Rachel Oscar is the Director of Programming and Community Engagement for Campus District, Inc., a community development organization in Downtown Cleveland. She recently received a Masters of Urban Planning and Development from Cleveland State University in May 2017. Rachel graduated from Kenyon College in 2011 with a BA in history before returning to school worked for Case Western Reserve University. Rachel loves hiking and in the summer of 2016 hiked the John Muir Trail in the Sierra Nevada mountains.

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LeeAnn Yops (long “O” in that “Yo”) is a Chicago-based stand-up comedian, storyteller and writer originally from Wisconsin. She’s your go-to guide for all thing 80s and 90s related. LeeAnn is the creator of the website BH9021WHOA, the site that’s better than a Mega Burger about everyone’s favorite teen drama zip code. When she’s not busy gushing over Luke Perry, she also runs a monthly storytelling show about music called Appetite for Rock n’ Roll Storytelling. You can catch Appetite every second Wednesday at the Elbo Room at 8 pm for a true evening of oral debauchery.

What does that mean? We’ll publish a new audio/video story every Wednesday, and one standout printed story a month. The printed story will be accompanied by audio and/or video of the author performing it.

What if I want to submit? Please do! Send along a recording of you performing the story or, if you didn’t get one, record it yourself and send that along. We will continue to pay for the monthly print story in exchange for first publication rights. Since all rights remain with the author for audio/video pieces, these will be unpaid.

Why are you changing? We are a magazine for nonfiction performance and we want to emphasize that. The new format will also allow us to further curate our stories, focusing on bringing you the best mix of emerging and established authors.

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Thankfully, I worked with some fun and interesting people, which brought a touch of joy and humor to the nightly grind. The nature of the job had us standing at workstations for at least a few hours a night as we prepped newspapers for delivery to homes and stores, which gave us plenty of time to talk, joke around, and get to know one another.

One of my favorite people was Sylvester, a soft-spoken guy in his 40s who worked as a janitor at a grade school during the day. He had a quiet, unpretentious cool about him: one night, our whole section carried off on a conversation about who would play us in a movie about this job. Everyone agreed immediately that the only person cool enough to play Sylvester was Samuel L. Jackson. Sylvester nodded in agreement, and we moved on to the rest of the cast.

He also had a depth of sophistication he only let out in glimpses After a few years of knowing him, out of nowhere he brought me a huge portfolio of poetry he had written. I didn’t even know he wrote, and suddenly he’s giving me a manuscript.

A childhood friend of mine, Caleb, worked at the station next to Sylvester. The three of us tended to be at the center of the nightly conversations. One night, Caleb and Sylvester got onto some subject, and Caleb said, “and, you know, how I’m white and you’re African-American, and…”

As the conversation continued, Caleb said “African-American” several more times. No offense was intended, and none was taken. However, when Caleb was away from his workstation for a minute, Sylvester motioned me over and chuckled, “Why does he keep calling me ‘African-American’? I’m black.”

The answer is that white, suburban kids like Caleb and I had been taught that “African-American” is the proper, polite, politically correct term. I’m sure Sylvester knew that to be the case. Honestly, I have zero recollection of how I responded, or if I even did; I just remember Sylvester laughing and shaking his head as he continued working.

It was a revelatory moment for me. Sylvester wasn’t mad or frustrated with Caleb. He was expressing his general irritation at how the label that gets applied to him is not how he identifies himself. It was such a quick moment, yet it opened my eyes to the depths and complexities of identity, labels, and language.

A few years later, at the end of graduate school, I began teaching at Robert Morris University in Chicago, which has been ranked regularly as the most diverse university in the Midwest. Exposure to diversity was something I sorely lacked up to that point in my life: I was a white kid who grew up in the middle-class white suburbs and went to a white high school and then a predominantly white university. Everyone was Catholic, to the point that I interrogated a kid on the playground in third grade when he told me he was some strange thing called a “Lutheran”.

I asked him, “Do you believe in Jesus?”

He said yes, and I said, “So, then you’re Catholic.”

And he said, “No, I’m Lutheran.”

I finally decided none of this made sense and went to play on the swings.

I am the sort of person who relates to others through stories. Tell me about your morning run, and I’ll tell you stories about my 5ks and half-marathons. Tell me about your bad date, and I’ll rattle off horror stories from my single days. Whatever you can tell me, I’ve got some response.

At least, that’s what I used to think. Very early in my teaching career, I learned differently.

One of the earliest examples was when a student in her late 20s, just several years older than me at the time, came to my office to explain why she was struggling in my class. She said the content of the writing class was hard, because English was her second language. She then explained that she missed several classes due to the difficulties she was having caring for her children, and how it had gotten so much harder since her husband had recently gone to jail. She couldn’t even finish her story before she started bawling in my office. My brain searched through every piece of data in its archive for some story to respond with before it told me, “I got nothing.”

So, I just sat there in stunned silence. All I could do was listen, before offering up some small solutions for the miniscule part of her world that was my English class.

I grew up in a nice home in a safe neighborhood with two parents who gave me anything I could want or need. Plenty of my students came from broken homes, surrounded by violence, with nothing resembling the comforts I was so lucky to have in life. It’s not that I was completely ignorant to the world, but there is a vast difference between knowing about issues like these conceptually, and having a kid standing in front of you telling you about being homeless or losing someone they love to violence.

