PROGRAM ANNOUNCEMENT

Talk It Up Event
Strengthening your communication survival skills! Strong communication is key to building a successful career, interpersonal relationships and self esteem. Join writer, storyteller and founding general manager of WYCC-TV/PBS, Distinguished Professor Elynne Chaplik-Aleskow to discuss communication skills. Learn how to differentiate between professional and personal communication styles and practice identifying non-verbal communication.
The YWCA’s Talk It Up series of events focuses on discussion of some of the most pressing issues facing women and people of color. These events are an opportunity to connect with one of the oldest women focused organizations in the city and network with Chicago professionals.
When:
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Where:
YWCA Metropolitan Chicago 360 N. Michigan Ave., Ste. 800 5:30 – 7:00 PM
Cost:
Free
Register:
Click here to register for this event.
Contact:
312-762-2743 or events@ywcachicago.org

UNIVERSAL CRAYONS

I stared at the newspaper photo. China had suffered a major devastating earthquake. Hundreds of thousands were still trapped. Many of them were children buried in their schools by the quake.
I looked at the picture of the young girl. The article said that her school building collapsed and her teacher was killed. A chunk of the debris crushed her leg and her classmates dragged her to safety. In the hospital, her leg was amputated but she survived.
The photo of her in her hospital bed showed the fifth grader coloring with Crayola crayons. I looked closely at the picture. She was concentrating on her coloring and somehow looked peaceful in spite of what she had physically and emotionally endured and the additional tragedy that her parents were still missing after the quake.
Fifth grade. A time of life when classmates are often their meanest and show their worst cruelty. Yet this girl’s classmates were heroic in the midst of such great catastrophe. They thought of one another. They saved her.
And there she was in the hospital drawing a picture with crayons, the universal symbol of childhood. Even for this fifth grader who had suffered so much, the act of holding color in her hand and creating seemed to bring her a moment of true joy.
Crayons are ageless. From primary grades through middle school they are among our most precious possessions. As an adult, I admit to stopping in the grocery store aisle, opening a box of crayons and admiring the colors. The memories of middle school days come back to me. I can feel my desk and see my school supplies neatly arranged, treasures all of them. Always among my most valued objects were my crayons.
At a time of life when children are often at their worst toward one another, a box of crayons offers a rainbow of hope and sharing that is universal. This twelve year old Chinese quake victim was smiling in the photo, her crayon in her hand. In how many scenarios worldwide have similar scenes existed? Timeless and universal, crayons are an ambassador of childhood.

Published Chicago Sun-Times Newspaper June 2008

BREAKFAST AT TIFFANY'S...ALMOST

Once upon a time there was a character in a movie who was a free spirit with a love of adventure and life. Her name was Holly Golightly and she was played by the deliciously charismatic Audrey Hepburn. Her character inspired my secret plan.

This movie had a magical effect on me. I was sixteen when I saw Breakfast at Tiffany’s for the first time. By the time I took my first trip to New York, I had seen the film four times.

Of all the cities I have visited in the world, New York is my most favorite and precious. The city has an infinite rhythm of its own. The opportunities of what to do and see are endless. Day or night one can eat. There is always choice for entertainment. The city is alive. It is a life-force.

I love the anonymity of New York. There is a need I have for the quixotic sensibility New York offers me. I am renewed and inspired by my immersion into this city. One can experience any art form. It is a walking city filled with amazing neighborhoods, quaint groceries, delis, cabarets, music, museums, parks and the ultimate in theater--Broadway.

Being in the audience of a Broadway musical, I transcend the reality outside the theater building and am uplifted magically into the all encompassing talent on stage. The actors play to me beyond their potential to the ultimate of their gifts. The productions are often works of art. To be in a Broadway audience is one of the most satisfying moments of my life. It is for me existence in another dimension.

My first trip to New York was liberating. During the day I visited Central Park and the pond where Holden Caulfield watched the ducks in Catcher in the Rye. I went to New York’s museums and walked Fifth Avenue. I played at FAO Schwarz Toy Store. I awoke every morning in my own fairytale waiting to see what the day in this city would offer me.

Holly Golightly and I breathed New York in the same way. I inhaled its anticipation first feeling it in my toes as it worked its way up to my chest and made my brain almost light headed. Tonight was the night I would implement my plan. This was a private plan. I had shared it with no one. It was all mine. I was a romantic and I was fearless.

