Marginal

Marginality is something I’ve been forced to think about for most of my life. Like it or not. Whether I was growing up in Logan Square, having to be one of the tougher kids on my block, while simultaneously (unconsciously) propping up my image as my class’s biggest nerd, complete with thick glasses, goofy wardrobe and unkempt hair. Or making my way through high school, working part-time jobs to pay my way, staying on the honor roll, while also being punk rock. Or finally, moreover, as I am today: a traditionalist Catholic with a divorce (and worse) under my belt, and all but devoid of what’s come to be termed “conservative” politics as most commonly regarded.

In a word, I’m a mess. Not easy to pigeonhole, classify or stereotype. Not easy to befriend, ally or date. And since I don’t come with a label, I’m the type that’s easy to ignore. To underestimate. To regard less seriously. To marginalize.

This ain’t no pity party nor an attempt to claim bragging rights. Just part of an attempt to use this blog for what I hope it’s for; i.e., a medium for self-expression. I don’t wear my marginality as a badge of honor; nor do I wallow in the misery it might present. At fifty, I’m not changing. My life on the margins is firmly established.

It’s been a life of adaptation via reflection. And rejection. Despite looking like a freak during my punk days, I never did drugs. Straight-edge all the way. Even though I fell away from the Church in my twenties, I still honored its teachings. Or still respected them. I mostly remained monogamous. Never been to a strip club. Never watched porn. Always respected women, which my “feminist males” on the left merely gave lip service to, rarely practicing what they preached.

The whole “macho” thing never appealed to me. I remember nearly being seriously injured while working at the Chicago Board of Education for daring to challenge a couple of Hispanic guys I worked with to treat their wives/girlfriends as they’d want to be treated. That meant allowing “their women” to have affairs, just as they were. One morning I arrived at work to find my lift stacked on top of a pile of pallets. Another day I was nearly crushed by the two of them via their lifts, ala the Malachi brothers from “Happy Days.” Just for asking them to be a little less hypocritical and a lot more honest.

Same place but a different situation.

Just by chance, I discovered that a janitor who had once worked for the Board was on leave for health reasons. Asbestosis, to be precise. I happened to be getting coffee when I noticed a woman half-crying at a table in the vending area. No one else was around, so I tried to console her by using a little humor, trying to cheer her up. As it turned out, her husband had been an employee at the Board and had worked the freight elevator when asbestos was being removed there some years prior. He was currently dying of cancer, mesothelioma, from what she believed was a shoddy attempt at abatement in the building. She claimed that her husband was exposed to asbestos fibers as workers carelessly and recklessly transported the material on the freight elevator he was operating at the time. None of the OSHA/EPA-mandated procedures were followed, she told me, leading to an inevitable inhalation of the cancer-causing fibers. And now, in addition to dealing with a dying spouse, she was meeting hard resistance from Board directors and had barely the money to afford a lawyer to fight back.

Knowledge can be a dangerous thing. My conversation with this woman had me wondering about my own health and safety as I continued to work there. I ended up doing a bunch of poking around, and via a little research, I noticed quite a bit of asbestos still wrapped around pipes. Much of it was in bad shape, cracked in some locations and fractured in others. Made me a little concerned about all of the sweeping we did in the summer when things slowed in the schools. Was I breathing in this shit?

I brought it to the attention of my direct supervisor and his boss, which went nowhere. They told me that there was nothing to worry about and that I was imagining things. But I couldn’t get the conversation I’d had with that woman out of my mind. I felt that something needed to be done. So during the slow days we had, I went around the building and taped up hand-made signs, pointing out where I believed fractured asbestos was located. That eventually got the attention of both of my bosses; and if I had not been a member of the union, probably fired.

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