Although our opinion section is predominantly serious-minded, we like to provide plenty of space for the softer side of things, for opinion pieces that speak very personally to the human experience.
We are fortunate to have so many op-ed contributors write with awakened authority about issues that can resonate with us in a deep way.
On Tuesday, we published excerpts of some of the best personal op-eds that have appeared in our section. Here, in more excerpts, is the conclusion of our look back.
Sept. 23: Allan Ripp, ‘Thanks to a road trip, I finally met my sister’
In Pittsburgh, we stayed at a hotel next to an old Nabisco factory — we used to smell coconut cookies baking from our porch steps. We skipped museums and the hip new sections of town and just walked, and walked, racking up 20 miles on Saturday.
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Every street was a memory of this or that family, and we filled in each other’s gaps, stopping at our grade school to peer into the hallways. On one of our home streets, a one-block sliver of mostly redbrick row houses, we called out the names of all our neighbors — the Krauses, Greenwalds, Rosensons. There was the narrow back alley where I used to risk life and limb climbing fire escapes — happily without parental supervision. ...
We passed by our family synagogue — the now-shuttered Tree of Life in Squirrel Hill — and debated whether it should be reopened for observance (me) or razed to make room for a permanent memorial (Leslie). Elsewhere, seeing how clean, green and friendly the Steel City was made us both wonder why we ever left, and what it would be like to return as seniors.
Oct. 7: Nancy E. Anderson, ‘The waning days of the outdoor pool’
When I think about the reasons I love living where I do, near the top of my list is the outdoor pool that’s a five-minute drive from my house. I can also bike or walk there.
I’ve been extra thankful for this public pool because so many Chicago-area pools had delayed openings this summer or didn’t open at all due to a lifeguard shortage.
And I’m especially lucky this facility stays open until early October. The diving well, slides and play pools closed on Labor Day, but the expansive 50-meter pool, tidily divided by lane lines, is still open to adults for limited hours of lap swimming.
There are no lifeguards perched in towering chairs along the side, but there’s a skeleton crew of workers checking us in, cleaning the deck and stacking lounge chairs. I feel safe.
Maybe I feel safe because I feel a connection to the others who, like me, show up on cool autumn mornings knowing that if the water is heated, the temperature outside doesn’t matter that much.
Although this community of swimmers is a mishmash of serious speedsters, languid breaststrokers and water walkers, we speak a common language.
Oct. 21: Elizabeth Weiner, ‘My struggles with canine love on the rebound’
It started as a typical rebound relationship. I was drowning in grief, and to say my judgment was impaired is an understatement. Tovi had died two weeks prior, breeding an impulsivity in me that no intervention could interrupt. I was sure adopting another dog would sedate my debilitating pain.
The day after he died, I frantically dragged my husband to three shelters and cried when no one came home with us.
Tovi was the closest thing to a soul mate I’ve ever had. He was there for me during those tumultuous 20s, and having him as a stable presence forced me to grow up. We lived in nine places, took road trips and hiked countless trails. He walked me down the aisle and gave me away to a man I would later divorce. At my second wedding, in lieu of flowers, I walked down the aisle carrying a bully stick and gently handed it to the “Best Dog.” I grieved not only for Tovi but also the life he had represented, the memories he held. The “before.”
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I had a checklist. Through Petfinder, I found dogs in foster care meeting my criteria, only to find out that the dog had been adopted. Like a desperate buyer in a seller’s market, my heart sank every time. Racing to yet another shelter, I spotted a volunteer in the parking lot carrying a 5-month-old puppy. Knowing nothing about this dog, other than she broke my age rule, it was as if I yelled, “Dibs!” With my checkboxes blank, I went against my rational intent of making an informed decision.
