conducted throughout the semester where the entire class, including the instructor, “looks at the world as a writer,” selects genres and topics of the author’s interest, and writes. The weekly sessions build into a “writer’s notebook,” that explores what Nancie Atwell calls an author’s “writing territories,” and that approaches the task of “teaching” writing through a process of “cultivation” of a writer’s identity, rather than through specific instruction in teacher-chosen skills. Early in each semester, I try to model how the process works for me–and how it has evolved for me as a writer over time. It’s about writing as a way of being, rather than something learned, mastered, and checked off….]

February 4, 2021

Clearly, this notebook project is inseparable from my grieving process for Ang, which now approaches that magical mark of 10 years, and the restarting of living. At least my notebook in recent spring semesters has functioned this way. Last year, my first ENGL 120 SSW entry was on Ang’s birthday (January 23), and this year, we’re five days later, and just about dead center between the January 23-February 5 nadir of the year for me. And by a moment of grace the past weekend, I was given a story to write about by Ang’s brother, Terry.

Terry deserves, as do all my kids, his own writing notebook. He’s been impressing me so much this past year, as he wrote both a book (A Wonderful Waste of Time) and an eleven-part pretty massive podcast called “Chicago’s Civil War”—a documentary on a little-known Chicago treasure, the baseball city-series between the Cubs and Sox that ran from the early 1900s to 1940s. We had Terry over for dinner on Saturday the 23^rd, when we celebrated Ang’s birthday, and he surprised me—with something I knew, but had forgotten. He told the story so well, it made me laugh and cry—and appreciate in his telling and his memory, just how present Ang is to him. Ang’s spirit is there, and in different ways, in each family member’s little and big stories.

Terry actually told us the story in the morning of Ang’s birthday, when Loretta and I drove over to his apartment to finally deliver his Christmas present, a brand new, leather recliner. Terry needed some moving help to clear space in his apartment. So he and I first had to throw out his very junky blue reclining chair. We carried it to his alley, and looked at it there, and then he sat in it, almost as though to say goodbye, almost as though this were all wrong—this throwing away of that chair that had been in the family since 2000.

Terry, as always, knew the exact date we had gotten the blue recliner. He sat in the chair, and rocked, and we wondered if this would be the last time he or anyone else would sit in it. The weather was nice for January 23rd, with a bright sun, and Terry began his story. It just seemed so right to see him there, in his chair in the alley, with the sun on his face telling the story of Adriana’s chairs—plural, for they started out as two chairs in 2000. I began to wonder if Loretta and I made a mistake in buying him a new recliner for Christmas. Before we delivered it to his apartment, we set it up in our living room, and kept it there for the four weeks between Christmas and Ang’s birthday. And we grew to like it there. We teased him that he wasn’t going to get it—that it seemed to fit our house pretty well. Well, looking at Terry, telling his story in his old chair in the alley in the sun—led me to think, maybe we should have just let well-enough alone, and kept the new chair at our house for Terry to use when he came over, and for him to just hold onto Adriana’s blue chair…

Adriana was a nurse, a co-worker of Loretta’s at NMH. Back in 2000, she offered Loretta two blue rocking recliners that were in really good shape. They were swivel recliners (an important detail to get the full effect of what follows). Adriana had to move cross-country, and so she had to unload lots of possessions. We had a big old Chevy Astro van with removable bench seats, so I said, “Sure, I’ll pick up the chairs.” Thankfully, I could enlist Terry, Age 12, just the right age to be of real use in moving furniture. Terry recalled every detail of the ride to Adriana’s northside condo on that morning 21 years ago. “It was a Monday,” Terry said. He commented that the ride to Adriana’s was uneventful—because he had a seat in the van—the passenger side seat in front. However, his seat was not guaranteed for all the driving we had to do that day. Since the day of the pickup was a Monday, it was my day to pick up my mother, Terry’s grandmother, from her afternoon dialysis treatment. So, Terry and I were, first, an efficient moving team, and then a ride share. And then we had one more stop, even after dropping Grandma off.

