My mind is still filled with so many happy memories of my sweet, quiet, cheerful, strong and loving father.
Often, coming home after a long day at work, my dad and I would play ball along the side of our house. We'll throw the ball back and forth, back and forth. The only thing that will change is the ball we play. It changes with the seasons, from baseball to softball to soccer.
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It was always just us playing together like two kids having fun. Maybe my dad liked playing with me to relive his youth when he played little league baseball in cities like Peoria and Rockford. At that time, he would cut the middle of his glove to be more sure of his catch. I asked if it hurt when he caught the ball. He never said, “Yes.”
Once, while my father and I were visiting the Museum of Science and Industry, a bus full of black children arrived. Soon, some of the older white kids started throwing rocks and shouting racist obscenities. Without hesitation, my father fought off a dozen white assholes, driving them all out of the parking lot.
I've never seen my dad get angry, but these kids sure do. I've always wondered if my father's actions that day inspired me to go to Selma in 1965. Then, as if nothing had happened, we entered the museum and headed straight for the incredible railroad layout.
I remember just the two of us traveling to the Minnesota and Canadian Boundary Waters. Every morning we would canoe and portage to find the right place for breakfast. One day my father said, instead of portaging, let's tie the ropes to the canoe and guide us through the rapids.
What a great idea, I thought, until we saw our canoe detach from the line and slide into open water, about 300 meters from the falls. We looked at each other, laughed, and I quickly dove into the cold Canadian waters to save our canoe.
I'll never forget seeing my dad in the stands, watching me play college football on a cold, rainy night in Sheboygan, Wisconsin. After the long drive from Chicago, he huddled there alone, quietly encouraging me. I felt so bad watching him sitting there in the rain, in his black leather jacket and wet fedora, but I was glad he was there and knew there was nowhere else in the world he wanted to be.
After 68 years, my dad and I still play together in all the same games, but now it's only in my memory. I still cry remembering what it felt like to be his son and lose him before our game was over.
Bernard Kleina, Wheaton
My father, still a bit of an asshole
The night my father died in a skilled care facility in Indiana, I misjudged the situation. I thought I could go home, sleep a few hours and then come back to watch again. So, I wasn't there when my dear father breathed his last.
However, I was there at shift change when a nurse came into the room, walked over to my father's bed, kissed him on the cheek and said, “See you tomorrow, Mr. Melia.” A few minutes later, a nursing aide did the same. And still others kissed my father on the cheek and wished him a quiet night. His face beamed with the biggest smile I've seen in a long time.
This was years ago, and I still vividly remember the sweet last gestures of these dedicated ladies and the big grin on my dad's emaciated face. Maybe he's thinking, “I still got it.”
Lest we think that gentle words or kind actions are fleeting and forgotten, this is not necessarily true. I don't know the names of these kind nannies but they will always be a part of my last memory of my father, smiling, content and still a little mischievous.
Kathleen Melia, Nile
The distrust of the police is not surprising
We taxpayers should pay convict Arthur Brown $7.25 million for having spent nearly 30 years behind bars because crooked Chicago police manipulated false confessions out of him. Brown lost so much in 30 years that money couldn't compensate him.
The detective in charge is now dead, so we can only ask the Chicago Police Department if this helps explain what they often claim to be a lack of public support. Chicagoans don't just remember this framework. but many others.
While most police officers are honest and deserve public support, these repeated mistakes must be weighed in the balance of justice. Year after year, exonerations help explain the emotional rift between the police and the minority communities they serve.
Police accused Cook County State Attorney Kim Foxx of being too slow and lenient in pursuing the case. Judging by the various acquittal payments, his caution seems reasonable.
Adding to his caution is a accompanying pattern: Nearly all such exonerees have been and continue to be Black, defying the law of averages.
How many more innocent black men have been jailed for police dishonesty? These troubling questions will always inspire public distrust.
Ted Z. Manuel, Hyde Park