The theater performance I attended ended around ten forty-five. I walked through Times Square to one of New York’s twenty-four hour markets and bought doughnuts and milk. Carrying this sweet treasure I made my way back to my hotel through the exiting theater crowds.

Back in my room, I waited until midnight. With my package in hand I headed toward Tiffany’s on Fifth Avenue. The door to this jewelry store is recessed. In the darkness of the early morning I stepped into the doorway and put on my sunglasses that were almost identical to those Audrey Hepburn wore in the movie. I unwrapped my donut, opened my milk and proceeded to have breakfast at Tiffany’s.

Suddenly I saw a male figure pass the door in which I was standing. Almost immediately he slowly walked backwards and stopped, staring at me. I could see him more clearly now and realized he was a police officer.

“What are you doing?” he asked in a thick New York accent.
“Having breakfast at Tiffany’s, officer,” I replied suddenly feeling self-conscious.
“Oh yea?” he responded totally unconvinced. “You should know better than soliciting here.”
“Soliciting?” I repeated. “No, officer, you do not understand. I am having breakfast at Tiffany’s. Audrey Hepburn?” I stammered. “The movie?”
He just looked at me and shook his head. “Move on,” he said.

At that moment I hoped that he thought anyone wearing sunglasses and drinking milk in the middle of the night while standing in Tiffany’s doorway must be a tourist.

He had unexpectedly interrupted my fantasy but I had done it. Like my favorite movie character I was in New York having breakfast at Tiffany’s. It would always be a once upon a time moment for me.

PERFORMANCE REVIEWS

Most writers are Sooooo disappointing as speakers but you are dynamite wrapped in silk. Illene Ashkenaz

I think your beautiful smile and voice captivate the room and make your listeners immediately feel comfortable -- that makes your wonderful stories even more interesting. I know I was "hanging on your every word" when I was listening and I could visualize each story. Sandi Topper, Special Events Director, Cancer Wellness Center

What an enjoyable evening.... you have such a passion that is refreshing just to be in your presence. Francie Pinkwater

You are a magical storyteller. Merle Cahan, Board Member, Cancer Wellness Center

I didn't stop grinning the entire evening. I just loved it!!!!!!! Linda Harris

Thank you again for sharing your wonderful energy and wisdom with our Flashpoint students. You were a big hit! Francine Sanders, Flashpoint Academy

I continue to hear great things about your presentation. Paula Froehle, Flashpoint Academy

FOUR

Perhaps the most complex relationship which exists is that of sisters. And fulfilling. And frustrating. And comforting, entertaining , loving. The relationships among sisters is consistently inconsistent and yet a life force. How can four daughters from two parents be so different and unique? It is one of life's great wonders. Your sisters bring you safety and security and a legacy of womanhood. They give your life perspective. At times they are enigmas. At other moments they are pure truths. I have been blessed with three sisters: Linda, Susan and Ivy. They are my treasures. They come from the same love from which I come. We are bound by DNA. Yet we are also connected by an invisible frame and foundation in which and upon which our lives have been shaped and implemented. What happens when one of the four sisters goes away? Dies. Devastation and longing continue always. And then the magic happens. The unspoken focus among the three of us to keep our Ivy with us in life. If someone speaks of the three of us, in an almost naturally choreographed oneness, we answer "four". "And she was the best." There will always be four. We are four. We exist as four. We loved and love as four. We are four sisters in life and death.

THE HOTEL BALCONY

It was our annual theater trip to New York, my favorite city in the world. The taxi pulled up in front of our hotel located on 54th Street. We checked in at the front desk, got the keys to our one bedroom suite and headed to the elevator. It was midnight and we were exhausted from a day of airport traveling and delays.

We entered our room and I immediately started to unpack. About an hour later we were ready to go to sleep. My husband walked to his usual side of the king bed and I walked to mine. We climbed into bed and suddenly with a great force we both rolled to the middle of the bed crashing into one another. For a moment we could not speak and just looked at one another.

“What happened?” my husband finally blurted out. “I don’t know,” I answered. We tried to roll the other way toward the edges of the bed but neither of us could make it out. We kept rolling back to the middle and into one another. After several minutes of uncoordinated frustration we got out of the bed and stood looking at it.

“This bed is broken,” my husband finally concluded. “Look at the frame. It has totally come apart.”

I got on the phone and called the front desk. It was by now almost two in the morning. The night manager officiously informed me that the hotel was full and that we would have to wait for morning to change rooms. That news was not what we wanted to hear. I argued with him but got nowhere. “Would you like us to sit up all night?” I asked in my most sarcastic tone. He let me know that whether we used the broken bed or not was certainly our choice. We were livid.

