instance, sitting in Mrs. Crenshaw’s kitchen one afternoon, gulping down the burned cookies she liked to force on me
every time I stopped by. It was getting late, the purpose of my visit had begun to blur in my head, and almost as an
afterthought I decided to ask her why she still participated in the PTA so long after her own children had grown.
Scooting her chair up closer to mine, she started to tell me about growing up in Tennessee, how she’d been forced to
stop her own education because her family could afford to send only one child to college, a brother who would later die
in World War II. Both she and her husband had spent years working in a factory, she said, just to see to it that their own
son never had to stop his education-a son who had gone on to get a law degree from Yale.
A simple enough story to understand, I thought: the generational sacrifice, the vindication of a family’s faith. Only,
when I asked Mrs. Crenshaw what her son was doing these days, she went on to tell me that he had been diagnosed
with schizophrenia a few years earlier and that he now spent his days reading newspapers in his room, afraid to leave
the house. As she spoke, her voice never wavered; it was the voice of someone who has forced a larger meaning out of
tragedy.
Or there was the time that I found myself sitting in the St. Helena’s basement with Mrs. Stevens waiting for a meeting
to start. I didn’t know Mrs. Stevens well, knew only that she was interested in renovating the local hospital. By way of
small talk I asked her why she was so concerned with improving health care in the area; her family seemed healthy
enough. And she told me how, in her twenties, she had almost lost her sight from cataracts. She had been working as a
secretary at the time, and although her condition grew so bad her doctor declared her legally blind, she had kept her
ailment from her boss for fear of being fired. Day after day, she had snuck off to the bathroom to read her boss’s
memos with a magnifying glass, memorizing each line before she went back to type, staying at the office long after the
others had left to finish the reports that needed to be ready the following morning. In this way she had maintained her
secret for close to a year, until she finally saved enough money for an operation.
Or there was Mr. Marshall, a single man in his early thirties who worked as a bus driver for the Transit Authority. He
was not typical of the leadership-he had no children, lived in an apartment-and so I wondered why he was so interested
in doing something about drug use among teenagers. When I offered to give him a ride one day to pick up a car he had
left in the shop, I asked him the question. And he told me about his father’s dreams of wealth in a nowhere town in
Arkansas; how the various business ventures had gone sour and how other men had cheated him; how his father had
turned to gambling and drink, lost his home and family; how his father was finally pulled out of a ditch somewhere,
suffocated in his own vomit.
That’s what the leadership was teaching me, day by day: that the self-interest I was supposed to be looking for
extended well beyond the immediacy of issues, that beneath the small talk and sketchy biographies and received
opinions people carried within them some central explanation of themselves. Stories full of terror and wonder, studded
with events that still haunted or inspired them. Sacred stories.
And it was this realization, I think, that finally allowed me to share more of myself with the people I was working
with, to break out of the larger isolation that I had carried with me to Chicago. I was tentative at first, afraid that my
prior life would be too foreign for South Side sensibilities; that I might somehow disturb people’s expectations of me.
Instead, as people listened to my stories of Toot or Lolo or my mother and father, of flying kites in Djakarta or going to
school dances at Punahou, they would nod their heads or shrug or laugh, wondering how someone with my background
barré
(Barré)
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