Author: Sheila Quirke

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Election Eve Thoughts, And They Ain’t Pretty

Pardon me while I exhale, slowly.  Tomorrow, I want to believe, our great national nightmare will be over.  Any hanging chads aside, within 36 hours of this post, America will have elected its new POTUS.

I’m wrong, of course, and I know it, because regardless of what happens tomorrow, the hate genie has been released from its bottle. We are a nation divided and whomever is elected tomorrow — America’s first woman president or America’s first reality television star president (and, dammit, I cannot believe I just typed those words), no matter the margin, lines have been drawn and people are ready to rumble.

This election cycle has put all of us through a beating.  We’ve become unhinged, on the precipice of what surely feels like what I imagine America felt like in early April of 1861.  For those of you who are not historians, that references the start of the Civil War.  And I do not mean to be hyperbolic there.  The degree of hate and intractability of whatever position any given American holds feels almost tangible to me.

Families are torn.  Generations are divided.  White and black and rich and poor and young and old and man and woman and gay and straight and urban and rural and faithful and heathens — we need to categorize one another, size one another up, see which side of the line we are standing on, so we know how to think about and treat each other, depending on how a vote is cast.

It is ugly out there and the resolution that we will achieve tomorrow — ELECTION DAY! — is, I fear, not going to resolve a damn thing. It feels incredibly cynical to type those words, to hold that thought, and if I am wrong, hallelujah, but I don’t think I am.

Sigh.

How will tomorrow's election cookie crumble? Cookies courtesy of Tag's Bakery, Evanston, Illinois.
How will tomorrow’s election cookie crumble? Cookies courtesy of Tag’s Bakery, Evanston, Illinois.

I remember the anxiety of elections eves in 2008 and, to a lesser extent, 2012.  2016 is nothing like those election cycles.  The lies and venom are relentless, the distress palpable.  I remember feeling hope and pride, a sense of unity and possibility in those days.  The good things feel so improbable right now.  Tonight I feel dread.  Honest to goodness dread.  It sucks.

There are slivers of light that I seek out.  So many of my friends are going bonkers about #pantsuitnation — a sort of secret, but totally not secret, HONYesque feel good Facebook group for those who support Hillary and want to exercise that support in a safe space online.  It’s lovely, really, the stories traded by people who fully support their candidate.  There is optimism and hope that is tangible and legitimate.

There is also fear.  Legitimate fear.  Hard core fear.  A Muslim woman fearful for her family and the attacks they experience on the daily from fellow Americans.  A mother of a transgender son who moved across the country to escape bullying and ridicule.  Two gay men holding a newborn, not wanting to lose their status as fathers.  All of these people have so much at stake in tomorrow’s election. Their fear cannot and should not be discounted.  Nor should the hate they experience.

I see friends, good and amazing humans, working their asses off to elect the first woman POTUS.  Their efforts are genuine and sincere and I applaud them.  GO, FRIENDS!  I am so proud of you for doing something, engaging, walking door to door, driving across state lines to swing states, preaching the gospel of voting and elections.

But as I keep scrolling, down just a little further, I see other friends, equally good and amazing humans, who are less excited.  Holding their nose as they cast a vote for someone they believe to be the lesser of two evils.

These are primarily friends of color who remember a different Hillary, a less enlightened Hillary who talked a lot about super predators and whose husband, during his own tenure in the White House, contributed to a criminal justice system that put a hella lot of people of color behind bars.  And welfare reform that contributed to racist stereotypes about African American mothers being perpetuated and institutionalized, while making it harder for those same African American mothers to raise their children.  There are other friends posting that if Hillary is elected it will be a win for the white feminist, but not for feminists of color.  And why in the Sam Hill is she so silent about the Dakota access pipeline?

The thing is, they are not wrong.  It’s hard to reconcile.  It’s hard to hope.

I cannot conceive of a President Trump.  I cannot conceive of an America moving backwards, in fear, retreating to a romanticized idea of what “great” means.  Our democracy is at stake, and, again, I am not being hyperbolic here.  American ideals and its revered, if also romanticized status as “the best country on earth” are what is at play on the table.  Do we hate or do we hope?