We got to Adriana’s condo, made pleasant small talk, and loaded the two chairs into the van, upright, as though they were Captain Kirk’s command chairs from which to control the fate of the universe with placid ease and resolve. They took up the whole back of the van, so there was no question we made the right choice in removing both benches.

Off we went to Howard and Ridge on the north side to pick up my mom. And here’s where Terry’s storytelling kicks into another gear. With Grandma in the car, he couldn’t sit up front. So the only place for him to go was in the back, and the only place to sit was in one of the recliners. His description of that trip to Grandma’s house from dialysis had all the joy and terror of a 12-year-old driving home in a bouncing van, in a recliner, no seatbelt; it was priceless. It was one of those new, weird experiences that becomes memorable when one is at that threshold age. To me, I listened in a mixture of delight and horror at my decision to let him travel in such a dangerous way. I think back now on how I tried to be efficient—pick up chairs, use son’s help, pick up Grandma—and, last on the list, pick up Ang who, in his summer before high school, was at his first cross country practice.

Part of the delight of Terry’s story was the memory of my mother’s reaction upon her first realizing the situation. She was like, “Oh,” and she nodded and got in. That “Oh” spoke of an accepting disposition of the chaos of “life with people”—of a regular ride home with a reckless/responsible son she trusted; who was in the midst of that busy, insane time of raising numerous children, some small; who himself was raised by Italian, voluble, chaotic parents. She said “Oh” acceptingly, got in, and began talking.

There may have been a comment from her, or even a judgment, but all I remember was the typical, water-off-a-duck’s back, opposite of non-plussed reaction of my mother to the antics of, well, just about everyone about her. In her later years, my mother was serene. Accepting, not pushing back. She had been through it—whatever “it” was—the Depression, WWII, emigration and immigration, a difficult marriage, five kids, widowhood—and at the end she exuded grace and gratitude for all she had—her kids, her grandkids, and her health—such as it was. Terry’s story didn’t delve into all that feeling, but his story, as my kids’ stories so often do, brought the memory of the “Oh,” back to me. I heard it. Truth be told, she might not have said “Oh” that way that time—but it was her signature gesture and attitude in that last, blessed phase of her life, about 4 years’ worth of widowhood and weekly, shared pickups and drop-offs for dialysis. In telling the story in the alley, Terry was activating so many memories of our family—my role as beleaguered parent/son, his role of a 12-year old mover/adventurist, and Ang’s role as a cross country novice that summer before high school, dutifully taking on a summer activity, not necessarily the one of his choice, but something that kept him focused and purposeful—a responsible oldest child transitioning to a new phase in his life.

What Terry did tell about Grandma was the way she invited us in when we reached her home, and told us that she had some leftover pizza from the night before. “Did we want any of it?” Of course! So we ate and talked and soon it was time to embark once again on our multi-pronged mission of the day: Leg 3 of our cross country extravaganza, driving to Fenwick to pick up Ang from that first cross country practice, that, by now, had ended quite some time ago.

I think back now, as I must have thought then: it all made sense: Fenwick was on the way home from Grandma’s house, so why wouldn’t we plan it this way? As we were leaving, my mother said, “Do you want to take the rest of the pizza with you?” Of course! This was before the time when Gen would develop the theory of the “pizza clock” and how it resets (or doesn’t need to). But we knew even then, you just don’t say no to a box of pizza you could take home with you.

The ride to Fenwick was uneventful. Terry was back in the front seat, in a seatbelt, and we were just two moving guys driving home, with a short stop to pick up Ang. Ang needed to be picked up, and not just for transportation. His practice was a rough one. While he was never in horrible shape physically, he was not especially conditioned for long distance running either. This was Ang’s introduction to the Fenwick way, the competitive, “we’re distinctive,” we’re special kind of aura of that proud institution. So of course, a first workout was going to be … challenging to the point of being brutal, and brutal it was.