Oct. 26: Kyra Miller, ‘I love my West Rogers Park neighbors of all faiths’
These past few years have proved heartwarming as I’ve come to know and love these two families. They are incredibly kind and humble and generous. They are funny too. Joking around. The mothers consistently offer me home-cooked meals, and the kids greet me with such glee. Foods are blessed in a way that makes them Halal. Holidays are recognized with special dishes, beautiful clothing and trips to the mosque. They sometimes dance to popular Afghani music. Daily, many kneel in prayer. Up to five times a day. The families always pray for me. For my health. For my family. I feel it, genuinely. They are thriving.
Their West Rogers Park neighborhood is a burgeoning community where once-shy moms gather each evening with other mothers, watching their kids ride bikes and play. To see their progression from traumatized transplants to happy, confident Chicagoans is an indescribable feeling. Lately, we can’t help but wonder if they might experience some backlash from this war, even though they have absolutely nothing to do with it. We only want for them to continue to grow, to learn, to live freely. They are our friends. Our hearts worry for them.
The fact that I reside precisely in the center of two deeply rooted religious communities only just occurred to me last night.
Nov. 12: Maureen Cassidy, ‘I got mugged. Chicagoans came to my rescue.’
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After crossing the Washington Street bridge, I felt someone pull on my crossbody handbag. The chain strap broke around my neck, and someone took off with my belongings. I recognized the man, as I had passed him on the bridge just moments before. I don’t know what possessed me, but I gave chase. Keep in mind that I am a 52-year-old woman who definitely does not make it a practice to exercise, so when I say I was running after him, it really was very slow.
He ran into the street, and I was screaming for someone to help me. At that very moment, a man in a white minivan positioned his vehicle to stop the man with my bag. Of course, the mugger ran around the minivan with me in hot — well, slow — pursuit. I really didn’t care about what was in the handbag, but the one-of-a-kind handbag was very special to me.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a redheaded man running toward the mugger like a superhero. He tackled the man and got my handbag back for me. Then, the man who had been in the white minivan got out with a bat. A bat! How Chicago is that? He insisted the mugger give me my cash back as well, which the mugger had pocketed at this point.
At the same time, a lovely woman came and put her arm around my shoulders to comfort me. She shared that she had given this man cash on the bridge. The mugger reached into his pocket and gave me my money back. I was so shaken, but this amazing group of Chicagoans walked me the half block to Ogilvie all while checking on me to make sure I indeed had gotten all of my belongings back.
Dec. 16: David McGrath, ‘The Christmas gift every teacher craves’
Chicago Tribune Opinion
For my sophomore class in 1985, I thought S.E. Hinton’s novel “The Outsiders” might improve attitudes toward learning. Other than being white, Hinton’s characters mirrored my students in age, in economic levels, and in problems with gangs, peer pressure, dysfunctional families and self-image.
I assigned the book, and as a bonus before Christmas break, I rented a video recorder and the largest screen TV available from the local rent-to-own store, which two burly men wheeled into our classroom.
I slid “The Outsiders” cassette into the video player, lowered the shades, and we all sat back to watch the first half of the 90-minute film. While most students recognized Ralph Macchio from “The Karate Kid,” few were familiar with Matt Dillon, Patrick Swayze or Diane Lane. The next morning, many arrived early, grabbing desks closest to the TV. The usual “suspects” were late and had to be shushed once the movie’s second half began.
As the plot ramped up, the tension in the room became palpable. At the climatic episode, when Johnny (Macchio) is on his deathbed, uttering his last words to his best friend, Ponyboy, I noticed a commotion in the far corner. I started to stand in order to quell the disruption, when I realized what was happening and sat back down.
Chris Zorich, an above-average student and top linebacker on the football team, was in tears. The scene on the screen was highly charged, and you could see his usually squared, substantial shoulders shaking. Like the character in the novel, Zorich was raised by a single parent in a tough neighborhood. But showing his emotions in front of streetwise classmates was risking ridicule and harassment.
I kept one eye on the TV and another on Zorich. One of the latecomers sitting across his aisle turned to locate the source of the sobs, a smile of glee on his face. He was poised to scorn and laugh derisively. This was not going to turn out well, I thought. But his smile faded when he saw it was the football star.
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