I don’t hate, so I must hope, even when it feels hopeless.

Tomorrow I will vote.  My sons will go with me.  I will cast my ballot for America’s first woman president.  I wish I were more excited about who that woman is, but I can hope and will hope that she has evolved from her past missteps.  I can hope and will hope that a ringing of American voices encourages her to put people over politics and donors.

But I have no illusions.  Eight years with an African American president has made certain Americans cling to their fading privilege, gasping for those days of yore when America was great.  For them. It is inevitable, I know.  People cling more tightly when they feel threatened, and an African American president followed by a woman president is very, very threatening to many an American.

Hate and fear are potent forces.  No matter who wins tomorrow’s election, hate and fear are now part of the American discourse.  We will all be dealing with the consequences, no matter how the election cookie crumbles tomorrow.

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Cubs Star Anthony Rizzo Is Already a Champion to Chicago’s Childhood Cancer Community

Tonight, the Chicago Cubs are on the cusp of history — game seven of the World Series.  The pressure could not be more intense, yet there is a joy in the air, a sense of hope, and happy anticipation for some of their most vulnerable fans living with childhood cancer.

Ball player Anthony Rizzo is no stranger to hope.  Diagnosed with Hodgkin’s lymphoma at age 18, the young ballplayer was successfully treated and eventually found his way to Chicago.  Teammate Jon Lester is also a cancer survivor.  Their bond is strong (you can read about it HERE or watch a story about it HERE) and captures a side of these Chicago Cubs that many fans don’t see, but that those in the childhood cancer community are well acquainted with.

A frequent visitor at Lurie Children’s Hospital of Chicago, Anthony Rizzo is a symbol of hope and possibility for children and families coping with a childhood cancer diagnosis.  He visits frequently, spending time with patients, posing for photos, gifting baseball caps and tickets along the way.

For the families and patients who have come to think of Rizzo as one of their own, his support and recognition means the world to them, as they draw on his example of perseverance, coming out the other side, and defying expectations no matter what comes your way.  All important lessons for a child or teen coping with cancer.

A few patients and families treated at Lurie’s for cancer shared their photos and experiences with me.  File these under “inspiration” and enjoy.  And let’s all hope that tomorrow we’ll be flying that W.

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Joe meets Anthony Rizzo

Joe absolutely loves Rizzo. Joe was going through a really tough chemo where he would go weekends at a time with no food … his mouth full of sores and his taste buds shot.  When the cereal RizzOs came out we were in the hospital on one of those endless weekends.  My mother-in-law got Joe a couple boxes of the cereal and brought it to the hospital, and guess what??? He ate a couple bowls of it!!!

He got to meet Rizzo and Joe asked him, “How did you go through chemo while already in the MLB?”  Rizzo told him, “You are great and will overcome.  When you feel okay, get out and play ball, when you don’t, rest.”  Joe took that to heart and always had that in mind.

What Rizzo did for Joe — giving him words of encouragement — had more of an impact that anything we could have imagined. Joe has stayed positive and always looks up to Rizzo.  Flavia, Joe’s mother

 

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Maya and her mom, Rachel, on Anthony Rizzo

I will say it over and over again…Anthony Rizzo is not only a phenomenal ball player, he is an exceptional person. The amount of time, care and financial support he dedicates to children and families with cancer is truly inspiring. Not only have we come into contact with him at Lurie, but he sponsored Maya’s Water Sports camp experience through Children’s Oncology Services this past summer and he has supported events she has been a part of through the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society and Gilda’s Club, he is serious about the work he does in the cancer community and it shows.

Seeing him walk into Maya’s hospital room larger than life with that charming smile was not only a diversion from a rough treatment day or two, but he reminded us to stay hopeful. His visits gave us permission in those moments to believe in a future for Maya. There is no greater currency than hope when going through cancer treatment with your child. Anthony Rizzo is living proof that Maya’s dreams are not over just because she had cancer and that those dreams don’t have to be compromised despite the challenges she has faced as a result of treatment. Watching him play ball during the World Series only reaffirms this for us and I can’t help but think that the pure joy and enthusiasm he exudes is even greater because of his perspective on life. He is so fun to watch and we are all huge fans!

