February 27, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

I wouldn't want to interrupt your Oscar party with too much writing. I just thought I'd like you know that I'm OK--tired, but OK.

Talk to you tomorrow,

Dan

February 26, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

On a day where there were explosions and death across the globe, I spent the day in a hospital basement learning how to bring a delicate, fleshy life into this world. It was terrifying and exciting and exhilarating and draining all at the same time.

Yours,

Dan

February 25, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

My upstairs neighbors are singing tonight. They've got a group of friends up there and they're all gathered around a karaoke machine singing "Killing Me Softly" and "Looks Like We Made It" and "Hotel California." Janice and I can hear the muted notes through the floorboards of our usually silent building, and we're smiling and joking and singing along.

"I think our neighbors are Hoos," Janice says, conjuring up long-forgotten memories of the large-hearted denizens of Hooville gathering in their town square to sing Christmas songs. Then, half-jokingly, half-wistfully, she adds, "If I could drink right now, I'd have three glasses of wine and go up there and join them." And she strokes her ever-expanding belly, stretched full with our son who has just eight weeks left today, and we both know that even though we're not upstairs drinking wine and harmonizing with people twice our age, we have plenty to sing about down here too.

Looks like we made it,

Dan

February 24, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

"I live in a transparent country," you said at a press conference today. "Our laws, and the reasons why we have laws on the books, are perfectly explained to people."

If that's the case, Mr. Bush, then I think you have a whole lot of explaining to do to a whole lot of people.

Dan

February 23, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

"You know a man is telling the truth when he's down on his knees," the homeless man said on his knees in the middle of the train, careful to keep his balance as the train whipped around a turn. "I need your help. I need your help. I need your help," his voice cracking with desperation.

Growing up in the city, you become hardened to people asking for money. They're everywhere you turn: on the corner near the grocery store, in the middle of the street at a highway exit, in front of the museum, and, of course, on the train. Over time, you develop a blank stare, a casual shrug, and you just keep walking. If you wouldn't, I'm fairly certain you would eventually be crushed under the emotion of it all.

On the train tonight, the blank stare was in full effect: everyone on the crowded train car found a different point in the distance to escape into, some giving the casual shrug or pantomiming a search for phantom change, others simply pretended that nothing was happening.

But then something did happen: the man started crying and something about those tears broke the spell that had fallen over the train. People started reaching into their wallets and pulling out money. The man stood up, wiped at his eyes, and walked to the outstretched hands, thanking them and moving on. It was a tiny amount of money and it was a temporary fix for his problems, but it was extraordinary to watch that mask of indifference come off of so many different faces. Even he seemed surprised.

Now I'm sure a number of your friends would say that we did the wrong thing tonight, that we gave a man a handout instead of giving him something lasting. But Mr. Bush, I ask you: if a man kneels in front of you, crying and begging for change, and you've got the ability to give him something--a quarter, a dollar, even a five if you have the means--then how couldn't you?

Yours,

Dan

February 22, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

While you're walking down European streets, are you ever crushed by the sheer weight of history that seems to emanate from every brick? It's always staggering to me, seeing so many old buildings crowded together as if to say, We were here long before you were born and we will be here long after you die.

To old Europe,

Dan

February 21, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

When I was a kid, my family would go on vacation in northern Wisconsin. We would spend a week in a cabin, fishing and playing cards and taking drives into the wilderness. As a child, it was something I looked forward to every year; by the time I was a teenager, as you might expect, I could think of better things to do with my summers.

By the time my family took our annual trek when I was 16, I was at the height of teenage indifference; I was listening to punk rock, was trying to go vegetarian, and was a voracious reader of anything that seemed out of the mainstream. I brought a backpack of books with me, and was content with the idea of simply spending the week sitting inside reading. My plan went a little too well, truth be told, as I ran out of books with an eight hour car ride left.

The day before we left, we drove to a flea market in town. I walked through the aisles, rolling my eyes at the fishing lures and deer antlers for sale. I stopped at a booth laden with books, hoping to find something for the long ride back to Chicago. I dug through the piles of Harliquin romances, pulp detective novels, and fishing guides not expecting to find anything. Just as I had given up, however, a block of cover text jumped out at me from the bottom of a box: "He rose from hoodlum, theif, and dope peddler...to become the most dynamic leader of the Black Revolution," the text read. "He said he would be murdered before this book appeared."