Here’s where we need Terry’s deadpan narrative style. He painted a picture of Ang’s appearance or mood or state at that time. First, Ang wasn’t all that enthused about having to do an activity—any activity—that summer. But as the oldest child, he often got, as is common, the rawest deal in “requirements,” strictness, and toeing the line. He had to get a job in high school, whereas the younger ones didn’t. He had to run errands and give up his time for various family responsibilities. He had to organize his pursuits around the family’s schedule in ways not so focused on in later years. And on it went. So Ang was a little dispirited to “have to” go to cross country in the first place. And on this day, as Terry told it, there were so many compounding factors: the hot temperature, the workout, the lateness of our arrival, to name a few. And so, we arrived to see a completely defeated new member of the Fenwick community—wilted and annoyed, slouching to the car.

Terry got out to greet him. He told him, “Ang, there’s no place for you since the back is filled.”

Pause. Then with the flair of a game show host, he opened the side van door with outstretched hand. And there it was, positioned just right: a reclining chair and a box of pizza waiting for him. And it was one of those moments … when the harp plays, the slant of light glistens, the hand of God touches you, and salvation opens up before you.

I remember such moments with Ang when there’s a turn: things are going so bad, but then not so much anymore. And then the storytelling starts happening (the “best of all breathing,” Faulkner called it), and the smiles start coming, and all the “what happened before” is just part of the setup of the joy and fulfillment that will become a story, years later, told by a guy in the alley with the sun in his face, saying goodbye to a worn-out, over-used recliner.

There’s that. But there’s also Angelo’s way: the way things would work out for him up until the very end. All of that sweat and responsibility and grousing led to a comfortable chair and a pizza. Like the man chased by tigers in Kahn’s story (another family go-to meme), Ang found the strawberry on the mountainside, and “it was the sweetest tasting strawberry he ever had.” Angelo, and I bless him for this, could turn on a dime, and let go of a bad moment and lean into the new thing that was happening and inviting a smile and a different conversation. And Terry’s reaction to it was something of a unique possession of his alone (for it was completely lost to me till he told the story and brought it, and my mother’s “Oh,” back to me). Terry has held on and helped us remember, and on February 4, I couldn’t be more grateful to both sons, to all my children, to Loretta, as we close off, this very day and in SSW, our first ten years of life after—and still with—Ang.

The Day After February 5 [2020]

[ Note: This entry is a companion SSW (silent sustained writing) to the previous posting two weeks earlier.]

February 6, 2020

Is there such a thing as a grief hangover? Is the whole thing a hangover? Two weeks ago, on Ang’s birthday, I wrote that I had to power through to February 5, and then start breathing again. Today is February 6, and I’m breathing, but it’s a bit labored and troubled. I was thinking about the “getting through” or “getting to”—but not the “getting beyond.” What does February 6 and beyond look like?

I think such things because today had such prominent features to it—a mixture of (1) the world in your face (snow day in February) and (2) entrenched defiance on my part not to let the world interrupt who I was, and wanted to be, and what I wanted to do today. I’ve fallen into a solitary morning routine the past year or so, and, like an old cranky person, I’ve grown protective of it. I wake up early, stay off the computer (the only time of the day that’s true), and I engage in an increasingly regular ritual of getting ready. I make lunches; I brew coffee with the French press; I leave a full thermos for the girls to have when their day starts hours later; I clean up the night’s dishes and run the dishwasher, hoping to earn some credit (and to help the kids avoid censure for the mess they left); I put on WFMT, and find accompaniment in the soft tones of both the music and the through-the-night announcer; I shower; I dress, my clothes having been laid out the night before (another old-person tendency creeping up on me—way over-preparedness about trivial things, obsessiveness in procedures); I look through the house to see what the others will wake up to, and I try to smooth out what could disturb or inconvenience them.