He also gave Maya the opportunity to make a great memory with her grandpa when he gave her tickets to a Cubs game during one of those hospital visits. My dad is a lifelong, diehard Cubs fan and he was able to accompany his granddaughters to their very first Cubs game because of that generous gift. That was an experience that will be treasured forever and it came at a time when making memories was at the forefront of all of our minds. I will always be incredibly grateful for that.  Rachel, Maya’s mom

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Mia and Anthony Rizzo

Anthony Rizzo is not only an incredible sports hero to our family, he is a role model. Great at his craft, yet, even greater as a human being. An inspiration on multiple levels. You can tell where he gets it from when you meet his family. They are kind to no end. Having a child like Mia – fighting cancer – it helps to have motivation, inspiration, and friendship from people like Anthony. You root hard for him on the field and even harder off the field because you know he has been there. Struggled, suffered, and overcame. We love the RIZ. #44  Lisa, Mia’s mother

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Jack with his hero, Anthony Rizzo

There is no more awkward time in this world than middle school. To be diagnosed with cancer and in treatment in middle school? Doubly bad. When every other boy is moving on, growing-up and getting stronger, you are stuck in a miasma of ick. 2 years out of treatment, our now 14 year old knows that he is mentally tougher than other kids his age and that grit sets him apart.  But he struggles to make up for the time lost to sickness, a time where his peers passed him up and passed him by. He focuses on being stronger and rebuilding his health and his mental game. But for the most part the positives are just theory and he wonders if he will ever get all the way back.

And then you walk through the doors on the oncology floor at Lurie Childrens and Anthony Rizzo is there. The living embodiment of all the good that can come from all the bad. The bigger, the stronger, the faster, the better. For a young teenage boy not sure if he will ever catch up with his peers because he “lost” years to sickness and chemo and hospitals and doctors, Anthony Rizzo is the proof. Proof that maybe it is not all just talk trying to make you feel better. It is proof that you can get there. You can catch-up, you can move ahead, you can be better. You are better.

Anthony Rizzo is a reminder that even with the worst possible odds, you can be the best possible version of you. Your had cancer, it is part of you but it does not define you. It might even help make you better than you ever thought you could be. Ann, mother to two sons with childhood cancer

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Kyler and Anthony Rizzo

I recently thought that if Kyler had survived cancer he would grow up to be someone like Anthony Rizzo. Kind, compassionate, caring, and for the cause of helping other kids with cancer, on top of being a great athlete. It made me smile. Thanks be to Rizzo.  Rebecca, Kyler’s mother

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If you would like to support the good work of the Anthony Rizzo Family Foundation, click HERE.  

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Bad, Bad Leroy Brown: The Funeral Recessional That Never Was

This post is part of ChicagoNow’s monthly “Blogapalooza” feature where bloggers are provided a prompt and required to write and publish a post within an hour.  Tonight’s prompt was this:  “Pick a song that has special meaning to you and explain why.”

My Dad’s been on my mind a lot today.  Probably because the first thing I saw this morning when I flipped on the old Facebook was THIS – a collection of photos and memories chronicling my Dad’s last months before he died.  It was a horrible, horrible time for my family.  Something I feel I am still reeling and recovering from in many ways.

Then tonight, dishes done, kids in bed, getting ready to settle in for some serious binge watching of something, anything, our landline rang.  Yes, I still have a landline, it’s true.

It was a volunteer for the local Democrats looking for my Dad.  Inexplicably, I heard myself saying, “John Quirke is dead.  May I take a message?”  What the what?  Not exactly certain how I might deliver that message, but the offer was out there.

