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Of all the terrible things that have happened in Haiti, it’s hard to imagine anything worse than this week’s earthquake. That country has known sorrow since its inception. A product of the first and only successful slave rebellion in the New World, it has seemingly been punished ever since. Two centuries of revolution, neocolonial meddling, poverty, and hunger had already left Haiti in shambles, and the last thing it needed was a natural disaster of this magnitude.

In 2004 when I was in grad school, I took a course called “Marginal Literature in Latin America” that studied representations of marginalized people—indigenous tribes, slaves, women, the poor, children—in Latin American literature. One of the books we read was The Kingdom of This World by Alejo Carpentier, set in Haiti during the slave rebellion and the years following as its people struggled to establish a new nation.

I wrote my final paper for the class about the book, on the heels of more terrible news out of Haiti. President Jean-Bertrand Aristide had just been forced out of office under threat of an armed rebellion, and President Bush was sending American Marines to Haiti as peacekeepers. My paper was about Carpentier’s portrayal of history and revolution in The Kingdom, and how he used the techniques of magical realism to teach the importance of constant struggle in the face of the nation’s cycle of tragedy.

Going back and reading it nearly six years later, it’s actually rather apt given the terrible things happening there right now. In my money quote from the novel to wrap up the paper, Carpentier wrote about how man can never escape his worldly troubles:

… a man never knows for whom he suffers and hopes. He suffers and hopes and toils for people he will never know, and who, in turn, will suffer and hope and toil for others who will not be happy either, for man always seeks happiness far beyond that which is meted out to him. But man’s greatness consists in the very fact of wanting to be better than he is. In laying duties upon himself.

Of course for Haitians now, wanting to be better simply means finding food, water, and shelter. They don’t need any more lessons about struggle. But that can be a valuable lesson for those of us who want to help them, by giving what you can from that which has been meted out to you.

If you’re looking to learn more about Haiti, I highly recommend The Kingdom of This World, along with The Black Jacobins by C.L.R. James, another book about the rebellion I referenced in the paper. And for what it’s worth, here’s my six-year-old paper about the whole thing:

Revolution and The Representation of History in The Kingdom of This World (PDF)

When I was younger, I was a rabid Indiana Pacers fan. I vividly remember watching Game 1 of the 1995 Eastern Conference semifinals against the Knicks on TV with my dad, screaming my head off while Reggie Miller scored 8 points in 11 seconds to win the game. I lived and died by Reggie’s clutch shooting, helped along by the Pacers’ supporting cast of Rik Smits, Mark Jackson, Jalen Rose, the Davis “brothers,” and an aging Chris Mullin. Good but never great, those teams were fun to watch if only because I knew every other fan in the league hated Reggie Miller. No player but Reggie could get away with all the trash-talking, flopping, and manufactured fouls that he did, but it made all those dagger-like 3-pointers that much better. He was my guy.

I kept up with the Pacers after I moved to Chicago, even though I still had a soft spot for the Bulls like every other kid who grew up in the Michael Jordan era. You can’t just abandon your team because you move to a new city, close proximity to the United Center or not. But after Ron Artest charged into the crowd in Detroit during a Pacers-Pistons game in 2004 and started the brawl of all sports brawls, I gave up on the NBA. It wasn’t just a scared white man protest of “thugs” taking over the grand old game of John Wooden and Larry Bird. Reggie was gone, the brawl had ruined what had been a promising season for the Pacers, and Artest made me embarrassed to be a fan of my favorite team. Just like it’s hard to start dating again after a bad breakup, it’s hard to keep loving a game when you don’t recognize your favorite team anymore.

In the past few years, I’ve slowly returned to the NBA. I covered the Bulls for Chicago Sports Weekly and even attended their media day in 2007. After standing next to a larger-than-life character like Joakim Noah you can’t help but follow along a little more closely, and Hoosier boy that am, I’m required to enjoy all types of basketball as a birthright. So I’ve been paying more attention to the NBA, not necessarily pulling for the Pacers or Bulls or any other team, but just being a general fan of the game. It’s better that my enjoyment of the league isn’t tied to the fortunes of one team like it is with baseball and football. Once the Cardinals and Colts lose, I’m ruined for the rest of the playoffs. But with the NBA, I just enjoy watching guys like Noah play ball.

We took Carter to his first Bulls game last week. The played the Sacramento Kings, ironically, both former teams of Ron Artest. Carter was as excited as, well, a little boy at his first basketball game. We bought him a T-shirt, ate ice cream, and oohed and aahed at the Bulls’ Jordan-era, theatrical player introductions. The Bulls put on a show in the first half, going up 67-43 at the break and eventually stretching that to a 35-point lead in the third quarter.

The team runs a promotion where every fan gets a free Big Mac at an area McDonald’s if they score 100 points in a game, and I explained to Carter at halftime how it was a sure thing. “They only have to score half as many points as they already have,” I told him. “We’re winning a free Big Mac for sure.”

The Kings had better ideas, and eventually overcame that enormous deficit to stun the Bulls, the second biggest comeback in league history. Carter was as upset as the rest of the crowd as they booed every Bulls turnover, every bad shot by Derrick Rose, and every Sacramento bucket. I suspected he was just imitating their exasperation, groaning and shouting, “Oh no,” but as the game drew to a close he burst into tears.

