Mike Bryson=
*****
Death of a Strip Mall
January 22,=
2008
&nbs= p; Nothing but a pile of concrete rubble surrounded by a chain link fence.
&nbs= p; I had known it was coming, of course, but the sight still came as a shock as I drove along Jefferson Street on my way to get a haircut last week. The West Side Shopping Center was bulldozed and broken, and all that remained for the heavy machinery to do was to cart away the jagged piles to make room for another Walgreens Pharmacy.
&nbs= p; I don’t mean for this to be a poignant elegy for a razed civic monument= . The West Side Shopping Center was a strip mall -- and as a rule, I detest strip malls. They’re monotonously uninspiring in appearance, mindlessly redundant in design, and cheap looking; in a word, ugly. Moreover, they are= one of the most potent physical symbols of that nasty 21st-century malaise, urban sprawl.
&nbs= p; As strip malls go, this one at the corner of Jefferson and Reed was plain and functional, its small scale undeniably understated compared to the behemoth “shopping centres” currently in fas= hion. Indeed, its humble appearance made it easy to miss amidst the visual clutte= r of the West Jefferson retail landscape -- but that low profile belied its significance within Joliet’s history.
&nbs= p; Constructed over fifty years ago to serve as a new retail center for the fast-developing West Side, the shopping center represented the first wave of the shift in businesses from the downtown retail core to the western edge of Joliet. Whi= le it may have seemed innocuous at the time, the move heralded the forthcoming= departure of major retailers and small businesses from east of the river. By the late 1970s, with the construction of the Jefferson Square and Louis Joliet indoor malls, the transformation was dramatic -- and downtown would face nearly two decades of hard times before partially rebounding in the mid-1990s.
&nbs= p; Given all this, I expected to be unmoved at seeing this strip bite the proverbial dust. Besides, it’s the American way: throw up a featureless commerci= al building, use it awhile, then rip it down and start all over. Hardly anythi= ng we construct these days is built to last, not even multi-million-dollar sports stadiums. If the mighty, enduring cathedrals are the signature structure of Europe, then surely the strip mall is the defining American architectural i= con.
&nbs= p; Yet, I can’t help but feel somewhat melancholic about the death of the West Side Shopping Center. It was located just a few blocks from my grandparents’ house on Oneida Street, and was one of my regular haunt= s as a kid. I used to ride my bike there to browse the shelves at the Book Marke= t, buy a chocolate mint chip ice cream cone at Baskin Robbins, or pop into the cozy confines of the Joliet Prescription Shop to get a wiffle ball or a com= ic book.
&nbs= p; Who would’ve thought the rubbled remains of a strip mall would bring out = the nostalgic sap in me? = ;
Contact
&nbs= p;
Valentine’s Day, Joliet Style
February 14=
, 2008
&nbs= p; This Valentine’s Day I plan to give my wife of fifteen years the royal treatment. I’ll pledge to her my undying love and loyalty in whatever spontaneous poetry I can muster. I’ll add some dramatic hand gestures= to emphasize my sincerity. Then, I’ll take her to Al’s Steak House & Cocktail Lounge for dinner.
&nbs= p; I recently renewed my affection for that venerable yet unpretentious establishment after many years of living far from Joliet. As a kid I’= d go there on special occasions with my parents and grandparents. After a school dance, it was traditional among my pals to take our dates to Al’s for= a classy dining experience.
&nbs= p; Then something happened . . . something truly insidious. My friends and I achiev= ed the worldly and cynical age of 17, and suddenly Al’s Steak House wasn’t good enough for us. Oh, no, we had to traipse off to Chicago in search of culinary novelty, outrageous expense, and big plates with artfully puny portions. We thought we were so cool. Ah, the folly of youth.
What we didn’t realiz= e then, and what some undoubtedly fail to recognize now, is that Al’s is not = just a local landmark; it’s a national treasure with word-of-mouth cachet = that far exceeds its hometown reputation. Or so I discovered one dark autumn nig= ht in the capital of all things cultural, New York City.
&nbs= p; I was in town on business and basking in the electric vibe of that great metropolis. While walking through a subway station in midtown Manhattan, I approached an exceedingly urban-chic couple who were waiting for a train, a= nd asked them directions. We struck up a friendly conversation. As usually hap= pens in such situations, they asked me where I was from.