Today was just another one of these mornings, but everything was amped up, all these tendencies put on steroids. First, I woke up way early. Was it the worry over the weather? I wish I could say it was, but the truth is I’ve been waking up earlier and earlier—to such an extent that I wonder if I sleep at all at night. It’s become just another brief nap—that I, of course, need more of, since I’m not sleeping at night. Is it the January-February grief cycle that’s disturbing my sleep? Maybe. I think it’s more the grief I feel over my broken heart of life at SXU—the stress of committee and department work, the inability to hit the stride of making things work, finding the truth, living our mission, bonding with colleagues, transitioning out of past roles, and on and on.

The morning routine has been a kind of retreat for me into my own solitary peace. I’ve felt so alone—whatever the cause—be it Angelo or the sorrows of SXU—and I’ve found comfort in the quiet and regularity and interiority of computerless/deviceless domestic procedures, followed by the zoned out, but purposeful drive in, with minimal traffic (so important to beat the traffic, and my earlier and earlier start to the day was motivated by a quest to find that time that was early enough to beat the rat race. I’m not sure I found it, but I know it’s before 4:55 AM. At some point I’m going to begin hitting up against the prior day’s late traffic rather than this day’s early traffic).

So this morning—out of a desire to protect the routine, which was threatened by the snow, and to increase the psychological medicine of “being of domestic service” to help the family get started on their days, and to lean in a bit hard to the “man of the house” father stereotype (but in a good way?), I woke up an hour early, not planning to do all I did, but just falling into it. I decided to unbury three cars, get them started and warmed up (not that they’d stay warm, but so that the windows could all be cleared, at least for the time being). Loretta’s car had a broken scraper, so I switched that out with mine. That was hard to do, since mine is like the most luxurious, most functional scraper-brush on the market. But I felt so proud to surprise her, and so proud of my sacrifice, which seemed to say, “I will do anything for you, dear. (Yes, even this.)”

This morning, in some kind of productive frenzy, I even turned on the computer before going out to dig out the cars. I thought, “I could start the cars, brush them off a bit, leave them on, come back in the house and read a report, then go back out and finish up the cars.” I was moving—and I wanted to get ready for SSW, about which I had changed my mind several times (write about grief? write about SXU’s troubles? write about this afternoon’s committee meeting and our lost way?).

It was later when I got in the car and started driving that I realized what was going on with all my productiveness that morning. A song came on—as it often does—and a miracle of emotion and utter stopping of what was going on, and a transport to the Other Place (where you needed to be all along) takes place.

I came to realize there might be something wrong with my morning routine, that I might be escaping from life, withdrawing inward, trying to control the uncontrollable, trying to secure some inner peace—but maybe leaning in too far with it.

I have an image from long ago of me wiping the kitchen counter in a circular, repetitive motion, in a Zen-like way, while the kids, all five of them, when they were young, were in the other room, being joyful and crazy and annoying and impossible. My wiping motion was control: “I’ve pushed back the forest, and this space is mine, and it’s clean, and it’s regular, and look, it’s clean…and round and round, it’s clean, see…? Peace.” There in the kitchen was my little clearing of counter—and the radio or little under-the-cabinet mounted TV with the ballgame on, quietly providing other context, giving me the illusion of not complete escape into the interiority of my own circles and clean space…: “I am still connected (and how could I not be, with those five dervishes of energy, just in the other room, bursting with so much growth and drama and other reality?).”

So much of my dream in life has been the quest for such peace, and I wonder if my current morning routine—justified in this way, is still just a little too much. Am I out of balance? Did the growing of the kids, and their movement into other rooms, farther away, allow me to fixate too much on my circles?

Yesterday we had Ang’s godparents and his cousin Jane and her husband and three dervishes of kids over to have a celebration of Ang. I’m grateful for the bustle of life in such an event. Loretta’s day in the setup was nonstop—a full day beginning with a work out, Mass, a trip to the cemetery, shopping at Costco, shopping at Jewel, going to Freddies (yes, Freddies) to pick up the chicken parmesan, gnocchi, lasagna, ravioli, meatballs, and salads. I am grateful for the way the kids all chipped in, the way everyone came over, the conversation, laughter, storytelling, and reminiscing. I was a happy and sociable participant in the gathering—but also a little quiet and off to the side. Was I thinking about my morning routine, that was just a few hours away? I was a bit.

