Symbols, and the Power of Unexpected Connections
A short story for this week.
I flew back to Chicago before the new year to help see my one daughter off to her study abroad in Ireland, and to help my other daughter transition to being without her twin, but with no exciting adventure to distract her.
It also gave me an excuse to be in Chicago, where I have lived more than half my life, and which brings me immense joy. Even in minus zero-degree weather.
When I flew back on Saturday, I decided to wear my Theatre School of DePaul sweatshirt. It’s heavy, though not for that day’s Chicago weather without something underneath. But I wasn’t planning to be outside for long. I put my coat on and ran to my Lyft, then into the airport.
On the plane it was hot as fuck. And I regretted wearing such a heavy sweatshirt.
We land in Vegas’ 54-degree weather. I get off the plane and onto the tram to baggage claim. A guy gets on right after me with a black t-shirt, with the white on black “everything but Black lives matter” flag on his sleeve. (These MAGA flags have gone through so many iterations, I can’t keep track.)
I only see him from the back, but he is buff, so the flag is taut.
I find myself wondering how it is that MAGA folk keep saying their voices are shut down, but they’re the only ones I see wearing their (hateful) messages on their sleeves. Literally.
I start looking around to see if anyone else is wearing clothing with messages on them. To my right is a middle-aged Black couple. Between me and the flag sleeve guy is a young woman. She is Black, too. None of them are wearing any clothing with symbols that would piss this guy off. And I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one who noticed the flag.
Then the man who is sitting with his wife nods at his daughter in front of me and says, “Theatre School.” She looks at me. I realize we’re now in a conversation. A conversation about t-shirts and symbols.
“My kid goes there,” I say, with no trace of pride in my voice at all.
“Really!” the girl says excitedly.
“Yes,” I say as we exit the tram. “Are YOU in theatre?”
“Yes.”
“What school do you go to?”
“Oh, I’m still doing high school theatre. I want to go to college for theatre.”
“Are you in one of the Vegas schools?” And then I list the two theatre high schools in Las Vegas.
Turns out they flew in from Virginia, but the wife/mother is from Chicago (aren’t we all?), and I say to the girl, “You should definitely go to college for theatre.”
I do not say “follow your dreams,” because I am a middle-aged woman who has spent her adult life doing theatre and journalism.
There are no dreams.
There was once a time when theatre changed my life. There was once a time when I thought both theatre and journalism could change the world.
I do not think that anymore.
In the days after my grandfather died in 1996, I picked up some of the rounds he used to do for my parents’ business. I ran into scores of people whom he barely knew who said the world was a bit dimmer now that he was gone. I had one conversation with a bank teller, who saw him once a day for a few minutes. She told me he made her days brighter. She cried as she gave me the deposit slip.
My grandfather taught me that you change the world one person at a time, one conversation at a time. One moment of shared interaction.
As we are walking, I note that this kid in the airport has a smile on her face, talking about her love of theatre. So, I wish her luck and head down the escalator marveling at how life gives you symbols that take you places you never expected.