&nbs= p; “Joliet, Illinois,” I answered truthfully, bracing for the inevitable smirk or look of puzzlement. Hip young residents of New York, Chicago, or any other = big city traditionally do not acknowledge the existence of places like Joliet, let a= lone react enthusiastically to them as places of residence.
&nbs= p; But one of my new acquaintances surprised me. He looked at first startled, then downright dreamy.
&nbs= p; “Joliet? I know Joliet!” he enthused. “Al’s Steak House. The best = New York Strip Steak I’ve ever had was at Al’s.” He turned to= his stylish and spectacularly bored girlfriend, who somehow was missing the awe= some import of his revelation. “Honey, this guy’s from Joliet!”
&nbs= p; Now think of it: in a teeming city of eight million souls I met a person at ran= dom who not only knew of Joliet, but spoke of it with heartfelt pleasure and delight -- all because of the undeniable excellence of the one and only Al’s Steak House.
&nbs= p; The mere memory nearly moves me to tears of joy. And so today I say to my cheri= shed wife: “My darling, I love you and adore you. Happy Valentine’s = Day. We’re going to Al’s.”
Contact
Mapping the Future of an Industrial Landscape
March 20, 2=
008
&nbs= p; The city of Lockport and Chevron Corporation have an opportunity to do something together that is truly extraordinary. By investing in the remarkable transformation of 120 acres of an abandoned fuel refinery in northeast Lock= port from a toxic post-industrial wasteland to a restored open space, Chevron has begun a compelling narrative of environmental reclamation in the heart of t= he historic Des Plaines River industrial corridor.
&nbs= p; The key question now is, what’s the next chapter in the story?
One possibility is that the painstakingly restored land, part of the ongoing effort to clean up the 580-acre petroleum complex formerly operated by Texaco, will be sold and developed for banal commercial uses such traditional manufacturing or intermodal transportation. If pencil-pushing accountants and greedy administrators get their way, that’s what will happen.
Another option is far more = exciting and potentially path-breaking, and it will require true leadership: the creation of a landscape in which industrial re-use and green development is coupled with environmental restoration. A place where commerce and nature don’t exist antagonistically, as in the past, but creatively engage a= nd reinforce one another. The result would be an environmental PR dream for Chevron, and an economic boon for Lockport.
Consider that the site is b= isected by the I&M Canal and its bike/hiking path, which together provide an existing ribbon of recreational green space and natural habitat that could = form the foundation for further environmental restoration and parkland expansion= .
Moreover, the property sits= between several significant and ecologically valuable protected lands within the I&M Canal National Heritage Corridor: Lockport Prairie just to the sout= h; and Isle a la Cache Preserve and Romeoville Prairie Nature Preserve a few miles= to the north.
Given these geographic adva= ntages, the Chevron site could become a local showcase for the progressive re-use of former industrial land, on a par with other ambitious redevelopment projects such as Chicago’s master plan for the Lake Calumet region’s economic and ecological revitalization.
Here, then, is a 21st<= /sup>-century vision for a place where corporate environmental ethics dovetail with civic economic regeneration. Green building design, native landscaping, low-impact industrial processes, habitat conservation, and integrated recreational spa= ce would all contribute to the land’s ecological health rather than cause further degradation -- and energize to the local economy in the process.
At first blush, it all soun= ds like the far-fetched fantasy of an urban tree hugger. But stranger things have happened.
Just go a few miles south o= f Joliet on Route 53 and you encounter the Midewin National Tallgrass Prairie. Who would’ve dreamed a mere twenty years ago that a 24,000-acre decommissioned TNT factory would eventually become the site of not just industrial re-use but also the largest tallgrass prairie restoration east of the Mississippi?
Chevron and Lockport have t= aken a great first step in a journey of environmental renewal. Here’s hoping, though, they have the imagination to hike the road less travelled.
Mike Bryson
(mbry22@sbcglobal.net) is a resident of Joliet and an advocate of urban nat=
ure,
those neglected places where the natural and built environments coincide.
Spring’s Return: Reel Mowing Revisited
April 24, 2= 008
&nbs= p; Spring, it seems, has finally blessed us with its presence. At long last, I can sto= w my snow shovel in the back of the garage and get out my favorite outdoor implement: my manual reel mower.