Was I feeling the grief hangover then? Was the hangover the result of the social interaction or the intense inner withdrawals and worries over getting things done?

One big lesson I learned from Ang was that “we’re not in control”—and a version of that lesson came home to me when the song came on. Without planning, without setup, the transport took place. It was Bing Crosby and Grace Kelly in a duet of “True Love,” from the movie High Society (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fl5EPEzukNQ).

When the song came on so many of my prior—and unperceived—anxieties and preparations became apparent. I had been stressing out about how to honor this 9-year anniversary; maybe I would write about random and brief Ang memories in SSW (the stoplight at 58th Avenue that starts up a conversation with him every day?); maybe I would focus on the gratitude I felt for the text message from Lorenzo, “thinking of you today”; maybe I would write about SXU’s leadership, and how they are pulling the rug from so many supports that have enabled SXU to grow and be strong over the years—i.e., maybe I would not write at all about Ang, because it’s just too hard, too involved—next year will be the year, that ten-year mark, and my “tenure” in grief will have been earned, and then the turning point.

The song brought Bing Crosby’s silky smooth baritone that alone in itself is miraculous. But the duet is with Grace Kelly, who is more than “royal”—what is Grace Kelly? Magic is too harsh a word; there’s something softer, more beautiful, more transient and eternal, hopeful, and absolute about her, or the symbol of her. Together they sang:

For you and I have a guardian angel
On high with nothing to do
But to give to you
And to give to me
Love forever true.

It’s romantic love they’re singing of—but it’s another kind of love, too. The love of a protector. Is Ang the guardian angel? Or is there a guardian angel unseen keeping him close to me? The words and feelings of these lyrics swell up and fill me. Time, leisure, love, protection, generosity, sharing, and eternity: Bing and Grace sing it, and I drive on snowy streets without a word from Ang these long nine years, but with a guardian angel’s efforts, breaking through, giving me a forever that might be, maybe?, redeemed.

January 23, 2020

[Note: This entry is an example of an SSW session written during workshop with my freshman writing class at the start of Spring Semester, 2020. SSW stands for “silent sustained writing,” a weekly practice of 40-minute writing sessions conducted throughout the semester where the entire class, including the instructor, “looks at the world as a writer,” selects genres and topics of the author’s interest, and writes. The weekly sessions build into a “writer’s notebook,” that explores what Nancie Atwell calls an author’s “writing territories,” and that approaches the task of “teaching” writing through a process of “cultivation” of a writer’s identity, rather than through specific instruction in teacher-chosen skills. Early in each semester, I try to model how the process works for me–and how it has evolved for me as a writer over time. It’s about writing as a way of being, rather than something learned, mastered, and checked off….]

So it begins again. Another writing notebook. Today is a special day. You can tell so much about a semester’s writing from how it starts. I hope my students can grow into this routine … I feel I need to help it work for them, to model, to get them started. But today is special for other reasons, or rather one big reason. Today is Ang’s birthday, and there’s so much to remember—so much to think about. Loretta will be going to All Saints cemetery this morning to be close to him. It’s her tradition on January 23^rd, one that was never quite right for me, and as she says, we all grieve in our own ways. For me, one of the most healing things I could do, one of the best ways for me to “be with” Ang is to write about him, and so the two worlds meld. I’ve had so many SSW sessions thinking about Ang, being with him. I look forward to today’s.

Thirty four, and just under nine years since he left us. That other anniversary, February 5, is in two weeks, and so I’ll need to power through till then, and then start breathing again. Is it this time of year—the doldrums of late January? Or is it the need to reach 10 years beyond losing Ang—that theory of mine that there would be a 10 year adjustment to the loss of him, whereby my life could slow down, stop, turn, and then slowly start up again—with new memories, new foundations, new hopes…. One more year, and I’m feeling that my suspicion was right—the time was needed, is needed. Ten years is about right, at least as a minimum.

