Oprah Fans Shun Penniless Madi

This past Wednesday morning found me huddled on a Chicago street corner, wearing 2 different shoes and a plastic bag for a shirt, and holding a crumpled cup out, peddling for change. I was hungry and tired, having spent much of the past night sleeping in a park, and I had no money to my name (hence the begging.) In this moment, I found myself cursing Oprah, the entire U.S. Olympic team, Gary, and the crummily un-giving citizens of Chi-town.

Let me explain.

It has been my lifelong dream to attend a taping of the Oprah Winfrey show, not just for the chance at scoring some great prizes, but in the hope that Oprah -the personification of the American Dream, the most successful and influential woman on the planet- would somehow pour her good karma out on me, the audience member. Coming out to Chicago, I researched the ticket-attaining process and found that Oprah is quite a mystery- and very much in demand. Ms. Winfrey is, of course, too good to be tied down to a regular taping schedule. Instead, her show is shot at random and it's anybody's guess when it will be going on. There is a number to call for tickets, but getting through is harder than for a radio contest. So, despite my attempts at calling her studio, even going so far as to put them on speed dial, I was unable to get through.

So when I heard that Oprah would be shooting her season premiere in Millenium Park on Sept. 3, I figured it was worth a shot just to show up at the park early in the morning and see if I could get in. I wasn't sure when taping was, so I decided to go at 5 a.m.- I am that dedicated to Oprah. And go I did (it was so early when I left that I put on different shoes because I couldn't properly distinguish between brown and red in the dawn light), taking the train with the morning commuters and arriving safe and sound at the Park. Safe and sound, but NOT first in line. People had already been waiting for hours when I arrived, with blankets and camp chairs and elitist we-got-here-earlier-than-you attitudes. I wormed my way into a good spot on the lawn and promptly fell asleep (as I am prone to do.)

Around 6:30, someone started blaring the David Cook song "The Time of My Life" over the loudspeakers. I was annoyed and craned my neck to look at the stage wondering, Who in the heck would be playing this inane song so early in the morning? Oh. David Cook. He was doing a sound check for the show. I let the American Idol croon me back to sleep.

The show started taping at 10. I stood on the front row of the lawn (in order to get an actual seat, you apparently had to sell your soul to the Oprah team) and watched as over 175 athletes from the U.S. Olympic team ran onto the stage. Triumphant music played, patriotic confetti blew into the air, women wearing "Mrs. Phelps" t-shirts screamed and cried. And, yes, Michael was there, along with all the others; I saw Kobe Bryant, Shawn Johnson, Jason Kidd, Natalie Coughlin, Dara Torres, Misty-May and Kerri Walsh, Nastia Luikin, Bryan Clay and Allyson Felix, along with a ton of others. And then, of course, there was Oprah, in all her Oprah glory.

The show was awesome- I cheered in all the right places (when cued) and I chanted "U-S-A" along with the rest of the crowd and the athletes. At the end of the show, while David played his song, the Olympic team ran among the crowd and I slapped their hands. One of the burly track chicks even let me touch her medal, so I can now officially say I've had a brush with Olympic gold.

Yes, the show was awesome. So what led to me being a bum on the streets?

Well, apparently Gary borrowed my Metra card last week, running it down to within one ride of valuelessness. So it got me on the train going downtown, but had nothing left to get me back. I couldn't get ahold of any Arbuckles and, not knowing who else to call, but knowing that I needed to be home with the kids within the hour, I decided to ask people for money. After all, these were my Oprah comrades, the fellow 2,000 audience members with whom I'd been yelling patriotic chants with. I didn't look like a scrappy homeless person (besides the mismatched shoes). And I was sure if I explained the situation to them, somebody would fork out 2 bucks.

No dice.

Oh, people looked friendly enough when I approached them and explained my embarrassment. But the moment they realized I was just another kid asking for change, they were off, walking away with their excuses and misjudgements. And then it began to rain, which is when the plastic-bag-as-shirt came into effect. I was a pathetic sight, soaking wet both from the raindrops and my tears, inventing more and more sad stories so someone would take pity on me. After an hour (and not even a penny in the cup), I got ahold of my friend Dmitriy, who took pity on my sorry soul and came to pick me up.

So I was feeling a little bitter about those dang Oprah people. Mistrusting, unsympathetic tightwads. It seems all they like about America are the success stories: the Oprahs, the Phelps, and everybody else who rose to the top and triumphed. But what about the not-so-pretty parts of the American picture? The homeless, the hungry, the poor? What about the people who grow up in the slums and don't become decathletes? What about the people who mortgage their homes three times, not to pay for their daughter's gymnastics lessons, but because they can't think of another way to survive? Can we maintain the chant of "U-S-A" when we're faced with these realities of society? Can we come together not just to celebrate the good, but to change the bad?

Anyway, Oprah's still my hero. And I bet she would've given me two dollars. The show airs on Monday, Sept. 8, and I am somewhere in the crowd, wearing a red shirt, a happy, pre-beggar smile, and, of course, two different shoes.