&nbs= p; In the year since I acquired this energy-saving marvel, I’ve lost ten po= unds and strengthened my faith in the virtues of using old-fashioned, manual too= ls. But initially I worried how my throwback lawn care routine might affect my already precarious standing among the power-mowing men on the block, all of whom have yards that look a lot nicer than mine.
One neighbor took a long lo= ok at my new mower in action, shook his head ruefully, and muttered, “No comment.” Another came across the street one day while I was mowing a= nd with a sly grin asked me to keep the noise down because he was having a hard time hearing himself think.
&nbs= p; Yet, I sensed a benign tolerance of my quirky behavior underneath their friendly ribbing; and no-one could dispute that my tiny front lawn, with less square footage than the average kitchen in a Naperville McMansion, seemed to be thriving under the mower’s subtle yet effective ministrations.
&nbs= p; Fellow reel mower enthusiast Steve = Brandy of WJOL Radio kindly invited me to promote the station’s pro-environm= ent initiative last spring by helping him snip the lawn of a lucky listener. In= a spirit of healthy competition, Steve wore his White Sox hat and I my Cubs c= ap; but on that historic day we proved that even bitter baseball rivals could w= ork side by side for the good of the biosphere.
Another time out front of m= y house, a curious little boy asked me if he could try out my mower. “Go ahead, young fella,” I replied. “Take it for a spin.” From the l= ook of joy on his face as he struggled to cut a swath across a stubborn patch of crabgrass, I knew that a noble work ethic was being formed inside his very soul.
A gentleman named Mike (no relation) from Crest Hill contacted me out of the blue last fall, so he cou= ld bequeath to me his vintage edge mower before moving to Tennessee. This remarkable antique tool surely will add novelty and excitement to my upcomi= ng Ceremonial First Mow of Spring.
&nbs= p; Finally, a 71-year-old Joliet lady named Pat, who still cuts her yard with a reel mo= wer from the 1920s while her less enterprising husband lounges indoors, wrote:<= /p>
&nbs=
p; “We have lots of his and hers things here, including
lawns. One of us thinks weeds are green and with today's high cost of =
gas
does not climb aboard the large riding mower too often. I, on the oth=
er
hand, venture out with sunglasses and large brimmed hat for a qui=
ck
cardiovascular workout on my weed-free golf green.
“Viva
la push mower!”
Well said, Pat. Let the cut= ting commence.
Send your musi=
ngs on
mowing to Joliet resident Mike Bryson at mbry22@sbcglobal.net.
What about the Real Bridge Street?
May 29, 200= 8
&nbs= p; Have you heard the buzz about the proposed Bridge Street Town Centre near the I-= 55 and I-80 intersection? Dizzying visions of upscale boutiques, trendy restau= rants, hundreds of construction jobs, and busloads of free-spending tourists have Joliet’s leaders all atwitter about the biggest local retail developm= ent since the Louis Joliet Mall in 1979.
&nbs= p; O&S Holdings, the California company behind the massive 314-acre project, bills Bridge Street as a “mixed-use lifestyle center” of shops, restaurants, a movie theatre, a hotel, office space, and a lake complete wi= th singing gondoliers. This dazzling shopping and entertainment Mecca, develop= ers and city council members claim, will really put Joliet on the map.
&nbs= p; Despite the civic love fest for Bri= dge Street, I can’t seem to get past the theme park fakeness of the whole idea. Apparently, though, this is the hot new trend in mall development (ye= s, let’s use the word; it’s a mall). Rather than re-invest in and rebuild existing downtowns, we create ersatz “Town Centres” at the periphery of cities, on the leading edge of sprawl and away from the perceived ills of u= rban cores.
&nbs= p; The whole point of this Disneyland-inspired artificiality is to cater to our nostalgic longings for the quaint and vibrant downtowns of yesteryear (very= few of which still exist) while totally erasing our sense of place. As one of t= he managing partners at O&S remarked about the existing Bridge Street Cent= re in Huntsville, Alabama, a common refrain from enthused shoppers is that they don’t feel like they’re in Huntsville anymore.
&nbs= p; That’s exactly what Joliet needs, isn’t it? A place of conspicuous consumpti= on so wondrous, so unquestionably perfect that no-one in their wildest dreams would imagine that they’re actually in Joliet.
