Remembering Some Of The Interesting People I'm Meeting at My New Job

So far I've been working either in my home neighborhood of Curtis Park, or in the adjacent Oak Park neighborhood.



Sunday, August 16: A cluster of sites that had already been approached by myself or others in Curtis Park.

My neighbors with the two white dogs who love Jasper were emphatic. "Go home!" It's too hot out here!" "Not till you confirm this address I'm looking for doesn't exist," I said. "It doesn't exist," they said. "Go home!"

A young woman came running up the stairwell towards her apartment, and stopped in surprise, because I was already in her stairwell. "I would like to interview you," I said. "You would like to interview me?" she replied as she retreated. She headed back outside to the car that dropped her off, jumped in, and the vehicle roared away.



Saturday, August 15: The northwestern corner of Oak Park.

I knocked on the door of a house where the elderly parents were gone, but an older daughter was present. They didn't want to interview. A friend of theirs left, whom they asked to close the outer gate. The elder daughter went back inside, closed the door, and I couldn't figure out how to escape their front yard. I knocked on the door again and a younger daughter came out. I explained my plight, which she didn't understand, because the yard's gate was open: I was pushing on the gate's handle when I should have been pulling.

"What race are you?" I asked. The fellow, only one year younger than me, replied "Gypsy!"

I knocked on the door of a small brick house and stumbled into a reinterview, which I had never conducted before. They had trouble opening the front door, and didn't open the screen door, so I couldn't see who I was talking with. I had to speak loudly - almost shout. I was probably talking to a seated, elderly black man, with several other family members also present. Apparently the trouble was the previous interviewer got the name of the elderly man's wife wrong. I misheard the name too, repeated what I heard, and they shouted their correction loudly. I asked the wife's middle name, and she said "Prince." "Prince? I like that name!" I blurted. From inside the house, a flattered feminine voice said "Thanks!" Despite the awkwardness of the interview, we had managed to make a bridge!

The elderly man noticed me knocking on his friend's door, so he came over. He talked about his days as an oral surgeon, especially when he worked at NASA. He regaled me with stories, showed me scars on his arms, etc., etc.

I was surprised to find myself in an apartment complex where everyone spoke Arabic. It felt like I was in Beirut somewhere. After knocking on a few doors and getting no replies, I met a young woman tending her infant children. She put on her head scarf and came outside to interview. I was impressed with her command of Arabic names, even though she seemed quite American in nature (claimed she was born in the UK). Some of the men in the complex came around out of curiosity, eager to interview, even though they weren't slated for one. They were generous and offered water (which I didn't take - I had some in the truck). The woman offered further help in the event I needed an interpreter, and pointed out women in the yard who spoke English. Alas, that was the last interview I conducted at the complex.

(more)



Friday, August 14: Second Avenue corridor in Curtis Park.

Talked to a family preparing dinner.



Thursday, August 13: Curtis Park.

Interviewed a young couple. The man sounded just like my nephew.

Interviewed the elderly Catholic man.

Talked to an extremely curt man who refused to interview.

Talked to the man whose roommates had complicated Italian names.

The house was divided into upstairs and downstairs apartments. The woman seemed eccentric.



Wednesday, August 12: North-Central Oak Park.

The man in towels eventually answered the door and explained he didn't want to interview just now because he had just taken a shower.

Talked to a baby sitter.

"I don't want to interview. I'm a rebel," the elderly woman explained. (Go ahead then, be a rebel.)

Knocked on the wrong door: confused Third and Fourth Avenues.

My first interview! Eventually realized the woman I was talking to was the aunt of someone who did a show with me at DMTC 20 years ago. Apparently he's an real estate salesman these days.