On Ang’s birthday the past few years I find myself going back to 1986 and that experience of childbirth, or rather witnessing childbirth, for the first time. That was an eye-opener. But then, everything about Ang was an eye-opener. I feel a need to convey something of Ang to my beloved students. He was so special to me, and they are all special, or becoming special to me, the way students always do. I hope they let themselves go places today that surprise them, touch them, and open up new possibilities.

That day in 1986 was about five days before the Bears played in and won their first Super Bowl. I was a huge fan that year—as was just about everyone in Chicago. I was scheduled to work my security job that Sunday and miss the game … but Ang was born and so I was able to take off. That was his first gift to me, and it was a good one. On the day of his birth, while I was at Walgreens picking up some needed things (diapers?), I saw in the checkout lane a very expensive (to me, at that time) commemorative magazine previewing the big game. It was $5.00. I was very poor at the time and couldn’t justify spending that much on a frivolous thing like a Bears magazine. But Ang gave me the excuse! It was a present for him. And it was, and when I told him about it when he reached the age of reason, he cherished it, he read it, and he kept it close (till it became tattered and lost). But really, standing there in Walgreens, I just wanted that magazine. On Super Bowl Sunday, I placed him in his baby seat, put him in front of the TV, and told him, “Ang, you’re about to see something that no living person has seen, or could appreciate. You’re starting out life well, young man.” And he continued well, becoming a huge Bears fan and sports fanatic, in the healthiest way. He died on February 5, 2011, the day before the Packers won their last Super Bowl, and I thought, wryly, what Ang would do to avoid seeing the Packers win….

But that was not really true. Though he did have a healthy and playful sense of rivalry with the Packers, he wasn’t bitter about their success. Terry reported grousing to Ang about the Packers in one of his last conversations with him. Not only had the Bears missed a very easy late-season opportunity to eliminate the Packers, but they proceeded to be eliminated by them in the first round of the playoffs. As he often did, Angelo transcended the dynamic saying, “Yeah, it sucks that the Bears aren’t in it, but it’s the Super Bowl!” And so, on he moved, with joy and purpose, commencing one of his last organizational acts, collecting baht, and running a pool for the Super Bowl for his friends in Thailand. (We got the winnings the next week when we traveled to Thailand to bring Ang home.) We have pictures of him running the show, organizing things, at a bar, of course, looking as though he were conducting significant business, but really just making squares.

I wish I could create a picture of Ang for my students. I think of my longstanding reflection of “no explanation needed”—the great comfort in there being so many people who knew Ang intimately, and who “got him”—who would remember actions and gestures and stories and tone of voice—immediately, instantaneously—deeply and expansively, without any words. Angelo was a landscape, and the memories of him are the flash of lightning that illuminates the entire territory in an instant, giving you a view of more and more dazzling imagery than you could imagine unless you had first seen it.

In so many ways, he was just an ordinary college-type kid—funny, self-absorbed, conscientious, concerned about social justice, concerned about social outings, tireless, indulgent, generous, the center of attention, the guy in the background, the bursting through life of life itself.

His friends still visit him on Facebook, posting links to news and culture that remind them of him. Sometimes they just call out to him in longing for him. I don’t visit the page much, just as I don’t visit the cemetery, I guess. I’ve been fearful of locking down on one experience of him, becoming dependent on it, and then having it go away. The part that doesn’t go away is my own memories…. The store is limited … but he’s still so alive in those moments. He speaks through them, in a way that seems new and changing. He was such a presence for me, and he always surprised me—so I’m missing those surprises—but I still have the smile, the wryness, the energy, and the illuminated landscape that makes me feel “wow.”

We’ll celebrate tonight, with cake, and one of his favorite meals, probably pizza—though we’ve been debating what he would choose, since his diet changed so much in the last few years. We will gather and be the normal, well-adjusted family we always are. We might tell some Ang stories, but maybe not. We all will continue grieving for this lost landscape—so known, so understood, so appreciated—in our own ways.