&nbs= p; I wonder if anyone else remembers that we already have a Bridge Street in tow= n. It’s a short stretch of road that runs from the near West Side to the= Des Plaines river, where it becomes Jackson Street at the 1930s-era steel lift bridge. This Bridge Street is about as far from the fantasy world of the contemporary “lifestyle center” as Pluto is from the sun.
&nbs= p; But the real Bridge Street is also a direct route to Joliet’s actual City Center, a downtown district that dates from the mid-nineteenth century and = has yet to rebound fully from the exodus of its retailers in the 1970s and 80s = to the West Side shopping malls. Gritty and imperfect, this Bridge Street is nevertheless a perfect place to stop and watch the river flow -- and contemplate the disconcerting future prospects of historic downtowns in an = age of tony megamalls.
&nbs= p; Just to be safe, I think the city might want to rename scrappy little Bridge Str= eet. That way, all those tourists eager for a complete and self-contained lifestyle/shopping experience at the new Bridge Street Town Centre won̵= 7;t make a wrong turn and end up in downtown Joliet by mistake.
&nbs= p;
Contact Mike B=
ryson at
mbry22@sbcglobal.net.
Blackie Saves the Day
July 3, 200= 8
One day last month, I had o= ne of those mornings when everything seemed right with the world.
I awoke early, the kids sti= ll asleep, and drank my coffee in silent reverence. I fed the cat, and she lic= ked my hand in gratitude. Life felt good.
Even my commute to work was pleasant: I rode my vintage ten-speed to Joliet’s Union Station to ca= tch the Chicago train. As I pedaled down the ancient limestone bluffs and then = over the Des Plaines River, the crisp morning air rushed past my face, accentuat= ing the endorphins coursing through my bloodstream.
My good luck continued at t= he office, where nary a phone call or meeting interrupted my quiet academic labors. Strolling to my afternoon train, I thought of how satisfying it wou= ld be to complete this lovely day with an invigorating bike ride home to the b= osom of my family.
Upon my return to Joliet, I unlocked my bike, donned my helmet, and set off -- but something was wrong.= My front wheel wobbled wildly, and I quickly noticed that one of the axle nuts= was missing. Some fiend apparently had tried to steal my front wheel -- and tho= ugh he had been foiled by the locked cable snaking through the spokes, the woul= d-be thief had incapacitated my bike.
I’d just have to walk= home. Suddenly all the sunny feelings I’d nurtured throughout the day drain= ed out of me like cold beer from a tipped-over pint glass. People stink, I fum= ed darkly.
Trudging along the sidewalk= , I joylessly noticed that the Jackhammers were playing at home and watched a patrolman escort happy baseball fans toward the ballpark. I considered reporting the petty crime committed against me, but no . . . the police couldn’t help. It was just bad luck, and I’d have to swallow th= is bitter pill of misfortune.
Then I recognized the cop -= - it was Officer Blackburn, one of my neighbors from down the street. “Hey, Mike,” he said in his distinctive voice as I approached. “How‘re ya doing?”
I told him my sob story. He= looked thoughtful, then pulled out his radio. “This is Blackie. I gotta run a guy home. Only take five minutes. OK. Yep. Bye.” He grinned at me and opened his trunk.
“Let’s get your= bike in the car. I’ll give you a lift, alright?”
I was speechless . . . and = grateful . . . and humbled. I had been irritated at the day’s unpleasant turn = of events, disgusted by the incivility of my species, and convinced that the powers of law enforcement would ignore my plight. Now, I was being given a police escort home.
Thank you, Blackie -- not j= ust for your act of neighborly kindness, but also for restoring my faith in the fundamental goodness of the human race. I guess it really was my lucky day.=
Joliet native Mike Bryson can be reached at mbry22@sbcglobal.net.
The Ballad of Dennis and Terry;
or, How To Get a Business Plan Approved by the Joliet City Council<= /b>
August 7, 2= 008
As I read the news last wee= k about the Joliet City Council’s fast-track approval of the $2 billion industrial development project by CenterPoint Corporation, I couldn’t help but think about the story of Dennis and Terry Yohnka.
Remember the Yohnkas? They = were the couple who supposedly were going to drag down property values and create sl= um conditions on Joliet’s tony Western Avenue by turning their two-story American colonial home into a (gasp!) Bed & Breakfast.