The volunteer politely declined, offered his condolences, and clearly wanted to get off the line.  Yeah, but no, I was still talking, grateful for the connection to my dead Dad, someone looking for him, calling for him, reminding me that in odd little ways, he was still a part of the world.  I started chatting about him, reassuring the man that had my Dad still have been alive, he would have been a lock for Hillary.  And I just kept talking, providing more reassurance that my Dad’s four kiddos were also good for Hillary votes.  There was an awkward, “That’s great!” from the other end of the phone, then the call was over.

I smiled, thinking that while my Dad wasn’t successful in passing along his deeply entrenched Catholic faith to any of his four children, he did manage to solidly pass along his Democratic faith to those same four kiddos.  I wondered, as I never asked, which of those might have been more meaningful or important to my Dad.  I honestly don’t know.

I own that while I don’t practice the Catholic faith, I am marked by the cultural significance of growing up Catholic — something that is simply part of my fiber.  Familiar traditions, spoken prayers, comforting memories of childhood.  As the siblings of my parents die, I will lose my last tangible connection to the Catholic church.  My Dad’s funeral may very well be the last time I would step foot in the church and parochial school that was my home from kindergarten through eighth grade.  So many happy memories there, so many challenging ones, too.

Me and my Dad, c. 1979. This photo was taken at a wedding where he would have definitely danced to "Bad, Bad Leroy Brown."
Me and my Dad, c. 1979. This photo was taken at a wedding where he would have definitely danced to “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown.”

When my Mom died, my sister and I both delivered eulogies.  It was never in question and simply worked into the funeral mass.  That same sister and I both expected to eulogize my Dad, ten years later, when we were surprised to learn that families were no longer allowed to eulogize a loved one or provide any kind of personal remembrances at the funeral mass.  Catholic practice now demanded that funerals be focused on God and faith, and not so much on the deceased.

Hearing that was crushing, I’ve got to say.  I’ve delivered four eulogies in my life and each of them has been my love letter to someone I miss dearly.  My personal goodbye, a way to put into words a sliver of what loving them had gifted me in life.  I did this for my Mom, then my daughter, my aunt (a nun herself), and had mentally crafted the words to my Dad’s eulogy for the past twenty years, since my Dad suffered his first heart attack at age 60.

My sister and I bickered about it at the funeral home.  I was stunned and bereft, full of words that needed to be spoken about my Dad, for my Dad, the last time I would ever stand next to his body before it was committed to the earth.  And I was being told no.  It was unacceptable.

I arranged for the funeral director to call the priest directly, the same priest from my childhood, a man my father had had a very complicated relationship with after the good father simply forgot to show up to the mass where my parents were to renew their marriage vows in honor of their 25th anniversary.  There was a church full of friends and family who had flown in to help celebrate a silver anniversary but no priest, so no vows.  Worse was his refusal to apologize to my parents.  It put both my very Catholic parents off going to mass for a few years.

Anyway.  Fast forward to me literally begging this father, the holy one, not the biological one, to be able to eulogize my Dad.  I pleaded and appealed, hoping to find his humanity.  “Three minutes,” he said, “I’ll give you three minutes, but then I’m cutting off your mic.” I expressed tremendous gratitude,  but all I could think to myself was, “Yeah, peace be with you, too, buddy.”

I laughed after hanging up the phone, remembering, from the fantasy funerals for my Dad that had played out in my head for the past twenty years, that there was no chance in hell I would be able to get to hear the song I had always imagined would play as his recessional — the song that is played as the casket is carried out of the church after the funeral mass.  That song being Jim Croce’s “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown.”

Bad, bad Leroy Brown from the southside of Chicago, baddest man in the whole damn town, meaner than a junkyard dog.

That song transports me to my years of childhood, watching my parents dance to it at all of my cousin’s weddings, and I had a lot of older cousins.  I loved to watch my parents dance.  They had a complicated relationship, my folks, but they always made sense on the dance floor.  They met at a dance hall in 1957, the Holiday Ballroom.

So, yes, I didn’t push the idea of Bad, Bad Leroy Brown as my Dad rolled out of church for the last time.  I was happy with my three minutes.  But tonight, this one is for Da.  Take it, Jim Croce, and for those of you at home, this works best with the volume up, way up.