The story that surprised me the most, though, is one that I’ve heard frequently over the last decade. I have had so many students tell me that their families are angry at them for attending college. The first time I heard that from a student, I was just like, “That’s a thing?” For me, and all the other kids manufactured out in the suburbs, going to college wasn’t a goal or an accomplishment – it was an inevitability. I dropped out of classes my first semester of college and told my parents I wanted to just get a job. They were having none of that, and literally researched schools near home that were still accepting students and then my dad drove me to one to enroll. Yet, there are students pursuing their education by any means necessary despite being actively discouraged by the people closest to them for familial, financial, cultural, or societal reasons.

I learned that I came from very different circumstances, often much easier and fortunate circumstances, and that sometimes the best option is to swallow my storytelling instincts.

During the summer of 2016, I was teaching an Introduction to Composition course during the evening to mostly non-traditional adult students. It was an excellent group. They were smart, funny, attentive, engaged. Later in the term, when we started our unit on argumentation, I planned to use my usual routine of throwing out some generic debate topics for the class to discuss as we covered the elements of argument. Instead, I decided to try something different.

Trying anything new in a college classroom is scary. No matter how well-prepared or well-intentioned the new activity, lecture, or assignment may be, there is no guarantee how students will respond until it’s already out there on the table. Knowing the students, I was confident the idea would work, but I still stressed all day that it would blow up in my face.

I started class that night by telling my story about Sylvester. The students reflected the diversity of the university body, and I was worried that telling a story involving race might come off the wrong way. When I got to the punchline — “Why is he calling me ‘African American’? I’m black.” — I held my breath.

The whole class burst into laughter, and I was relieved. I moved onto the next piece:

“So, here’s my question for you: is it okay for a white dude like me to call someone ‘black’?”

I barely finished the question and a hand shot up in the back of the room. It was Monica, a sharp, hilarious woman. I couldn’t wait to hear her response, but I motioned for her to put her hand down and asked everyone to take a couple minutes to collect their thoughts by writing down a response.

A white guy sitting in the middle of the room looked a bit confused, then asked, “Are you asking all of us this question?” The nervousness in his voice caused the question mark to squeak a little bit.

I said, “Yes, everybody.”

When I opened the floor for discussion, I went right back to Monica. Her usual energy and humor tempered for a moment as she explained how adamant she was that she be identified as “African-American” and that the term “black” was completely offensive to her.

A man in his mid-20s disagreed: “I am black. I’m not African. I’ve never been to Africa. My parents have never been to Africa. I am black.”

A guy from Jamaica said, “I’m just Jamaican.”

The discussion swept through the room, and all of the students opened up about how they identify themselves and how they feel about different terms attributed to themselves and others. The discussion was always respectful, but did get heated at times. At one point, everyone in class was so eager to share their thoughts that I had to call for quiet, at which point Monica reverted to her normal self and yelled, “Paul, you just wanted to get everyone pissed off tonight!”

It was the perfect line to cut the tension in the room, and everyone laughed. I smiled and said, “Yes! It’s my job to get you all pissed off!”

As the discussion continued, a younger white man in the back of the room raised his hand. His tone was serious when he said, “I think it’s important to consider each situation differently when it comes to these words. Like, for example, a lot of my friends are black, and we’re all like family. And we all refer to each other as….”

This whole discussion had been going so well. Everyone knew what he was about to say, and in my head I was screaming, “Don’t do it, man!”

And he said it. And I thought, “Well, shit.”

I waited for the room to erupt. Instead, his classmates offered thoughtful, well-reasoned responses, whether they agreed or disagreed with his point. It total, the whole class period was largely filled with respectful discourse and active listening. Having learned my lesson years prior, I followed their lead: I spoke very little as the students led the conversation and educated me on ideas and perspectives that I have no personal story with which to respond.

It was refreshing and promising to see a room full of diverse individuals share ideas, perspectives, and even disagreements, and to actually listen to one another in the process– something we need desperately in these volatile times. In the pursuit of empathy and equality, listening is critical, particularly to voices that have often been overlooked and ignored. Listening by itself is not a solution, but it is an often-overlooked first step.

Paul Gaszak is an Academic Dean at Robert Morris University in Chicago, and he was an English Professor for over a decade. He has performed at several Live Lit shows including Story Club North and South Side, and his writing has appeared in several publications including McSweeney’s Internet Tendency. He lives in the Chicagoland area (ie: suburbs) with his wife Sarah.

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Most people recognized that the photo was taken in the Oval Office of the White House. They also recognized the two old, white, jovial men flanking the black man in the middle as George Bush Sr. and Ronald Reagan. But then, “Is that…” They took a closer look at the man in the middle, “Is that your dad?!”

My dad wore many hats: politician, social justice warrior, social worker, worst dad ever (which looking back at it now, was a little dramatic, considering I only called him that because he took a foster kid to see Inspector Gadget in theaters and didn’t take me).

He was our biggest fan. I played basketball growing up and my brothers, who aren’t his biological children, played baseball and football. We always knew he was there. Literally–he was the only person you could hear. Quiet, boring, baseball games and my brother would get up to bat and all you would hear was Dad screaming, “WAAAATCH THAT BALL AND POP IT! WAAAATCH THAT BALL AND MEET IT!”

He was embarrassing.

That’s an understatement. He was literally the most embarrassing person ever. He liked to call hip hop people “popcorn cooties”. The one time he got on TV for something other than politics, he made air guns with his hands. A lot. But the most embarrassing thing he ever did? He gave me the survey he’d give foster children when they got their periods and stared at me as I filled it out, “If you have any questions, I’m right here.”

Ew.