Their zoning change request= last year was approved with numerous conditions by the Plan Commission but thereafter shot down by the City Council, which bent to the pressure of some Cathedral Area critics worried that a Western Avenue B&B would increase noise and traffic as well as breed crime and other unsavory activities. (Perhaps these individuals thought that one of the Bs in B&B stood for “Brothel.”)
Soon after the Council̵= 7;s decision was announced, a For Sale sign appeared in front of the Yohnkas= 217; home. It stood in ironic contrast to the numerous red-slash-over-the-B&B signs posted in many of their neighbors’ yards.
Times have changed, though.= Where once city leaders quaked at the prospect of a West Side red-light district,= now they can’t wait to give the green light to big business development projects.
Just a few months ago they = fell all over themselves to approve the 314-acre Bridge Street Lifestyle Centre out = by Joliet Junior College. Now they’ve blessed CenterPoint’s propos= al to develop a massive 3,300-acre rail yard / intermodal facility / industrial park just south of town.
As I look back on the B&= ;B flap, I think I can see where the Yohnkas went wrong in their entrepreneurial naiveté.
First, their idea was way t= oo small, as it was limited to their existing home and lot. If you want action from the Council, you have to think BIG in terms of land annexation/rezonin= g -- like the CenterPoint project, which will eat up five square miles of rural land.
Moreover, the Yohnkas really didn’t get the whole job creation thing. Absurdly, they proposed to r= un the Bed & Breakfast themselves. What about providing employment for Joliet’s teeming masses, particularly the construction trades? In contrast, CenterPoint has promised to create thousands of jobs -- and I bet that at least a few dozen of them will exceed the $10 per hour wage level.<= /p>
Finally, the Yohnkas picked= the wrong folks to offend. You can’t go rile up a group of moneyed citize= ns with clout and expect to get your way, no matter how innocuous your request. That’s not how the big boys in Corporate America do it. They’re careful to limit their resentment-breeding land grabs to dispersed rural fo= lk in unincorporated townships with no political voice.
So take heed of Centerpoint= ’s example, local entrepreneurs -- think big, move fast, promise the moon. And when you get City Council approval, send me a thank-you note.
Joliet resident Mike Bryson accepts two-cent donations at mbry22@sbcglobal.net= .
Parklands Tragedy in Illinois
September 1= 1, 2008
Republicans aren't generall= y known as good environmental stewards. Or such were my impressions while listening= to the insane-sounding chorus during Rudy Giuliani's keynote convention speech last week, when oil-mad delegates shouted "Drill, baby, drill!" to the rafters of the Metrodome until they were hoarse.
But here in Illinois, one of nature's worst enemies isn't a Republican. He's our Democratic governor, Rod Blagojevich.
The beleaguered Illinois De= partment of Natural Resources stunned citizens and lawmakers alike two weeks ago by suddenly announcing that 11 state parks would be shut down at Governor Blagojevich's directive, including some treasured facilities right here in = our region -- Channahon Parkway, Gebhard Woods, and Illini State Park.
After November 1st, the pub= lic will be barred from entering these and eight other parks scattered across the La= nd of Lincoln. No more fishing, no more hiking or biking, no more canoeing, no more environmental education or cultural interpretation programs. The only things staying will be the wildlife (which presumably will not be eliminate= d, if only because it doesn't draw a paycheck) and a woefully inadequate skele= ton crew for basic maintenance. <= /p>
And the great fiscal saving= s from this brilliant move? Probably less than $1 million, according to Morris may= or Dick Kopcsick, who is valiantly organizing a state-wide protest of the cuts. That's a pitifully-small sack of change, compared to the vault-sized two billion dollar deficit in the budget.
Such slashing and burning of Illinois' legacy of environmental stewardship, though, has been a recurring pattern throughout the tenure of the Blagojevich administration. This announcement is just the most recent example of how state support for environmental resources has eroded, like dry topsoil blowin' in the wind.
Ironically, several of thes= e doomed parklands were purchased by or donated to the state by local residents dedicated to nature conservation and recreation. The initial parcel of the 2,482-acre Kickapoo State Park, for example, was financed by folks in and a= round Danville. Another Illinois gem, picturesque Lowden State Park near Oregon, = was secured in the 1940s with the help of matching funds from Oregon citizens.<= /p>
Now in this cynical era of = fiscal mismanagement and political dysfunction, Illinois' timeless natural treasur= es are being locked up to save a few pieces of silver.
