Rejection

Rejection hurts.

It hurt in seventh grade and it hurts now, we've been rejected, all nine million of us. A collective slapping offered by the IOC, much to our shock, and to some, dismay. Maybe it would have been easier to take had it not happened at the first round, when some of us, myself included, sat smugly watching, certain that it was not Chicago whose name would be called. But I was wrong, and I sat in disbelief, certain that there had been a mistake, in no way was I prepared for rejection this early.

In Olympic terms, we didn't even medal. Knocked out in the first round, we were pushed off the podium by a swift kick from Juan Antonio Samaranch, our flag would not fly, and certainly our national anthem would not be played. There would be no bronze or silver dangling from our big shoulders, no large bouquet of flowers in our husky arms.

Rather than join the stunned masses, once waiting to celebrate but now standing in disbelief, I walked through my city and got on the subway to go home. On this gloomy, cold and rainy day, there were many of us who thought the same thing; we crowded on, wedged together, not enough seats, too many bodies. Of course one of the issues presented by the IOC was our faltering public transportation system: always crowded, old and sometimes stinky, forever behind schedule. I love the trains, they are not new, not efficient; like Chicago, they are tested and worn. As is the mayor, often appearing disheveled and rumpled, he is a spokesperson for a city who that is not always polished and perfect but warm and open and full of energy.

As a mother who reacts when her child was not chosen for kickball at recess, I look around defensively and think "what do they know, it's their loss". From my window I look out over Millennium Park, and the beautiful lake. The drive in from the south side always takes my breath away, especially at night when the city lights up and sparkles. The people on the subway, from all corners of the world, know something the IOC missed, Chicago is a wonderful place to call home.

Maybe we don't need an Olympics to remind us how lucky we are, but it would have been nice to have the opportunity.