Wedged Between Sorrows

Written at 8:45 this morning:

“And can it be that in a world so full and busy, the loss of one weak creature makes a void in any heart, so wide and deep that nothing but the width and depth of vast eternity can fill it up!”
—From Dombey and Son, by Charles Dickens

Still working on the eulogy.

Still missing the pooch.

And STILL going to court! Yes, today is the bench trial for the crazy guy in my ’hood who continues his verbal assaults on people. Just this week he told a couple he hoped their young son contracted leukemia. I hope the judge takes action today and I don’t have to go anywhere near a court again!


Follow-up written at 6:30 this evening:
Oy! I’ve been in court all bloody day. Both the public defender and the state’s attorney tried to weasel their way into an extension of the case, but thankfully the judge pushed them to finish the job today.

It wasn’t a complete waste of time because I learned a couple of things:
1. The plaintiff is not allowed to hear the testimonies of the defendant or the witnesses—in fact, has to leave the courtroom and hang tight in the hallway.
2. You can file a police report well after an incident occurs—months after, in fact.
Newsflash: Never rely on television for information regarding the legal system.

Results of the Day: Mr. Nasty is under court supervision for the next 3 months and required to attend anger management classes. Kind of a wet-noodle slap, but at least he didn’t win on a technicality. If he slips up and somebody else calls the police, he’ll get arrested and the sentencing may not be so lenient.

One victory down, one eulogy to write…

[I wish I'd been in this court today: A Breach of Promise Suit by Cassius Marcellus Coolidge.]

A-Courting We Will Go: Learning the Importance of Networks in Surprising Places

esterday, as my husband pointed out late last night, was 3.2.10. For me, the word blast-off naturally follows this numeric sequence, which sounded like the perfect beginning for an uplifting post on Lull. Yet nothing in my life right now has taken off or is ready for take-off—except, perhaps, the wisdom teeth that have been pressuring me this week for a new view (which I can’t wait to give them, if I have to do it myself with a doorknob and piece of string).

But the more I reflected on yesterday’s events, the more I realized how radical they were for me. 3.2.10, indeed.

Yesterday I went to court with one community and joined a different one in the evening to hear a Webinar. If you know me, then you know how unusual it is for me to become part of a group. And these two groups were worlds apart—generations apart, even—but both offered a cohesiveness that is especially foreign to many of us caught in the economy’s net of joblessness. It felt good.

And it felt bad.

Let me explain: I was in court again as a witness to a verbal assault on my neighbor, but also because the one network I’ve been a fringe member of for the past 11 years has come under attack by someone within the network.

My neighborhood isn’t tony. Realtors call it “up-and-coming,” but dollar stores are our shopping options and we need look no further than the nearest street corner for our drug supplies. Waves of immigrants, their nationality dependent on the current tribal turmoil, get their American start here. The diversity is wondrous but can be isolating. Which is why being a “dog person” is an icebreaker and a bridge to neighbors. Without the pooch, I’m not sure I could see all the beauty of the ’hood; without the pooch, I probably wouldn’t walk down every street and alley, wouldn’t stroll along the lakefront at night, wouldn’t fall into conversations with other dog people about politics, art, life, recommendations for doctors, groomers, restaurants. Dog people are the web that holds my neighborhood together and makes me feel safe here.

Until he showed up.

He’s a dog person, too, with a sweet, adorable, golden mutt who’s well behaved. But he isn’t. He has an alarming habit of verbally attacking people and wishing harm upon them: “I hope you get AIDS,” “I hope you get raped,” “I’m going to kill you,” “I’m going to kill your dog.” This last threat, of course, spurs dog folks to action.

Some dog people, like my neighbor, have been on the receiving end of these tirades multiple times; some only once. I’ve merely witnessed one episode and heard about many others. But it’s enough to rend the fabric of the community.

Now, in addition to the usual suspects, we’re scanning the horizon for the one dog person who might hurt us. Since there is no apparent trigger for his outbursts, there’s no preventive action we can take other than to avoid him. My neighbor has been granted an order of protection from him but is continuing to press charges against him. And several of the dog people are standing behind her—including me (one upside to unemployment is the freedom to go to court as often as needed).

