In Transit On Thanksgiving

Union Station.


I've walked these halls so many times that I know the corners, secret alcoves and tiny spaces to duck into for a quiet moment out of the very public arena of the train station.

I'm in the Great Hall, filled with pillars and caryatids, once again... as well as crazy people surrounded by ticking irritation, hostility and shopping bags sprawled around filled with crazy stuff. It's Thanksgiving. The train station has a different vibe when the rest of downtown has shut down for the holidays and its filled with the chaos of travelers and a bare bones staff, and this is my favorite place to observe people.


Years ago when I worked in this building as a young girl manning the espresso machine alongside gangbangers and hoodrats, we spent a lot of time drinking coffee and standing around talking shit. I'd wander around the station during my breaks, smoking alongside the river and in hiding spaces throughout the underground walkways encountering all types of characters, some predatory and some friendly. Here is where I met my first martial arts teacher, a guide in my philosophic search for truth. I haven't spotted Douglas today, but he's here in spirit - I am remembering his silent and watchful way, an elderly former Black Panther with a kung fu pigtail and glasses, broom at his side. He observed me for some time, stepping my way around through the seas of people cluelessly but agile, before he began stopping by the coffee shop to share some much needed knowledge about life.

What is a more intense place for ninja training than a train station? He taught me wushu moves, punching techniques, throwing people, tai chi. In the end, it was just a bunch of fucking around on the job but in the process I learned some things that changed me for the better, and some fundamental wisdom that I have practiced ever since. This environment, the constant movement of strangers and the need to watch your back at all times made for a great microcosm to sharpen one's skills.

Walking through the station, I saw another student of the guy who asked me to call him sensei, the only familiar face amongst the workers of the station today. He used to laugh at us clowning around kung fu style, but I see by his demeanor that he's taken on the sort of reflectiveness that I learned here from Douglas. What else is there to do here than that? His name is Otis, I believe, and as I walked by I noticed his face - a little leaner from the years- spouting some truths to a coworker. It has been too long to have broken into their conversation and ask if he remembered me. It felt like too many lifetimes have passed between now and then. I did want to ask about Douglas, but I was also fine with just passing through invisibly.


There are ghosts here. Old time Chicago ghosts and the spirits of so many lives and dramas that have passed through the Great Hall on a stop at the busiest transportation hub in the country. Someone once told me that around 100,000 people travel through here on an average day, both locally and across states.

I trekked through here this morning with Kelly Maree, slugging our duffle bags and wellington boots through the cold puddles of the gray Chicago November day. We rushed to get her to the gate bound for Milwaukee to hang with Mikey and the rest of the Del Rosarios up there. I noticed the electronic schedule blinking that my next train would be in an hour, so I took a walk through the crowds of people draped across benches and chairs, and up to the river for some fresh air before coming down to the Great Hall for a good vantage point for watching people. Now I'm breathing in the feeling of solitude in this monumental ultimate waiting room. The overcast sky makes this moment feel like a dream, with light streaming through the skylight. The atmosphere is charged with the wet emotional rawness that I find typical of the holidays, people waiting to face their families, facing the realness.

I'm sitting here now reminiscing, lost in my memories, watching a bizarre looking gray bearded man watching me from across the enormous room. He's a little over 6 feet, long gray trench and khakis, holding his head intensely. he's unnerved by the fact that I am staring at him and scribbling in my notebook, but he does not look away. He has now moved behind a pillar, but he still sees me watching him.


I'm glad for these moments to be suspended in time and to linger in transition. So much has happened and I have traveled far from those days, and now the distances lie vast in the tracks that stretch before me here in this hub. Time seems to stretch in every direction here at Union Station, odd enough for a place that I've burst into many times, out of time, sweaty faced and missing my train. This hasn't happened in a long time - I think my timing has improved. But for this hour, I can think of no better thing than to have this waiting bench to reflect on these things and sit still to breathe. I know the clocks will tick on, and then I'll have to jump up again, ready to rush and catch my train so it can charge me ahead to the next place I'm going.



In front of these piles of commuters waiting, the gates to the trains twitched with artificial robot voices announcing the departures endlessly droning. Are they trying to hypnotize us? It felt like it. I was stoked when this guy pulled out his guitar and fought the electronic voices with music.

I got onto the train and we barreled through the distance.



Happy Thanksgiving! I'm grateful for time, these stolen moments amongst others. It's a good day to appreciate the many unbelievable and transcendent moments that I don't always have time to reflect upon before life charges me into a new scenario.