Debbie and I reassured him that it was okay, you can’t win every game. “I know that,” he said, wiping his nose, “But I really wanted to win a big hamburger.” The Bulls finished with just 98 points, one basket short of our free Big Mac.

I think he understood the part about not always winning, but I suppose the game lets you down in many ways. A Big Mac would have tasted really good after a game like that. We promised to take him back sometime when the Bulls could score 100, but at this point in their 11-17 season and a coaching change looming, I don’t know when that will happen again.

Winter finally released its grip from Chicago this week, giving me the occassion to peel the fleece lining out of my heavy coat to convert it into a spring jacket. This uncovered a hidden pocket inside the lapel of the outer shell, inside which I found the remains of the ticket stub from a Chicago Cubs game against the Milwaukee Brewers at Wrigley Field on April 29, 2006. It was torn in four places: one, along the perforated line that the ushers rip when you enter the ballpark, and three less exact gashes through the top half that looked like they were caused by absent-minded handling or the trauma of several spin cycles.
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“I’m not too good at this, so tell me if I’m being too rough.” Such a comment, coming out of the mouth of a rookie shoe clerk fitting a pair of loafers or a novice tailor tugging on the lapels of a jacket, might pass unnoticed. Their imprecision, while momentarily annoying, would cause no lasting injury, for the things they are jostling with rough hands aren’t attached to you, after all. But put that statement on the lips of a woman holding your genitals and wielding an electric razor, and it takes on quite a bit more significance.

I heard it while I was laying on my back in a procedure room in Northwestern Hospital, naked from the waist down except for my socks, waiting to get a vasectomy. Desiree, the young, attractive, African-American medical assistant who would be helping the urologist that day, was already mowing away at my crotch with a beige set of clippers when she confessed her inexperience. The handout the urologist gave me during my initial appointment suggested that I shave myself the morning of the procedure to save time, but a new job and the two kids who led me to this state of affairs left little time for special grooming that day. So now Desiree was doing things to me that some men would pay good money for a woman like her to do.
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In a former life, before I went back to my old job, before I was a stay-at-home dad, before my old job was just my job, I was a consultant. This involved a lot of travel, the kind of fly out Sunday, fly home Friday travel eagerly tolerated by recent college grads who see it as a sign of prestige, but the kind of travel that slowly grinds you down until all the airports feel the same, no one concourse or food court or rental car counter in Chicago different from another in LaCrosse, Wisconsin.
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When I decided to quit my IT job four years ago to stay home with my son Carter, and then later my daughter Sadie, I knew I’d go back to work someday, just not when. My wife, Debbie, was building a successful business as a realtor, enough so that she could support the family on her own, and I was bored and frustrated with my job in corporate America. The choice was obvious. Instead of hiring a nanny, I would take care of the kids, and when I didn’t need to be at home anymore, I would go back to work.
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On the corner of Jefferson and Polk, South Loop, Chicago

I’m guessing that I attended the only party for Barack Obama’s inauguration where someone came out of the bathroom with his pants around his ankles. I watched the ceremony at my son Carter’s preschool yesterday. The group of three- and four-year-olds were amazingly patient and sat dutifully through most of the proceedings, but as the ceremony wore on, they started to get restless. During the new President’s acceptance speech, one little boy got up to use the restroom, and then hobbled back into the room to ask for help when he was finished, unconcerned that he was naked from the waist down.
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The Museum of Science and Industry was crowded on January 2nd. The day after the New Year fell on a Friday, so any adult with a choice had taken the day off, plus the schools were still out on holiday break. But the museum exhibits are dispersed widely enough that the mob wasn’t claustrophobic, and my almost four-year-old son Carter and I had a nice time. We toured the U-505 submarine, Carter gawked at the Great Train Story model train exhibit, and we each posed for pictures in a fake Apollo space suit. We shared a snack in the cafeteria, and he didn’t even complain when I didn’t buy him a toy at the gift shop. I judged the trip a success. Then we tried to leave.
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I.

To think, a mere two weeks ago I was happily adjusting to a new/old routine, reviewing the proper cleaning and field assembly of a Dr. Brown’s bottle like an infantryman with his rifle, and relearning the subtle difference in pitch between the “I’m hungry” screech and the “I’m dirty” wail. It was a comforting return to the days when all problems had a tangible solution–a little formula here, a little wipe there–instead of the Alice in Wonderland insanity of dealing with a manic-depressive schizophrenic, otherwise known as a normal three-and-a-half-year-old.
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Carter with his new sister, Sadie, September 2008

Someone asked me the other day when I was going to write an official “reaction” to the recent birth of our daughter. The thought had occurred to me, but when I sat down to put my feelings into words, I knew I hadn’t had an original thought about her arrival. Sure, I’ve experienced the joy, pride, and anxiety that swaddles every six-pound, newborn cherub like bubble wrap in a UPS delivery, but having been through this once, I realize those feelings aren’t altogether interesting to anyone outside my family.

Since Sadie is our second child–Carter, our oldest, is now three and a half–the real impact of her debut can’t be drawn out with the questions I answered the first time, like, “Are you getting any sleep?” “Who’s been doing the cooking?” or “Has the baby peed on you yet?” (Answers this time around: “Sort of,” “No one,” and, “Yes, repeatedly.”) Instead, it’s in how she fits into the family routine. In that context, Sadie’s birth was a big deal, but not even close to causing the most drastic change in our lives that week.
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