Yet being part of a community that’s in the right isn’t necessarily enough to feel good about it. It was painfully obvious in court yesterday that Mr. Tirade has no one in his corner. He should be part of our community but he’s not; I doubt he has any community. And I believe his tirades are the result of a neurological or psychological condition that is not being treated. I don’t want to see him punished. I want to see him become the person other dog people can embrace. Or I want a guarantee that he’s more bark than bite.

It’s odd to feel alienation while at the same time feeling a sense of belonging and empowerment. As soon as we belong to a group, we have drawn a line between us and others. We have defined the other. And I think no matter how much I take pleasure in the networks I belong to, no matter how grateful I am for them, I will always feel a little uncomfortable for having exposed the other.


[Artful drop cap by illustrator Jessica Hische. Not all these dogs are in my 'hood; none is Mr. Tirade’s dog.]

Judging a Book by Its Cover

We just returned from court where the most significant thing that happened took place in the hallway.

The landlord's lawyer accused us of scamming the pro bono agency because, well, just look at the way we look. It's obvious we're wealthy.

I gave him "the eye."

But our lawyer leaned down (he's basketball-eligible tall) to his opponent and said, "You're mistakenly equating wealth with class. These people have class." (I loved him for that!)

Later, as we said our goodbyes to our lawyer, my husband said, "Well, we have to catch our limo now."

Right-ee-o!

Who's Laughing Now?

esterday morning, on my way to an appointment, I stood at a slushy intersection waiting for the light to change. After the light turned yellow, a driver whizzed through, spraying water toward me. As I jumped back, I started laughing. Then I realized I was laughing and thought, What a great response to a_ _holes and their a_ _holish behavior! If laughter is the best medicine (as Reader's Digest has long touted), then I may soon be the healthiest person I know!

The night before, I'd had the same reaction to a voicemail message left by my landlord. He was trying to "reach out to me" by offering to:
1. Let us stay through the end of our lease as long as we paid our rent on time [as if we haven't paid on time!] and
2. Stop the lawsuit if we paid his court costs.

This "reaching out" has been unfolding since the week before Thanksgiving and I thought the lawyers would handle it. But my lawyer, as usual, hasn't communicated much with me. Long story short (I know, dear Lull readers, I've been promising you details of the case for months now but frankly, I can't bear to write more about it), late yesterday afternoon, after many e-mails, phone conversations, and heated discussions, I caved.

We're paying the court costs because:
1. I'm the only one crazy enough to make this a matter of principle.
2. Our lawyer doesn't appear to be our advocate, nor does he seem interested in fighting the case, meaning the likelihood of him winning is a stretch.
3. We can no long coexist with the intense stress this has put on us.

When I left home to go to college, my grandmother's parting warning—which I did not understand at the time—was this:

"Be careful, Lill. Some people aren't as nice as you think they are."

Boy Howdy was she ever right! It took a few decades for it to sink in, but I get it now. I get it loud and clear.

Catching Up on Old News

I know, I know. I haven't been writing because I've been knee-deep in cancelled checks, IRS forms, and various ephemera saved over the course of 20+ years in preparation for my court date yesterday. I've also been talking to lawyers, chewing my fingernails, and learning that fighting evil is no job for the faint-of-heart. I'll detail the recent events later.

For now, I'd like to share what gave me a much-needed chuckle in the midst of my ongoing attempts to jump through every hoop my landlord's lawyer throws my way. Duke—a former "savage stray on the edge of death" as his blog

describes him— made a PSA that aired last month in Malaysia for the Society for Prevention of Cruelty to Animals (you may have seen it already—I'm a month behind apparently). It's an important message that needs to be communicated in every country. Sorry I couldn't get the video embedded here.

If, on the other hand, you could use a good cry, there's some old footage on YouTube of a canine rescuing another 4-legged from a highway. Compassion certainly wasn't in the drivers' seats of the vehicles that drove by that day. Shameful humans. We can be a contemptible lot, can't we?