Exploding Fireworks

Hyde Park's mirror of Navy Pier is Promontory Point. Like the Pier, it is an extension of the land that juts into Lake Michigan. But the similarities end there. It is quiet and shady, speckled with trees and firepits and criss-crossed with running paths. A light house like building sits on the very tip. Off of 57th street, it is within walking distance of Blackstone. One Wednesday evening, PJ, Curtis and I decided we'd go there to watch Navy Pier's weekly Wednesday fireworks. 

We arrived just in time to perch on the big rocks lining the beach and watch the faraway fireworks explode. As we watched, the three of us sat together reminiscing over 4th of July's past. The fireworks, twinkling against the dark sky and dark water seemed impossibly small to me like trivial little  jewels sparkling in the distance. The sharp cracking noises reached our ears after the fireworks had long since exploded-- making me realize just how faraway they were. 

I recognized familiar patterns-- they shot off my favorite, gorgeous, trickling, shimmering sparkles. We Ooohhed and Ahhhed for old time's sake.

As we walked back home, we discussed the magic we had witnessed. 

Plopping onto the couch at Blackstone, I tried to describe the fireworks we had just witnessed. 

"Even better," I continued. "They are two times a week!" I was still basking in a post-firework glow. 

"Yeah, I saw them, too," he said glumly. "Do you know how much each firework costs? think how many of the social services cut that that could pay for..."

"Thanks, Phil," I said. With one statement, he had extinguished all of that joy. I limped away, back to thinking about everything that is wrong with this city-- and the horrible budget cuts that would soon slam into all of our organizations.

The next day, Philipp followed up on the previous conversation.

"I talked to the guy at work," he said. Philipp works with homeless veterans in the Southside in a program called Featherfist. We respect everyone there immensely. "He actually said that he thinks its a good thing because it gives people something to do with their families that is not drug related. It is free. It gets them out of their hoods."

From the soggy, tear-stained ashes of the fireworks inside of me, I felt a small, but resilient warmth-turned-flame begin to glow. 

Race in the City

The city is exhausting. Everything has a racial undertone. I became especially aware of it after our tour of the Southside. But everyone mentions black and white, white and black. I’m on the bus and a man boards, screaming to anyone that will listen that white people are committing genocide, that Black Americans will soon be extinct. Beggars call you on it—“Oh, you ain’t giving money to a black man?” and people casually comment on it “I wad wid a white man and hid wife found out and she woulda beat my ass cuz I’m black.” Again and again. For a white girl from Kansas, it slams into me each time. Does everyone have to talk about it.

At the Corner Café, our group represented the only light faces in the establishment. It never would have bothered me before; I come from a liberal place and have never questioned race relations. I have always judged people on their character, not their skin tone. But after everything that I have learned about and seen in the past week-- the hate, anger and bitter history still present in this city, I suddenly feel unsure about my relations with people of other races.  I felt cut-off, like an outsider, an observer, who loved it all, but who didn’t really belong. Did they all hate me? Was I welcome? I felt like there was a huge chasm between me and the regulars. Our lives, our experiences were so different simply because of our skin tones.

Thus, after the performance, I am ashamed to say I was shocked when a black man struck up a conversation with me while we waited in line for the bathroom. He was smiling from ear to ear, he loved the performance just as much as I did. It was both of our first times and both of us wanted to come back. He was so kind, so genuine, so friendly; that I felt my old comfort returning. He went in to the bathroom and the man behind me struck up a conversation, too. He, himself, was a performer and he introduced himself, saying he hoped I would come back.

It was then that I realized I must not let myself be poisoned by this city. I must continue to believe that racial integration is real and people are people. I must continue to believe that I am not the only one who believes that. 

 

One Week in Chicago: The Introduction

Today is Sunday, meaning that I have been waking up in this city for exactly a week. Last Sunday, I was in a hotel next to the lake. I woke up and went for a run with my Dad and my sister before they dropped me off at Blackstone and my Chicago program began. It feels utterly impossible that it has only been a week. I have met so many people, seen so much, created the beginnings of an entire life here. I haven’t had time to breath. But I think it is time to introduce you to exactly what I am doing here, in the city.

I am spending the summer studying at the Chicago Center for Urban Life and Culture. The Center, located in the now-famous Hyde Park (where Obama is from), runs an urban plunge for college students. This summer, there are roughly thirty of us living in six apartments. We are an incredibly diverse group—we are from all different parts of the country (and abroad) and all different walks of life. Together, in the summer session, we will explore every fiber I can of the city: visiting museums and neighborhoods, festivals and restaurants, parks and monuments and communities.  We will read about issues plaguing the city, art that breathes in the city and the people who live here. We will also all work different internships; an incredible draw for me as the city is filled with publications a young journalist with a social conscience might aspire to work with.  The final component will be living here—learning first hand not only what living in an urban environment is like, but also learning to live with people incredibly different people.

I am to journal throughout. I will write about my internship and about the people I am with. Moreover, I will try to capture the city as I discover it on my own and with the help of the Chicago Center. As I am writing about this first week retroactively, it is going to come out in a jumble of experiences; not necessarily in chronological order. This past week has been filled with the exploring the tastes and sites of Chicago, the stressful search for an internship and much more.

I once studied a French artist who, in his life, had taken one monumental trip to Egypt. He later wrote that that single trip could give him enough material to paint for the rest of his life. That’s how I feel about this past week.