Dad was Santa, he was Kleenex, he was our hero, he was Superman.

When I was 12, he died, and I was convinced everything was ending: my entire life, my world, everything.

First of all, 12, is like the absolute worst age. Everyone sucks. Everything sucks. All my nails were black. All my emotions were dictated by Avril Lavigne. Also: boys.

Put my Dad’s death on top of that. Then, 9/11 happened 19 days after he died. It was all too much for my 12-year-old brain, which was like, “Why is this happening to meeee?!!”

My dad died the summer before 7^th grade, which was a summer I was dreading. The next year my brother would be going to college, leaving just me and my mom at home. Sidebar, my dad also died on my mother’s birthday. It was almost too terrible.

The day started off really weird. My brother went out the night before and he lost my mother’s credit card. Instead of coming home, he spent the entire night looking for it. I remember my mom waking up around 3AM, horrified that she couldn’t find my brother. For some reason I said, “We should call dad, maybe he’ll come help us look” and my mom told me not to. We’d later find out my dad’s time of death was 3:15AM.

That day, we woke up and the plan was to go to lunch with my mom and I was going to pay! We actually had a really good day. When we got back home, though, my brother told my mom that her job called, which was weird, considering she had taken a vacation day. When she called back, they told my mom she’d gotten a call from the coroner.

I will never forget the look on her face. She looked terrified, yet so sad. All I remember was her putting the receiver down, saying something, and noticing my brother’s sweat shirt go from dry gray to sopping wet black.

The rest of that day was a blur, but I remember crying with both of my siblings.

My dad wasn’t their dad, but he might as well have been. He gave my mom support for both of my brothers, he went to every single important event in their lives, gave them fatherly advice and all around treated them like his own. My mom still has the handkerchief my dad gave her when my oldest brother graduated from high school; it’s the same one we all used at his funeral.

Recently, I paid for a one-day online membership to The Plain Dealer, just so I could read about my dad. I knew that he had a pretty solid political career, but I discovered that between that and college he volunteered at a methadone clinic in the basement of Metro Health, handing out medication to recovering addicts. He did everything in his power, including not getting paid, to make sure the clinic stayed open because he was dedicated to trying to stop the drug epidemic that was engulfing his community.

During his stint at Metro he started his political career, and eventually ran against Louis Stokes, the most beloved black man in the history of Cleveland–not once, not twice, but three times. Obviously, he lost. But, he caught the attention of President Reagan and Vice President Bush. They were obsessed with my dad. They loved this hulking, ex-football player who, instead of responding to his NFL draft letters, went to Yale Law School, dropped out, and moved back to Cleveland to serve his community.

Politics didn’t go too well, considering he was a black Republican from Cleveland rubbing elbows with Ron and Nan, so what did my dad do? He became a social worker. Up until the day he died, my dad was dedicated to helping children find families. He would tell me, not every kid is lucky enough to have a mommy and daddy and that’s why he was there for them. But when he said that, all I heard was “I’m taking this kid to see Inspector Gadget.”

My dad was one of 15. He went to college. He was one of the most successful of his siblings; he took care of all of them. He would, no joke, give them the shirt off his back.

It took me 15 years to wake up out of the fatherless daze, and by then my father’s face and voice had become a little hazy. But he’d laid the groundwork for us to continue in his absence — I can’t forget the values my father instilled in me. He taught me the importance of education, the importance of saying “I don’t know,” of learning from someone with different experiences and back grounds. He taught me to be selfless by example. He would bring us around foster kids, foster families, and to the Berea Children’s Home and the Center for Families and Children, where he taught us that not everyone is born into a great family. He taught me how to walk in someone else’s shoes, how to put others before myself.

Recently, I’ve realized my passions are in bettering my community and helping people. I can’t help it. It’s literally all I want to do. I think I love the city of Cleveland just as much as he did. In the past couple of months, a group of friends and I have started a dinner club where we get together once a month, decide on a local organization to help and hold a donation drive for that organization. We’ve collected sanitary napkins and toiletries for The City Mission, women’s business clothing for Dress for Success and, this month, we’re organizing a book drive to distribute to the Cleveland School District. This work in my community feels like a continuation of what he started.

He was a superhero. I will never, ever in my life, forget the time my father, on New Year’s Eve, at the corner of Richmond and Mayfield, literally picked up a car off of an old woman who had just been hit by a drunk driver in front of her entire family. Right where the Amy Joy Donuts used to be, he picked up a car.

We witnessed the entire thing.

We were stopped at an intersection and noticed there was a man asleep at the wheel of an idling car. Another car filled with an elderly woman, her son, his wife and two other family members pulled over, and they were surrounded the car, checking on the man. After trying to wake him, the elderly woman’s son went to the driver’s side of the car, knocking on the window, and as he did this the little old lady wandered to the front of the car. In an instant, the man in the driver’s seat snapped awake, looked out his driver’s window and, for some reason, hit the gas so hard he knocked the woman down. Within seconds, she was under the frame of the car. My dad jumped out of our car and, before I knew it, he was lifting up the frame of the car while this woman’s family slid her from under it.

I told my mom about the incident that evening and she didn’t believe me.

The next day my mother called, she said, “Josie! There’s a woman on the news looking for her Black Superman. She said he picked a car up off of her and just drove away.”

This is correct. After lifting the car my dad jogged back to us, no information exchanged. We were going to be late to the movies.