It's pitiful. Embarrassing. Shortsighted. And unbelievably dumb, considering the ready examples of fund= ing methods used by other states.
Consider Wisconsin, home of= a superb park system. Like most other enlightened states, Wisconsin charges modest user fees at its park facilities. While Illinois residents and visit= ors have long enjoyed free access to state parks and natural areas, perhaps it's time to consider Wisconsin's fee-based approach, which would supply a rejuvenating revenue stream to the DNR courtesy of the citizens who value a= nd use the parks.
The Blagojevich alternative= -- barring the gates to these magnificent natural resources, and thus damaging Illinois' hard-fought legacy of environmental conservation -- is a travesty= .
Joliet resident Mike Bryson (mbry22@sbcglobal.net) urges concerned readers to cont= act Illinois governor Rod Blagojevich about his proposed park closures.
Save the Parks Rally in Gebhard Woods
16 October = 2008
&nbs= p; Nothing stirs the blood like a good old-fashioned public protest. So when I heard a= bout the "Save the Parks" rally organized by Morris grassroots activist Rachel Pfaff to decry Governor Rod Blagojevich's planned shutdown of 11 Illinois state parks, I knew I had to go.
On the crisp and clear Satu= rday morning of October 4th, I headed to Gebhard Woods State Park in Morris with= my one-year-old daughter in tow. We arrived around 10 a.m. to find the woods bathed in sunlight, and the lovely autumnal glow belied the gloomy specter = of the park's impending closure.
The park was filled with pe= ople, some flush with the pleasant exertion of hiking a mile along the I&M Ca= nal from William G. Stratton State Park, where the rally had begun. Hundreds had gathered to hear speeches by local parks advocates and area politicians. Children and dogs -- both sporting "Save Our State Parks" t-shirt= s -- frolicked in the dewy grass, while others drank cold lemonade, nibbled home-made muffins from a local bakery, and chomped hot dogs browned on a sizzling kettle-drum grill. Colorful hand-lettered signs, many made by kids, added a festive appearance to the scene.
At the center of this extra= ordinary event was the unassuming yet inspiring Rachel Pfaff, who attended in a wheelchair after being limited to bed rest during her late-term pregnancy. Despite her newfound notoriety as a parks advocate, Pfaff is no veteran organizer or professional environmental lobbyist. To the assembled crowd, s= he described herself simply and humbly as a housewife with "three kids and one on the way," someone who felt she just had to do something rather = than helplessly watch our treasured parks be shut down and locked up.
While all of the rally's sp= eakers delivered effective testimonials, the most fiery rhetoric of the day was supplied by a tall, bearded gentleman named Tom Wall, president of the Bett= er Fishing Association of Northern Illinois. Wall has long been a staunch defe= nder of the Hennepin Canal Parkway, another one of the state parklands threatene= d by imminent closure. The BFA was formed in 1957, he noted, to prevent the de-watering and abandonment of the historic Hennepin Canal.
His voice rising with indig= nation, Wall leveled some withering criticism at Governor Blagojevich and Senate President Emil Jones, who have yet to act decisively on the Illinois General Assembly's approval of park funding restoration. "It's hard to have to repeat the same thing [fighting for the canal] 51 years later because of a couple of idiots!" Wall railed, to raucous cheers from the crowd.
After the speeches were ove= r, and the strains of music from the Gebhard Woods Dulcimer Festival players faded into silence, my daughter and I headed home, tingling with the energy that radiated from so many people dedicated to the park's preservation.
I hope the gates will still= be open when next we visit.
Contact Mike B=
ryson of
Joliet at mbry22@sbcglobal.net.
A Child's Testimony: Reflections on the 2008 Presidential Election<= o:p>
20 November= 2008
Just two short weeks ago, a= young senator from Illinois with a gift for oratory and a belief in what he calls "t= he audacity of hope" gave a party in Chicago's Grant Park to celebrate his election as the first African-American president of the United States.
Witnessing such an event, o= ne assumed to be impossible for so long by so many, was like seeing a new chap= ter in American history unfold before our eyes.
