13 July 2009
The Jumping Bean (Pilsen) to 26th Street (Little Village)
This is how I became famous during the immigration reform debates, Jorge Mujica said to me as we bumped along in his dilapidated greenish van, back windows curtain with moldy green curtains to match. I am always doing this kind of things for journalists. I may not be the person leading the press conference but they come to me, they say Jorge, what’s going on? And I tell them.
His hand holding the pipe was on the windowsill and the smell of sweet tobacco surrounded us as he continued: I used to be a reporter myself, so I understand, he said.
I was joining the ranks then, of journalists who couldn’t believe their luck at meeting Jorge Mujica. Himself a former undocumented immigrant, he has spent the past twenty years as a community leader in Latino Chicago and at the forefront of both Chicago and national immigration debates. He knew everything there is to know about the community and as we sat in a small Pilsen café over coffee and mint tea, he had to stop periodically to kiss old friends who wandered in and launch into jovial conversations in Spanish about their lives. He was just as friendly and open with me, his acquaintance of an hour- an intern who was questioning him about homelessness in the community for her StreetWise story. It was obvious why journalists loved him—he answered all my questions, peppering them with statistics and anecdotes. And he was willing to have an adventure like the one we were having right now.
Two minutes before, we had still been in that café. We were laughing, getting along well and talking about Obama’s visit to the same café on his “tour of a Chicago, Latino neighborhood”, when Jorge said, suddenly. What are you doing now? Want to go to 26th street? C’mon, I’ll take you there.
Twenty-sixth Street, he told me, had the second largest economy in Chicago after Michigan Avenue and it was the Mexican shopping district of the Midwest. As we bumped along, he and I both knew why he was so popular with journalists. He didn’t just know about everyone and everything at the Jumping Bean; he also knew about everyone and everything in all of Pilsen and Little Village, Chicago’s Mexican areas.
We jolted down residential streets and talked about the labor unions he organized. He threw his slogan at me—We don’t want to be poor and documented any more than we want to be poor and undocumented. We need unions to fight for our rights.
As part of his community organizing, he had organized strikes against many of the buildings we passed. One was a tortilla factory. While striking there, he saw evidence of the huge market for the Mexican businesses in this area. We had trucks coming from all over: Iowa, Idaho, Ohio, he said. They could trust the tortillas in this factory and were buying them to bring them back to little Mexican restaurants and stores all over.
Shortly after our entrance through the historic Mexican arch that marked the beginning of 26th Street commerce, I saw a tasty looking restaurant. Jorge casually said, oh we picketed that place for months.
Why? I asked.
They used a commercial Laundromat we were protesting, he said. They got so mad. We protested all these restaurants all over the city that used that service. One was Ditka's—a restaurant owned by the Bear’s manager. He was so mad—he was so mad I thought he’d shoot us.
He pointed out street vendors on every corner, peddling colorful wares. I thought them atmospheric.
We started seeing a bunch of them this last winter, he said. More and more. It’s a sign of how hard it is to find jobs. Used to be there’d be one every two or three blocks, now there are a couple selling things on every corner. Balloons, shaved ice, you name it.. what’s the word in English? You get the ice and put the stuff on top…
I think it’s SnoCone in English, I said, feeling a little ridiculous.
And right here, you see how the economy has hit this place. Two years ago, there was a waiting list to get a business here, maybe eighty business long. And now? Look—you see. He pointed out a particularly empty block. Three out of six stores stood vacant.
I know! he said.
Back to the vendors, he pointed at a cart selling hats and balloons outside of a barber shop.
You see, probably, that shop belongs to his cousin. And so he says, ok, ok, you can sell here. You see that all along. People selling everything—tamales, corn, shoes… look, there’s shoes.
He pointed to the man pushing a handcart with bells and ice cream. That’s more traditional, but there’s more of them, too, these days.
We continued along the street until the small commerce ended—so no more prom dress stores, supermercados, or piñata-filled windows. We were in an industrial area. The pea green van squealed into a parking lot, to turn around, I assumed. But no, he turned in to home depot. Something clicked.
Is this the home depot where…? I began
Yes, he said. Look, over there.
We drove the ridiculous van straight towards a group of three men standing by a stop sign. It was hot, sun beating on them, their backpacks and their beers, though a cool breeze from the lake offered relief.
Are they waiting for work? I asked. But it’s so late in the day. It was already past four.
Jorge squealed up next to them and parked with a jolt.
How’s your Spanish? he asked.
Minimal, I said.
So, you speak like three words? he laughed his horsey laugh. Ola and amigo and…
… and gracias, I finished.
He laughed again and undeterred, he leapt out of the car speaking rapid and friendly Spanish, arms waving. He introduced me as the journalist-- ne habla espagnol.
Immediately a chubby man with a sweet, baby face switched to English, his language almost unaccented. I introduced myself.
I’m Brenna, I said.
Mark, he said. Marcos.