Josie Woodall is a Cleveland blogger and travel writer. An East Side native, Josie migrated to the West in 2013 and resides in Brooklyn Center. She graduated from Ohio Wesleyan University in 2011 with a BA in English Literature and a concentration in non-fiction writing. When not conjuring up ideas to write about or slangin’ industrial supplies at her day job, you can find Josie cheering (probably too loud) for the Cavs.

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The summer before 7^th grade, I moved to Pilsen and started a new school. I was one of only three black kids at this school. I stood out like a sore thumb. My class contained the school’s bully–his name was Tony. While in gym class, Tony decided that all the boys were going to wrestle. I didn’t want to participate, but sadly had no choice. When it was my turn, I bested Tony several times, he got angry, and told me that he was going to beat me up after school.

The day dragged on and on, until finally school ended. Since it was my first day, I was not aware that there was a designated fighting area under the train tracks. When we got to the fighting area, everyone surrounded us, and while I prepared myself to fight I noticed that Tony was putting on a pair of fingerless gloves, which lead me to believe that he had done this before. This could be seen as foreshadowing.

The fight starts and it’s not going well for me. Realizing that I’m losing, I decided to execute my favorite martial arts move: the flying roundhouse. I waited for the perfect moment and executed the move to great effect but the thing is, at the time I only weighed 90 pounds and Tony clocked in at about 150. When my foot connected with his face, I lost all of my momentum and fell directly to the ground. Tony gave me a very impressed look before he started to pummel me.

Realizing I was not only losing, I had lost, I grabbed my book bag and ran, bursting through the crowd into the street, where I was nearly hit by a school bus. From the perspective of those remaining, I had been hit by the school bus, but in reality the bus stopped seconds before hitting me. I ended up hitting the bus. I quickly got up and ran down the block, and when I turned to see if I was being chased I saw everyone looking under the school bus.

Unfortunately, I did not make it home before some of the kids that were at the fight. As I entered the back door of my house, my mom was at the front door being told that I just got hit by a school bus. My mom heard me close the back door, and turned to see that it as me, alive. She slammed the front and approached me with tears in her eyes. That was the second time I got my ass kicked that day.

Clarence Browley was born and raised in Chicago. He hosts a show with his best friend Lily Be called Stoop Style Stories at Rosa’s Lounge the last Thursday of every month. He’s an easygoing guy who likes to laugh, play video games, and read comics. He lives a mysterious life of magic and wonder. At least, that’s what he likes to say to keep people from being nosy. If there is anything he wants you to know, he’ll tell you in story. Clarence is the nicest grump you’ll ever know.

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Anne’s ashes were housed in a profane, curvy, red and black urn that her husband had chosen over the classy jade one she would’ve wanted. The first thing her daughter said after getting it all in the car was, “Ma, you need a new outfit girl.”

Anne passed away in 2010 on Christmas Eve after a night of dancing, entertaining, and laughing with friends at the bar she co-owned with her husband, Ronnie. She was an enigmatic woman with a skillfully crafted public persona: among the community she was highly regarded, well-liked, a straight shooter. Her personal following loved her for the very same reasons. Simply put, people liked her and respected her, both up close and from afar. She had humor, class, and balls. No one fucked with her. Cultivating this reputation in a business that catered to hustlers and drunks was no small feat.

Then there was her husband.

Ronnie was almost universally held in low regard and was well known as an asshole. Even those who followed him did so with a ready excuse and line of reasoning that went something like, “I know he ain’t shit but he my nigga.” What he had going for him was a calling for hospitality and a hunger for the spotlight. But he was mean and small, and over time the spotlight shone brighter and brighter on his flaws.

These flaws were overlooked and even forgiven when Anne was alive. She was his credibility. He would come in the bar running his mouth, haranguing the customers and being the big man in charge. Meanwhile she would come in and manage the shift change, pay the bartender, meet with the gambling machine guy, check the inventory, and leave everyone smiling because she’d bought a round of drinks.

The bar was actually named The Apartment Lounge but, like some illustrious mansion, its rooms were named for their color; hence, the space was known by the room. So people would seldom say they were going to the Apartment Lounge, they’d say they were going to the Orange Room.

Although the rooms were named for their color, they hadn’t been painted for nearly 30 years. Anne and her husband’s bar was orange. Not cayenne, brick, cinnamon, or some fancy color you’d find today, but the 1970s version of the color when orange was simply orange.

Walking into the place was like walking into a throwback jersey. The stone appliqué walls and smoky, colored mirrors were plastered with professionally made signs alerting customers to upcoming events and arbitrary rules. The bartender worked in the middle of this setup and used the mirrors to see who was coming and going and what they were saying or thinking. Added to this mix was a table set up with complimentary food – real meals that included greens, spaghetti, fish, and on special occasions barbecued pig feet.

The place formed a community out of diverse groups of people who might not have associated with each other outside of those walls. The crowd included accountants, drug dealers, schoolteachers, hustlers, professors, doctors, lesbians, retirees, police officers, construction workers, mechanics, lawyers, nurses, insurance men, and thieves. All were welcome and all had a good time.

Once Anne was gone, however, her husband’s ability to run anything dissipated. Once she was gone, even the bar gave up. Her repast was its last big party. It was shut down for a violation of some sort the very next day. It reopened fleetingly – for a short span of hours a few times a week, under new management – but violence ensued, and it was closed down quickly.

Following Anne’s death, her husband unleashed a barrage of hurt that began with the memorial service held in her honor. It was a narcissistic display that focused only on his loss and not the celebration of a highly cherished woman. He omitted photos of her twin grandchildren in the memorial service program, then literally plucked that program out of their hands to give it to a bar patron.