It was an extraordinary thing to read in the context of this lilly-white town in rural Wisconsin, and I was curious enough to grab hold of it. I picked up the tattered, yellowed book and walked over to the old woman running the cash box. She took the book, glanced at the cover, and then looked me over carefully as she asked for a quarter. I paid up and she handed the bruised copy of the Autobiography of Malcom X back to me.

I don't remember the car ride home from that trip, Mr. Bush. I couldn't tell you if we stopped for lunch or if we drove straight through; I can't tell you if it rained or if the sun beat down through our Toyota's windows. What I can tell you is that I read the book straight through in one sitting and when I got home, I started over and read it again.

I've read Malcolm's book probably a dozen times since, the urge striking at very random moments in my life. Each time I go back to it, I find something new, something challenging, something extraordinary. It is not an easy book, nor was he an easy man. But reading the book again recently, it struck me just how contemporary much of it still was; how much his message of self-sufficiency and self-reliance still feels vital to any marginalized community nowadays.

And today, 40 years to the day after he was gunned down in Harlem, his life cut short in the midst of a dramatic re-thinking of his philosophies, I can't help but feel mournful for what could have been.

To Malcolm,

Dan

February 20, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

The most miserable stretch of weather rolled in today: cold and damp, alternating between rain and snow. It was one of those days that you remember that winter isn't truly over and won't be for some time; a day best spent indoors, reading, planning, and dreaming of better days.

Dan

February 19, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

A glorious day off--naps on the couch, a warm dinner made by someone else, a brainless movie watched at home--uninterrupted by the likes of you.

Yours,

Dan

February 18, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

I hope you're having a better Ashura than the people in Iraq are, because they're having a pretty crappy one, wouldn't you say? Hey--wasn't all this violence supposed to just be in the "lead up" to the election? Or have I missed the latest excuse?

Dan

February 17, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

"So she means I should pick the baby up by his head?" the guy sitting next to me asks his wife, his balding head keenly disguised by moussing its few remaining hairs straight up, his meaty hand gripping a plastic doll's skull as he lifts the poor toy off the table.

"No honey, pick him up by the neck," she responds, matter-of-factly.

We are at a "Baby Care Basics" class and I am trying to stop myself from laughing out loud--it probably wouldn't help Janice and my reputation, which, judging from the looks we've been getting, is already pretty low.

It all started as we went around the room introducing ourselves: We were the only couple with different last names and the only one working with a nurse midwife instead of a doctor. It continued when we were the only two people to raise their hands when the nurse leading the class asked if anyone was going to use cloth diapers. Ditto when she asked about not circumcising your baby and when we were the only ones asking questions about storing breast milk instead of formula.

By the mid-class break, while the pregnant women congregated in the bathroom and the dads stood outside idly chatting about due dates, Janice and I were left standing by ourselves, passing a bag of trail mix back and forth, swearing under our breath and feeling like we were back in high school.

It's moments like this that I realize just how small the world I normally live in is. Decisions that seem perfectly normal within my circle of friends and colleagues, when brought out into a group of strangers, seem foreign and strange. It's in these moments when it dawns on me that, no matter how old I get, I will always get the funny looks that have followed me throughout my life for one reason or another. This is when I realize that raising my son, loving my partner, living my life, will continue to always be a struggle.

And yet, when I look around the room at the couples sitting around me--the women's hair all bangs and feathers, the men's all slicked back or stuck up, each couple hoping to appear more flawless than the next--I know that I'd rather choose a life of struggle than one of bland complacency.

Smokin' in the boys' room,

Dan

PS. In case you weren't sure, you supportthe head and neck, but lift the body.

February 16, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

"I'm not sure what I'm going to do after I graduate," a student said to me today, "so I think I might join the military."

I was a little speechless after hearing that and it took me a moment to recover. "Well that's certainly a different direction for you," I stammered, searching to say something that felt just out of reach; searching to say something, anything, that might put that decision into perspective. It left me feeling strange and out-of-place for the rest of class.

