Emily Thornton Calvo

Word Count 866

Chicago mayors’ political careers live or die by how fast the roads are cleared after a blizzard. In 1979, the mayoral campaign was particularly unruly because the city was between Daleys. Mayor Richard J. Daley had died and mayor-to-be Richie Daley Junior was still learning the ropes in the Illinois Senate. The city council elected an interim candidate to hold the position until the next election, but he was failing the snow-removal test. Voters were pissed.

Enter Jane Byrne, a feisty, petite woman whose practical talk resonated with voters. She was mentored by established Democrats but had turned on them, offering herself as the alternative mayoral candidate. I liked her. She gave us blonds a smart, strong image.

My dad, Greg, supported change. Dad was a very white, liberal, recently divorced visual artist who spent most of his life as a closeted gay man. I was a young, married mom who worked part-time as a customer service drone in a fancy downtown retail store, a poet with journals full of poems. We were each other’s biggest cheerleaders.

Prodded by friends, Dad had agreed to spruce up his apartment and host a fundraiser for Byrne. On the day of the party, neighbors up and down Dad’s street were only starting to dig out their cars from the most recent snowstorm, so there was concern about the turnout.

In Dad’s kitchen, his “friend,” Tim crafted finger sandwiches and loaded bowls with chips and dips. My teenage brother, Doug, went outside to take photos of the epic snowfall when he saw his friend, Jimmy, trying to dig out his car. While the two shoveled, a garbage truck rolled by and became stuck. The burly garbage gurus blamed Doug and Jimmy. Words were exchanged. Someone called the police. Neighbors gathered to see the commotion.

In his crimson bathrobe after a shower, Dad heard shouts outside. He went to the door and called Doug to come in. That’s when the police arrested Doug, Jimmy, Dad, and Tim who was still working on his bowls of munchies. The police confiscated Doug’s camera and charged them with disorderly conduct. They marched Dad through the snow handcuffed, so he couldn’t keep his robe closed. Wide-eyed neighbors saw more than they expected.

Dad called me from jail frantic for help. Byrne was expected soon. I had the key to his apartment so he asked me to go to his apartment and explain what happened. I was used to Dad having a crisis. After all, he was a true risktaker, but usually, no one was arrested.

When I arrived, Jane Bryne and a few other guests were talking softly with puzzled expressions on the stairs outside the apartment. I explained the situation. Byrne was sympathetic and gracious, but her raised eyebrows revealed concern about what sort of people her campaign attracted. She seemed relieved to leave.

Soon Doug, Tim, and Jimmy arrived. Dad didn’t, so I called the police who said he’d been released. We waited. After another hour, I drove to the grimy outpost of a police station. The cop at the desk said Dad’s prints hadn’t cleared and told me to take a seat. Something was fishy. I had an idea: Go to the payphone at the end of the hall, call the desk and, in a voice the cop wouldn’t recognize, again inquire about Dad. As I did, I watched the same cop answer the phone and tell me Dad was released. Liar! Why? Were they trying to squash the fundraiser? Were they giving the gay guy on the block a hard time? We would never know.

Hours later, Dad emerged. His body was stiff, but he walked with urgency. On the way home, I learned that the cops had beaten him so badly they’d opened stitches from a recent hernia surgery and had to take him to the emergency room. Dad claimed one cop, Joe, was a real sadist. Pure evil. He’d remember his name forever. The other guy was a willing accomplice. I had never seen him so enraged.

Dad had a rebellious soul, but fighting wasn’t his style. For him, a pen or paintbrush was mightier than the sword. Also, he wasn’t stupid enough to aggravate a cop who held him in custody. I believed him—and he had black and blue marks.

The following day, Dad called his attorney, who assured him the charges would be dismissed and they could sue for false arrest. I pushed him to contact the press to share his story, but Dad wanted to move on, fearing backlash. The charges were dropped, and Dad sued.

In the aftermath, Dad met Jane Byrne when he followed up about the canceled fundraiser. Their Irish spunk, alcohol, and passion for the city gave them enough in common to nurture a relationship that became something more than an acquaintance and less than a friendship.

And the brutal cop? About two decades later he was arrested on multiple charges, including controlling a drug operation, recruiting members, often other cops, and threatening them to keep quiet. Newspapers called him Chicago’s most corrupt cop in history. He’s serving a life sentence. Luckily, Dad lived long enough to enjoy the news.

Emily is a Chicago writer, poet, and visual artist who includes her poems in her art. In 2019, Calvo was noted as one of “30 Writers to Watch” by Chicago’s Guild Literary Complex, https://guildcomplex.org/writers-to-watch/ Her poems have been published in Wherever I’m At, After Hours, and other print and online publications. A grant from Chicago’s Department of Culture and Special Events helped her self-publish her collection of poems, Lending Color to the Otherwise Absurd. She also collaborated with poet Nikki Giovanni, as the illustrator for Standing in the Need of Prayer. She recently completed a memoir about her relationship with her gay father titled, Not Just Another Gay Dad Story—and 6000 Tapes to Prove It. Visit emilycalvo.com for more.