Finally, he showed up at the memorial service with the girlfriend, saying she was his stepdaughter. But everyone knew better. He had begun his affair with her when she was a teenager and he was a grown man, and continued it off and on throughout his marriage. Although she had a man, she eventually became the caretaker and hence the holder of Anne’s remains.

Anne’s husband died about six years later. The girlfriend organized a memorial service that not only acknowledged, but actually paid homage to Anne. It was a proper good-bye to them both; Anne still reigned supreme.

Everyone knew that even if her husband was headed to hell, he had a date with Anne first, and the devil would simply have to wait.

It turned out that his wishes were to have his and Anne’s ashes spread out on Lake Michigan together. His girlfriend took just enough of Anne’s ashes as was necessary to fulfill those wishes, but gave the rest to her daughter and family. Anne was finally at home.

Throughout this period, Anne would visit my dreams and my sensibilities often. I was pleasantly surprised. We’d struck up a friendship over the years characterized by sporadic yet intense conversations about the deep and the mundane. We didn’t speak all the time, but when we did, we settled in and covered much ground. We’d discuss the ins and outs of my attempts to become a mother as fervently and thoroughly as we discussed the best place to buy bras. Both conversations would bring a smile to my face because she would listen intently, say something irreverent that would make me laugh then (or later), and I’d emerge feeling like it all might be okay.

She was surely with me during the funeral service for my significant other, who I learned was a liar over the course of our long-term relationship. Anne’s daughter had given me one of her mother’s fabulous purses for the out of town service. As a bride carries something borrowed along with something old, something new and something blue, I carried the black purse as my talisman to get me through the service with a sense of dignity and style. Even as my good friend literally propped me up throughout the wretched event, she paused to say, “Girl that is a bad pocketbook. Just the right amount of class and sass.”

In my mind’s eye, I could see Anne lean back with a hearty chuckle, raise a shot of fine tequila, and tell me to laugh at the fact that they buried the man in an orange suit he wouldn’t have wanted to be caught dead in.

It is difficult to sum up the totality of someone’s life and their influence on you. On some levels, her life is a lesson to me about how the best of us can be got by loving the wrong man or making do with something less than what we deserve. But she is also a lesson in how to carry oneself as a lady, and take care of ourselves no matter what. And she is a lesson in the deep and abiding love that mothers have for their children, and the desire that they go as far as they can.

Ultimately, she is my role model for what it means to be a grown-assed woman: to love hard, work hard, pray hard, raise your children, live your life, know your worth, make tough choices, rebound from mistakes, provide, grind, enjoy, luxuriate, be magnificent, and most of all, laugh.

Karen Clanton is an attorney whose law degree did not kill the English major lurking within. She has forged a career as a writer in the legal profession where she develops internal communications strategy for a major law firm. Karen served as the Reporter for an American Bar Association Commission examining diversity in the profession and has led other editorial projects for both the ABA and the Chicago Bar Association. She is a single mom living on the South Side of Chicago chronicling her adventures through stories that can be heard at open mics on the city’s live lit scene.

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Jordan was born the year I first kissed a girl. (I was six and my first love told me kissing was just for boy-girl couples, after I’d planted my lips firmly on hers – my first vivid lesson in consent.) Jordan’s mother was not my mother and his father, gone before the birth, was not my father. We became siblings in a way common to my family: through abandonment.

Growing up, I shared a small house in South Florida with my grandmother; my mother showed up for irregular month long stays, my father stationed in Bosnia. My aunt, Jordan’s mother, had not yet felt the maternal pull, and eventually he joined us and we were left together, children loved but unwanted. He was the first person to ever belong to me.

I was eight and he was two when both of our mothers returned. I curled my body around him as his mother threatened mine with a kitchen knife. Our grandmother brought an end to the argument without even raising her voice. She pulled us from our favorite hiding spot behind the couch and pushed each of us into our own maternal embraces. For the next four years, the five of us lived in that cramped house until the very walls begged for silence.

He was six, quiet and gentle, when his mother moved him into her boyfriend’s house and my father returned. It seemed life could not change in anything but drastic bursts. I went from daily pillow forts to spending only the summers in Jordan’s bunk bed. That first time as a visitor our relationship began to chafe, and we both cried ourselves to sleep.

When my mother lost her sight to her addiction, we were living alone with each other in a small trailer Jordan had never visited. My father was in the Middle East, and I had to get a job to meet the ends not met by government aid. On breaks I’d call my brother, ask him about school, about friends, about his loving parents. The month I was denied a five cent raise, Jordan was gifted a child’s motorcycle.

I was 15 and Jordan not yet 10 when I traded blowjobs for drum lessons, desperate to have something of my own. I hadn’t seen my brother in over a year, but I called dutifully each week. He learned to garden with his mom and his stepfather taught him to weld in patient lessons. I was back at our grandmother’s; my mother lost to a daze of Oxycontin, my father remarried with new children.

With each of my manic decisions I tried to protect him–from myself more than anyone else. I talked to him openly about my feelings for other girls; I gave him space to tell me his own secrets. He’d mimic the way I moved my hands as I spoke, save jokes from his friends to make me laugh, and seemed to never be sad. I waited to feel like a complete being, the way he seemed so whole and alive.

The year my mother overdosed I finally began to crack. I had bought the cheapest car I could find, a small obvious symbol of freedom–the potential to leave my unhappiness. I drove to visit Jordan on the weekends after my work shifts. I drove to see my mother at her halfway house after school. For the two weeks my mother spent in a coma, Jordan was my constant companion. No 10-year-old has ever been so quiet, so comforting.