But then, riding the train back home, reading the newspaper over someone's shoulder, a headline about yet another troop death in Iraq catching my eye, I realized that the perspective is there, if this student wants to hear it. The reality of what is going on over there is in plain sight, the blood fills the headlines on a daily basis. I can't even begin to understand this student's choice, but there's no way it's been made in ignorance.

It made me think about all the people that are making that choice today, all the people that are shipping out to Iraq as fast as you can train them--a friend's brother, a colleague's cousin--and I couldn't help but wonder what propels them to join up. Do you wonder that yourself, Mr. Bush? As you read your status reports and get briefings on the latest troop deaths, do you stop and wonder just who it is that's enlisting anymore? Who are these people that can make such a difficult decision? What if it was one of your own daughters, aimless after graduation, who decided to enlist. What would you tell her?

Would you too be speechless, searching for words just out of reach?

Dan

February 15, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

Remember how invading Iraq was going to spread peace and liberty throughout the region? How's that working out for you?

Dan

February 14, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

Today was one of those days where everything that could have gone wrong did. I'd rather not get into it.

Happy Valentines Day,

Dan

February 13, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

What is that little saying you have--"An honest day's work for an honest day's wage"? Well today was certainly an honest day's work, though the wages were nonexistent. After a day where I installed a water filter in our sink, moved a bed, built a crib, hauled boxes and trash up and down stairs, swept and mopped two entire three-floor stairwells, and still somehow managed to find time to pay bills and get the ball rolling on selling a car, I am thoroughly exhausted. My hands are worked raw and a thin layer of grime covers my entire body. But it feels amazing to have accomplished so much in just one day.

Sleep well--I know I will,

Dan

February 12, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

The sun shone brilliantly today, the air warm and spring-like, even though we're only halfway through February. It seemed like the entire population of the city was outside--people were everywhere, cars backed up for miles, bikes and dogs crisscrossing through traffic.

When the weather finally starts to warm and the sun begins to peek out from behind the heavy clouds that have obscured it for months, it's always so strange to remember just how many people live here. During the winter, it's as if three-quarters of the population disappears; you don't see people walking around, streets and parking lots are often deserted. But on a day like today, a day of early warmth that reminds us all that we will make it through another winter, you remember that you share your life with millions.

Yours,

Dan

February 11, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

A party at a friend's house tonight felt like a glimpse into the future, with two brand-new babies crying and laughing and making tiny cooing sounds; and Janice sitting on the couch pregnant as can be, the last of three in our circle of friends to give birth. In a lot of ways the party felt like a test run to see if it was even possible to insert fragile new lives into our group's well-set ways. And as the babies were passed from person to person, and Janice sat there, her massive belly being rubbed and people feeling our son's soft kicks, I think everyone knew that this new kid-filled stage of all of our lives was entirely possible.

To the future,

Dan

February 10, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

While sharing drinks with co-workers this evening, the conversation turned to bicycle mishaps and it reminded me of how excited I am for this deep freeze to finally end so I can take my beautiful new bike out for a ride. This has been a long, cold winter by any measure, and it doesn't seem like it's going to let up enough to ride around with warm air blowing through your hair and your shirtsleeves flapping in the wind anytime soon.

To hope for warmer days,

Dan

February 9, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

I talked so much today that my throat now feels swollen and raw. I talked about exciting new projects and talked about the end of others. I talked about the future and I talked about the past. I talked about trying to create things that are lasting and the difficult choices you have to make along the way for that to happen. I talked about sacrifice and solutions, compromise and creation. I talked and talked and just can't do it anymore.

Shhhhh,

Dan

February 8, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

I spent the day today preparing varions tax forms for my business--it's a task that I'm woefully unqualified for. But a day or two confounded by the mystery that is the 1099-MISC form, or hours spent confused by the W-3 report, is the price a person pays for being a business owner. It may take up too much of my limited time and may make my stomach ache with nerves during the entire process, but it's something I do happily and willingly because I know that one of the costs of doing business is to help to support the people that work with you by sharing the cost of their tax burden.

So why is it that it seems like all you and your friends are intersted in doing is making it so this doesn't have to happen. To me, your talk of an "ownership society" is exactly that, isn't it? It's just an excuse for business owners to not have to pay their employees taxes, medical benefits, or make any other sacrifices to the all-important bottom line.