To be sure, focusing solely= on the narrative of race in Barack Obama's victory misses the point of his campaig= n, which steadfastly resisted being bound by identity politics. Obama communic= ated a message of inclusion and unity that crossed racial, ethnic, generational,= geographic, and even party lines. This was no more evident than in Illinois, where 51% = of white voters and even 15% of Republicans voted for him.
Yet, it's Obama's personal = story that makes this step in our nation's journey so powerful -- his unique mult= icultural identity as the son of a white Kansas mother and a black Kenyan father; his= improbable, yet quintessentially American, rise from humble obscurity to blinding succe= ss.
Make no mistake: we have not eradicated racism in one fell swoop by sending a black man to the White Hou= se. But somehow I feel that my fellow Americans' attitudes about race, especial= ly the views of our children, will never be the same.
I say that because of my six-year-old daughter, Lily, who followed the last weeks of the presidential campaign with the interest of a curious first-grader. At breakfast on the morning of November 5th, she matter-of-factly asked me, "Who won, Daddy?"
A chill trembled down my sp= ine as I silently handed her the front page of the newspaper, which showed the smili= ng faces of Barack, Michelle, Malia, and Sasha Oba= ma at the victory celebration. "President Obama," she read from the caption.
I knew at that moment for m= y little girl -- and potentially for millions of other children around the country -- something important had happened, something quiet and true. In her eyes, th= e man named as our next president was someone who just happened to have dark skin. He, his wife, and their young daughters would soon occupy the White House as our First Family.
Lily took all this in witho= ut surprise or amazement, without feelings of shock or triumph, without any hi= nt of racial awareness or self-consciousness. For her, at that moment, Barack Obama wasn't our first African-American president; he wasn't a lauded symbo= l of social change.
He was just our new preside=
nt,
plain and simple.
Here, then, is something to= ponder. In our recognition of this milestone as one of the great "firsts"= in American history, we should not forget the lesson our children can teach us: that from now on, the idea of an African-American president will be a perfe= ctly natural thing.
Email
Joliet resident Mike Bryson at mbry22@sbcglobal.net.
Memories of Christmas Past
25 December= 2008
&nbs= p; Last week, the combination of relentless holiday advertising and woeful economic news was making me depressed, so I ventured forth in search of Christmas pa= st. My journey took me only a mile from home, but spanned almost of century of tim= e.
&nbs= p; I visited my 94-year-old grandmother Millie, a lifelong resident of Joliet wi= th a remarkable memory for family lore and local history. We sat in her kitchen,= a warm and familiar place for me, and talked about her Christmas experiences = as a young girl.
"In 1922," she sa= id, "I was eight years old. We moved into an East Side rental house that had somet= hing really special: electricity. That year, we had our first Christmas tree with lights."
In those days, people tende= d to make Christmas rather than simply buy it. "Mom made popcorn balls and other sweets, and she sewed clothes as special gifts for each of us. We decorated= the tree with paper chains and home-made ornaments."
Other traditions were both = thrifty and charming. Instead of hanging up stockings, the children set out pie tin= s in expectation of Santa's visit. Come morning, each tin would contain a single toy, one piece of fresh fruit, and a little bit of home-made candy. "We didn't have a lot," Grandma admitted. "But we thought we had."
Then in 1929 the Great Depr= ession hit; the family's life savings of $1,200 vanished. My great-grandfather Leslie's salary was cut by two-thirds, but unlike many he kept his job. A talented musician, he earned extra cash playing banjo in Charlie Formento's Dance Band, a well-known fixture on the Joliet-area dance hall circuit.
Grandma remembers several C= hristmas Eves in the early 1930s when her father was out at a gig. "I was the oldest, so I got to stay up late with Mom after the younger ones went to be= d. We listened to Guy Lombardo on the radio and waited for Dad to come home."= ;
The stories kept coming. Ev= entually, though, I had to leave my grandmother's house and head to work. We had talk= ed for just over an hour, yet she had given me much in that short measure of t= ime -- a respite from the cares of the present; a richly detailed narrative of = family history; and a vivid glimpse of my great-grandfather, a man I never met but have always admired and respected.
Thank you, Grandma. I love = you. Merry Christmas.
Mike
Bryson (mbry22@sbcglobal.net) lives in Joliet.