I was 16 and Jordan was still so young when I had my first mental breakdown. I wept through classes, at work, late into sleepless nights. I took medical leave from my job, from school, from my life. My grandmother, burdened as she was with care for my mother, sent me to Jordan’s. In the warmth of their home, in the constant attention of my brother, my mind began to repair itself. We spent each day after school playing video games, taking walks, training his dogs, just being near each other. His love was a gentle net I pulled around myself to catch all the falling pieces.

Now, writing these words, I taste sharp bitterness: the pith of a lemon, a Florida winter, the ill fit of forgotten love.

He was in middle school when I left for college in Chicago. Florida was a death sentence, my mother’s problems surely just waiting to become my own. I promised to be a better sister to him. To call, to visit, to remember. But time has a way of slipping when you’re finally free. Soon I was 21, and he was on his first flight to come visit me.

On the Red Line headed north, he told me he was beginning to understand how different our lives had been. How closely our narratives could have played out, but that he’d gotten lucky and I’d had to break free. In return, I told him to read more and make new friends and to stop cursing so much. The nerve connecting us, suddenly exposed, was too fresh to touch.

Maybe that was the moment I failed him, or allowed him to eventually fail me.

I was working 70 hours a week when he came to stay with me in his summer between high school and college. We talked about sex; I told him about my abortion and encouraged him to be proactive. We talked about crushed dreams, even though his were still so possible. On the swings outside of my apartment he called himself a feminist and suddenly I was so full, so finally whole.

When I was diagnosed with a serious illness, he wanted to fly to me. We talked about the expense of healthcare, the ignorance and pain of doctors. He became enraged when my medical team had fewer and fewer answers. We took a small vacation together, a road trip to see the Florida he loved and I had never noticed. I edited his school papers and gave him relationship advice. We chased the mundane, the small moments, and held them close between us.

My sleepless nights now are spent wondering why that wasn’t enough. Why anything and everything about me and our love wasn’t enough.

In October of last year, he and his serious girlfriend came to visit me. She was everything I didn’t want for him. She told me that feminism was for ugly women, but he reassured me that he hadn’t changed. She told me that people were poor because they wanted to be, but he said he knew that wasn’t true. She told me in so many ways that she was dangerous, but he said he wanted to marry her.

In November of last year, Donald Trump was elected President of the United States. My partner and I wept in bed, knowing our relationship would be under attack, knowing my health would again become a pre-existing condition, knowing we couldn’t trust so many people around us with our safety. In the terrible hours afterward, I learned that Jordan had voted for him.

There is nothing left to say because nothing destroyed can be fully recovered. Time ticks by in days spent waiting for him to call and explain himself, spent waiting to forgive him. I am still waiting to feel whole.

Al Rosenberg is a writer and Professional Jew. She also likes to think of herself as a professional sick person and lesbian, but she doesn’t actually get paid for that. She spends what little free time she can wring from her day reading, gaming, and being a mediocre cat mom. You can find her super sad essays and mostly sassy game reviews on WomenWriteAboutComics.com.

If you liked this story, help support Story Club Magazine with a donation. Just $10 helps to support our contributors.

I thought it was going to change my life.

Everything was still new and fresh and bright and shiny.

This was my first job with my own office!

Now granted, the walls didn’t quite reach the ceiling… but it was still my own office. And we could pretty much yell over that wall and talk to each other without getting up… but it was still my own office.

It was April 11th, 2007. The streets were wet and slushy with snow. The sun was just peeking out around 6:30AM that morning. I had on my long, black wool coat with the fur around the hood. You know, that fur that never quite looks the same after it gets cleaned, so you end up brushing the thing like it’s your pet or something.

Anyway, I had on the coat, and my purse strapped across my body (because I was riding the CTA), and my work bag on my shoulder (that I could never seem to leave home without), and my lunch bag in my hand. I still can’t remember what was in the bag, but I remember reeeeeally looking forward to eating it later.

I was crossing the street, in the crosswalk, had the right of way.

But the light changed.

So I picked up my pace to a light jog, trying not to slide in the slush or get any on my nice coat. All the other cars waited. I was about two yards away from the curb.

I never saw the truck coming.

Now, in the movies, this scenario ends one of two ways:

1. The truck comes to a screeching halt, just close enough to the pedestrian that the pedestrian braces themselves on the hood of the truck. Then, either one or both parties yells out some loud obscenity at the other, the truck speeds off, the pedestrian walks away frowning and shaking their head.
2. The truck doesn’t stop in time. The pedestrian gets hit. Onlookers in the crowd call 911. Police take statements from witnesses and give the driver a ticket. The ambulance arrives and off to the hospital goes the pedestrian.

Which one do you think happened? Allow me to offer you a more dramatic third option.

I remember screaming as the truck made contact with my side.

I remember the weight of my body dropping to the pavement.

I had been thrown up in the air and several feet away from the crosswalk. Somewhere in that short moment of time, I saw my life…just a few past memories, but mainly things that were yet to come; moments I’d experience and enjoy, people I’d meet, lives I’d change…hmph. I was even a smaller size.

I remember the throbbing sensation from the leg I landed on.

As I came back to the present, I saw my things scattered about in the street: work bag over here, lunch bag over there, glove in the slush.

I rolled over to see the driver still in the truck, and I’m almost certain that he was on his cell phone.