I let my tired husband have the middle of the broken bed to himself and I took one of the over stuffed chairs. I did not need an alarm clock that morning. I was on the phone to the morning manager before she could have her first cup of coffee. She asked to come up and see the bed. That meant waking and moving my husband. I told her yes. He was not pleased.

“This bed is definitely broken,” she declared. “So is my back,” my husband retorted. I was too tired to comment.

“We will move you to another suite as soon as it is cleaned,” she offered. We nodded our acceptance. Because we were unpacked, I wanted to supervise the change of rooms. This was not the way I had hoped to spend my first day in New York.

Finally settled in our second room, I walked into the bathroom. Sitting and looking around me I suddenly focused on the sink that had literally pulled away from the wall and was ready to fall.

“Oh honey,” I calmly called to my husband. “Would you please come in here?”
“What is that?” he asked incredulously. “Let me call our friend the morning manager,” I responded.

“Oh this is very dangerous,” she observed. She called for the yellow tape they use to block off crime scenes and proceeded to place it over the bathroom entrance.

Completely sleep deprived, at that moment I had had enough. “What are you going to do for us next?” I asked in my most desperate and determined voice.

“Mr. and Mrs. Aleskow, we would like to offer you the hotel apartment for the remainder of your stay,” she answered apologetically. I could see that my husband was beyond caring where his bed would be at this point. One of his least favorite things was having to change rooms. I on the other hand was intrigued by this new proposition.

The hotel apartment had one bedroom, a living room and dining room, and a balcony. It was lovely. The manager had us test the bed and handed us the keys.

We woke up Sunday morning, freshened up and walked out on our balcony overlooking Central Park on our right and Manhattan’s office buildings on our left. My husband put his arm around my shoulders. I sensed a romantic moment about to happen when I felt his body suddenly freeze and tighten.

“Don’t look, don’t look,” he whispered. “Look at what?” I asked barely finishing my question before I saw the answer. From our rooftop balcony we were staring straight into an office-building window with a man and woman having a great Sunday morning visit on a swivel chair.

Not only was my husband whispering for some strange reason, but he was watching this x-rated scene focusing his head away from the sight and practically crossing his eyes to see it. He didn’t want them to notice he was looking.

“I don’t think they are aware of anything at this moment but their own pleasure,” I assured him. Yet, he still would not turn his head toward them for fear of being discovered.

That afternoon we had a theater matinee. Nothing on Broadway could match the scene we watched from our hotel balcony that morning.

SLIPPERY and WATERLESS in MADRID

My husband was adamant about his decision. He said that he was tired of using so much space for underwear in packing for travel. For our trip to Spain he intended to pack four pieces of nylon underpants and four undershirts that he would hand wash each night. I stressed the part about him washing his packing choices to make sure we were clear on that point. He nodded agreement. We zipped the luggage and were off for the airport.

This was our first trip to Spain. We had very close friends in Madrid who were looking forward to giving us a personal guided tour.

As fate would have it, the Chicago Bulls were playing their championship game the first night we were in Madrid. When we awoke in the morning, I went down to the front desk to see if anyone could tell me if they had won.

“Excuse me,” I said to the young man behind the desk.. “Can you tell me please how the Bulls did last night?” “The boolz?” he asked looking at me rather puzzled. It was at that moment that I realized I was an American asking how bulls were doing in Spain. I tried to hide my embarrassment. “Michael Jordan Bulls,” I responded shyly. “Oh, Michael Jordan,” the clerk repeated. “He win!”

I headed back to our room to tell my husband the great news. Our friends were going to pick us up in an hour. We had to quickly go to the supermercado so that we could get some bottled water. Because his back was hurting him, Richard had put on his nylon back brace. We walked as fast as we could. Walking down the aisles of the supermercado in search of water was an entertaining experience. We always enjoyed looking at another country’s products and how they were displayed.

We found the water. I asked Richard for money because he was wearing the money belt. I watched my husband put his hand under his shirt searching for the money belt. As I watched, suddenly his hand moved down the inside of his trousers. He kept turning to try to find some privacy surrounded by shoppers selecting their vegetables. His hand went lower and he looked panicked.

“Honey, what are you doing?” I asked frantic that at any moment my husband would be arrested for improper public behavior.