Well, Mr. Bush, here's one business owner who's not interested in the "ownership society." Here's one that's happy to pay taxes, who wishes he could pay medical benefits, who doesn't need to sacrifice everything in the name of profit.

Now if you could just tell me which field I fill out on this 1099--"non-employee compensation" or "other wages"--that'd be a big help.

Dan

February 7, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

You released your budget today, and I have to say that the idea of balancing your wars and tax breaks on the backs of the poor and struggling leaves me speechless.

I literally don't know what to say,

Dan

February 6, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

After a weekend spent finally starting to get our home ready for the baby that's coming in just over ten weeks, it feels weird to think about going back to work. We've begun to clear a place in our home for the child that's been occupying so much space in our minds, and now all I want to do is keep going, to get it done so that we can properly welcome this amazing new person that will be coming into our lives.

Someone asked me the other day if I was "ready" for the baby to come. And while there are massive amounts of things that I don't feel ready about--things that, as you're well aware, keep me up at night sick with worry sometimes--one thing that I am absolutely certain I am ready for is for the baby to come, to be here in my arms reaching up with his tiny hands and grabbing my glasses. I truly am ready for that. I don't know if it's ever possible to be ready for the other stuff without being ready simply for the baby to come first.

T-minus ten,

Dan

February 5, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

I'm sure you're scurrying around the White House tonight making last-minute preparations for your big Super Bowl party. You've probably got onion dip to make and jell-o shooters to chill, so I'm going to let you get to that and not bother you with my day today.

Have fun tomorrow,

Dan

February 4, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

The day was stunningly warm today; the snow that's been piled up for weeks began to disappear. It was a perfect day, and they say that the next few will be similar. I can't think of a better way to begin a weekend off.

Enjoy the weather while we've got it,

Dan

February 3, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

A much-deserved morning off was spent naked and sweating with friends at a low-rent Korean sauna while sketchy, oversized Russians lurked in the corners of the room's dense fog. It was glorious.

I started going to this sauna years ago when I moved into the immigrant neighborhood it's in. The first time I went was with friends from what feels like a different lifetime, all of us giggling nervously as we slowly undressed and made our way into the humid, sticky room. It was uncomfortable and weird at first, and every high-school locker-room nightmare quickly replayed in my head, but eventually, as the heat of the whirlpool and the thick oils in the air of the dry sauna seeped into my muscles and I was able to relax, I knew I was hooked.

We began going to what we refered to simply and reverently as "the schvitz" about once a month for a good two years. But, as I'm sure you know, things change over time and moving on from that circle of friends coupled with moving out of the neighborhood meant that trips to the schvitz became less frequent. As the years went by, the visits became rarer and rarer still.

I hadn't been there in probably 10 months before today's visit--10 months of working at a breakneck pace; 10 months of my muscles and bones slowly feeling more and more twisted and sore. The place hadn't changed much in the time I'd been gone. Sure, they fixed the sinkhole in the lounge and seemed to have slapped a new coat of paint on everything, and the handwritten sign on the door of the sauna that said simply "we have a MAN who can help" had been replaced by equally cryptic inkjet prints, but the clientele was the same odd mix of ancient, wizened Asian men and hulking eastern Europeans--their speedo tan-lines reflected in their massive pinky rings--and the familiar musty, chlorinated odor that filled my nose as I walked in let me know I was in the right place.

And as I lay in the sauna feeling the pain I've been carrying between my shoulder blades slowly melt away and the dull ache of my right knee finally easing for the first time in months, I knew that it had been far too long.

To Paradise,

Dan

February 2, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

I listened to you deliver your State of the Union speech tonight as I drove across town to pick Janice up from work. And as I listened to you speak in your practiced, measured tone, I had a realization: You are in desperate need of a thesaurus.

I am confident that there are plenty of other words that mean "freedom." And I'm sure you could use any of them instead of simply repeating "freedom" over and over again until it is rendered meaningless.

Dan

February 1, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

We lay there, Janice and I, on the bed with just the dim light of her bedside lamp illuminating her soft, round belly, and watched tiny hands and feet kick and punch inside of her. And we just lay there smiling and talking softly and quietly remembered that, after a month where the both of us were so busy we could barely rest, it's these quiet, delicate moments that truly matter the most.

To February,

Dan