Even in my frazzled state, even through the throbbing pain, even while lying there in the wet intersection of a major street in my nice wool coat– the spirit inside of me urged me to pull out my phone and type in his license plate number.

I know, I know— I can’t believe it either! But when the driver saw me with my phone, he was inspired to get out of his truck. Sadly, I had already picked myself up, gathered my belongings and limped over to the curb by the time he walked over to me.

He asked me if I was okay – as he did so, some guy driving a van rode past us, yelling out of his window, “Lady, you need to go to the hospital!” and sped off. The irony.

Then the driver proceeded to tell me he was in a hurry, had forgotten to grab his ID, and asked if I was headed downtown and needed a ride.

All I could do was shake my head no.

He asked me for my name and number, and gave me his to put his in my phone. And then he left me.

How’s that for compassion.

I stood there on the corner in the cold, rainy snow, going over this new Option C that had just presented itself. I didn’t hear any sirens coming my way. I wondered if any onlookers had even called them.

Reality began to set in. I had taken a job working in “the hood”, and they might not even come.

I contemplated calling them myself, but I was standing alone on the corner in the cold, rainy snow.

Then I saw my bus pulling up, and I weighed my options carefully:

Wait for the police, or cross the street and get on the bus. I had to choose quickly. I decided I’d call the police when I got to work, which was a block from where I’d get off the bus.

I hobbled up the stairs, noticing the impatience in the driver’s eyes as the doors closed quickly behind me. When I got to my stop and the bus pulled off, my co-worker spotted me just as she was about to turn the corner.

She beckoned for me to hop in then stared blankly with her mouth open, watching me limp over to her car.

I rehashed the details of my adventurous journey to work. She laughed her head off, thinking I was just exaggerating the story— until the police arrived to file my report.

Five minutes later, the officer had the drivers’ home address, handed me the report, and walked out the door.

My leg had swollen up to twice its size. I made a call to my boss and my family, giving them a quick recap of my accident. My no-longer-laughing-but-still-not-VERY-concerned co-worker drove me to Provident Hospital.

Provident is the equivalent of Cook County Hospital for the south side. If you’re from Chicago, the last hospital you want to be admitted to is Cook County. They are notorious for long check-in lines, being understaffed, and having a waiting room full of patients that have been sitting for hours. And unfortunately, this is where I was driven.

My medical insurance hadn’t kicked in yet. I told you, I had just started that job three weeks ago. I thought it was going to change my life.

The diagnosis came back: I had fluid on my knee and a sprained MCL. I had recently started my dance company, but I wouldn’t be able to dance again for a few years: the pain in my knee and the throbbing in my leg made it a challenge just to walk. Turns, kicks, and leaps were simply out of the question.

My gorgeous hair started falling out from what the dermatologist said was post-traumatic stress. An after work nap was introduced into my daily schedule, because I was in so much pain by the time I got home and didn’t want to keep popping pills. Even after physical therapy I still found myself walking a little crooked and very slowly down stairs and off of curbs.

And every single time I got ready to cross any street I had to fight the urge to run like hell to the other side.

My life did indeed change. I never saw the truck coming.

For almost two years, the driver denied ever hitting me. He finally settled out of court right before the time was up.

It was all spent three months later. The job had long since lost its new and fresh and bright and shiny. As a matter of fact, I sat in my office most days fantasizing about the day I’d hand in my resignation letter while grinning ear to ear.

Thanks to the truck and his driver, I saw enough of my future to know what’s waiting for me…my accomplishments, my future marriage, our family.

I remember all of those moments vividly and in great detail. But what I’d most like to remember from that day is what I had in the bag for lunch… because I was reeeeeally looking forward to eating it later!

I never remembered. But thanks to the truck and his driver, I had to take control over what was happening in my body. I forced myself to walk for an hour every week. I took a dance class. I went horseback riding. I took the stairs instead of the elevator. In addition to taking charge of my health, I started spending more time with the people I loved most. I went back to school and finished my degree. I began volunteering with an arts organization. And soon, I was much too busy for those after work naps. Eventually, crossing the street got easier for me. I remained cautious, but I learned that it’s not enough to simply follow the directions. Sometimes, you have to take an alternate route altogether.

Angel Simmons is a multi-talented artist from Chicago’s south side. She is speaker, runway and print model, storyteller, author and blogger at Love’s Great Design president and CEO of The Message, Inc., certified grief and loss coach, advocate for suicide prevention, and the current “Ms. Worldwide USA Ambassador” for the Live Out Loud Charity. Angel works with the one of the largest worship arts conferences in the country.

Angel has graced storytelling stages in Chicago and the suburbs, and is the co-host of the monthly series Do Not Submit Storytelling Open Mic Englewood.

If you liked this story, help support Story Club Magazine with a donation. Just $10 helps to support our contributors.

It’s been an awful year. I broke up with my boyfriend of seven years and I’ve been in a fog ever since. I lost my mojo, my school spirit, my ability to sleep through the night. I almost lost my job due to my “lack of focus,” as my boss said. But somehow I made it to Christmas Eve and I am ready to reboot my life, starting now.

I cannot wait to get to Puerto Vallarta, lie down on that beautiful beach, order myself a piña colada served out of a coconut, and kiss this awful year goodbye. Farewell, snow and ice and wind chill factor. Adiós, Chicago. Hola, Mexico!

I am packed and ready to go. All I need is my passport. I look in my desk drawer but it’s not there. I look in my file cabinet but it’s not there. I look in my dresser drawers, my bedroom closet, the kitchen cabinets, but it’s not in any of these places.