“I can’t find my money belt.” His answer was so desperate that I did not know whether I should laugh at what I was watching or cry because I was not going to be able to purchase water. By now every shopper around us was enjoying this private moment.

When we returned to our hotel room and my husband undressed, we discovered that the money belt had slid down his thighs. His nylon underwear, his nylon brace and his nylon money belt were too slippery a combination. Luckily our friends brought extra bottled water for our Madrid tour that day.

Published Gull Lake Visitor Guide Canada June 2008

THE HAT

It started as a typical first class session of the new semester. Twenty-five faces were staring at me with the fear of college students who would prefer to be anywhere in the world other than a Communication class. As I looked back at them with all the empathy I could express, I asked that everyone wearing hats please remove them. They looked at me with that confusion of a generation unfamiliar with such etiquette.

The hats were removed except for one young man. When I asked him directly, he answered “no.” I was shocked but did not show it. Not ten minutes into the session and in front of new students whom I was meeting for the first time, I was being challenged. How I handled this moment could determine semester survival. My semester survival.

The students were intently watching me and waiting. It was my move. I decided not to deal publicly with this challenge to my authority so I asked to see the young man after class. His name was Mark and he looked like the most unlikely of all the students to express insubordination. He was slight in build, clean cut with a pleasant face. He was not someone who stood out among the others. Yet he had said “no” to a directive from his new Professor in front of new classmates on the first day of the new semester. There would be no choice. I had to convince him to do what the others were asked. He would have to back down.

After class, alone in my classroom, Mark and I faced one another. His eyes focused toward the floor. He would not look at me as I spoke. His hat, the symbol of his defiance, still sat securely on his head.

“Mark,” I said softly, “you must follow the rules of this class. Removing your hat demonstrates respect. Is there a reason you feel you must wear your hat? I am willing to listen.”

Mark lifted his eyes and looked into mine. “No,” he answered. His look was empty. His tone was flat.

“Then you must remove it,” I answered in my most professorial voice. He did as I asked.

At that moment I saw my challenge with this young man. He complied in removing his hat but I had not reached him. I had forced him but I had not persuaded him.

Slowly throughout the semester, I felt a bond growing between Mark and me. Sometimes he would even smile at my jokes and ask thoughtful questions in class. When I saw him in the hall, he would tip his hat. I would not let him see me smile at that obvious gesture.

The final week of the semester Mark asked me to stay after class. He had something to tell me which he had kept secret.

I had come to know him as a gifted poet and hard working writer and speaker. Harder than most perhaps because Mark suffered from MS which had affected his coordination and vocal cords. Some days the class and I understood him better than others.

“Do you remember the first day of class when I refused to remove my hat?” he asked. “Oh yes I do,” I answered. “Well, now I would like to tell you why I did that.”

“About a year ago I went to an open mic forum to read my poetry. They laughed at me.” “They what?” I asked not wanting to believe what I was hearing.

“They laughed.”

His speech was labored and painfully slow. “I was humiliated.”

Once again like that first day of class we were alone in my classroom. We looked at one another through our tears.

“The first day of this class when I refused to remove my hat I was trying to get you to throw me out of your class. The course was required but I did not want to ever stand before an audience again and perform my writing. But you would not give up on me. You would not let me leave. Fate brought me to your classroom.”

“You chose to stay, Mark,” I answered softly. We stood there for a moment looking at one another.

For his final persuasive speech, Mark wrote and spoke on Stem Cell Research Funding. He passionately argued for our government to acknowledge that it is his quality of life they are ignoring and for his classmates to vote for legislators who would make the stem cell reality happen. Would it be soon enough for him we all agonizingly wondered.

After offering an articulate and informed argument, with great difficulty Mark walked to his visual aid which was an empty white poster board. He asked his audience to give him one thing. Only one thing. He picked up a marker and with a shaking hand one letter painstakingly at a time he wrote, “Hope.”

A year after he had completed my course, Mark came to my office to say hello. He proudly told me that students from our class would stop him in the hall and tell him that they would never forget his last speech.
The MS was progressive and he was suffering. Yet he looked happy and at peace with himself.

Three years later I received an e-mail from him. He wanted me to know that he was writing again and that for the first time since he had been traumatized by the experience he again performed his poetry in an open mic at a club. He said he could have never done it without my course. He said I was his gift of fate. In his last line he told me that as a performer he always wore his cherished hat.

Published Sasee Magazine October 2007
Bread'nMolasses Online Magazine October 2007
City Woman Chicago Magazine April 2008