“Where the fuck is my passport?” I say to nobody, as I live alone. My flight leaves in just 12 hours.

Then I panic. I ransack my apartment, going from room to room, emptying every drawer, every closet, every cabinet, throwing the contents onto the floor where I can see it all clearly. I’m down on my hands and knees, sifting through the piles of stuff like a crazed burglar. And, after turning my apartment upside-down…nothing!

“Where the fuck is my passport?!” I yell at the living room walls. I’m sure my neighbors can hear me — the walls are thin and it’s almost midnight. They’re probably calling the police right now. I don’t care.

And then, I get an idea. My passport must be at the office downtown. I must have left it there.

I grab my winter coat, jump in my car, and race downtown. The streets are deserted in the Loop on Christmas Eve, and I park right in front of my building. I run into the lobby, and the security guy gives me a puzzled look as I’m signing in.

“I lost something and I think it’s in my office,” I say.

“Okay, well…Merry Christmas.”

“You too!” I reply as I bolt to the elevator banks.

I take the elevator to the 10^th floor. The lights are off, it’s dark and silent. I race through the maze of cubicles like a trained rat on a mission, and when I get to my cubicle, I ransack it. I pull out every drawer, every file cabinet, and dump the contents onto the floor. I sift through the piles of stuff on my hands and knees. After I’ve made a complete mess…nothing!

“Where the fuck is my passport?!” I yell to the empty office.

The truth is, I have no idea where it is, and I have no place else to search. Sitting on the floor of my office cubicle sometime after midnight, I stare into the darkness and try to compose myself. Then I say out loud, as calmly as possible: “I’ve lost my passport. I’ve looked everywhere I know of, but it’s gone. I am not going to Puerto Vallarta for Christmas.” And then I cry.

* * *

The next morning, back in my apartment, I make a pot of coffee and survey the mess. Then I spot my suitcase, still packed and waiting by the front door. “Merry Fucking Christmas,” I mutter.

I contemplate how I will now spend Christmas week in Chicago. I can’t visit my family, they’re not in town. I can’t visit my friends, because they all think I’m in Puerto Vallarta…and that’s what I want them to think. I boasted to everyone that I was going to spend Christmas on the beach in Mexico, and they could all have their white Christmas in Chicago, thank you very much.

I told my co-workers. I told my volleyball team. I told George, the star hitter on the volleyball team, who is a dreamboat and who I have a crush on.

I can’t fathom telling them I lost my passport. I just can’t. I’ll never hear the end of it. I feel like the biggest loser ever. My life was supposed to turn around, starting today. I thought I had hit rock bottom, but now it seems the bottom has fallen out and there’s more rock bottom.

And then, I get an idea.

I hide out in my apartment all week long. I spend my time watching movies and reading Mexico travel blogs. When I leave the apartment I wear sunglasses and a hoodie, because I’m incognito. I leave for only two reasons: to go to the grocery store, or go to the tanning salon.

I love the tanning salon. I love lying on the tanning bed in my Speedo, grooving to my playlist, surrounded by the gentle warmth and humming of the UV lights as they slowly cook my skin to a deep golden brown. When I close my eyes, it feels like I’m actually lying on that beautiful beach in Puerto Vallarta.

Days pass. The first week in January comes. We have volleyball practice. I show up at the gym, armed with a deep tan and stories from the Mexico travel blogs. There are six courts going and I scan the gym for my team. Then I spot dreamboat George.

I’m nervous. Part of me wants to turn around, walk out of that gym, and go back into hiding for the rest of winter. But I know that won’t solve anything. I know I have to get out there and live in the world, meet people and take risks, even when I don’t feel like it. That’s what all the self-help books say.

So I walk up to dreamboat George with a smile on my face. He smiles back and asks, “So how was Puerto Vallarta?”

I say, “Muy Bueno! The weather was perfect. The beaches were fantastic. And oh! The food … so mucho delicioso!”

As I’m talking I’m thinking, is he buying this bullshit? I study his face for signs of doubt and I can’t really be sure, but I think he might be.

While I’m talking with dreamboat George, my other teammates gather round and I repeat the story for them. With each retelling I grow more confident. I add more details; a snorkeling trip, a sunset cruise, dancing ‘til dawn. Suddenly I realize: I’m actually pretty good at this.

Dreamboat George says, “I’m so jealous!” Which are the words I long to hear.

The next day, I go out to lunch with my boss and co-workers and I tell my story with confidence and panache as they listen and nod with obvious envy. As I’m telling my story, I’m actually starting to believe it myself.

 * * *

I sat on this secret for 11 years.

Over time I got my self-confidence back. I got a new passport, and I got a new boyfriend. We’ve travelled together, mostly beach vacations, but never to Puerto Vallarta since I don’t like to repeat.

Last December, I was cleaning out my bedroom closet over the holidays. I spotted a ratty old jacket way in the back and I reached in and pulled it out. Just as I was throwing the jacket in the trash I felt something hard in the breast pocket. Curious, I reached into the pocket and pulled out my fucking passport.

Steve Glickman has been telling stories his whole life, mostly at weddings and funerals, but more recently on the stage. He is the co-host of “Do Not Submit” at Uptown Underground in Chicago. He has performed at The Laugh Factory, The Moth GrandSlam, Story Club, This Much Is True, Story Sessions, Tellin’ Tales Theatre, Tenx9, and other shows in and around Chicago. By day he is a software engineer. He lives in the Uptown neighborhood with his partner Mark and their imaginary dog “Ruffles.”

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