Correction at the Corner Cafe

15 July 2009

The Corner Cafe

Once, in class, Scott told us about a book called Slim’s Table. It’s a book about the culture of a group of African Americans who meet at a café located not two steps from the Chicago Center. When Scott’s son Lane was assigned to read the book in college, the professor began the lecture by talking about how the café was in the middle of the ghetto in a dangerous area on the Southside. When Lane politely protested, saying he often went there for breakfast and it was actually in a safe, college town environment, the professor refused to believe him. He had a mental idea of where this café was and instead of asking the locals about it, he formed his own, misconstrued image of it.

Well, my friends, I am ashamed to say that I am guilty of the same thing. I began this blog, really and truly, with my entries about Verbal Balance, a spoken word poetry evening held at a Southside café. Someone had told me that the café was on the far Southside (“Danger!” my mind filled in). When we pulled up, we parked to the side and it did look to me like it was in an industrial wasteland. People had told me that it was a culture shock to go and I flat out believed them. I really did sit in the café, nervous about the outside, perceiving it to be a scary, unwelcome place.

Well, I was chastised by Scott for creating my own reality in my entries about the Corner Café. And it’s true; when we returned for the Verbal Balance event held last Wednesday; I saw the area in a whole new light. We drove in on another street and it looked pretty normal; some houses and some apartments. When we parked, I didn’t feel like we were at the end of the earth as I had on our first trip. In viewing the environment a second time, I saw normality that before I had let hide itself in the dark night.

Inside, I sat on a big, padded couch next to a big, padded woman who called herself “Earth” (I accidentally called her “Erf” for the first five minutes until she explained the origins of her name and I finally realized by pronouncing it with her accent I had made a fool of myself—as in, “Erf—what an interesting name. Where does it come from?”). Earth told me the neighborhood was ok, there are good parts and some bad parts. It go block by block. Some places, you could raise kids; others no. But, yeah, it’s really ok.

This discovery does make me nervous, very nervous. I had the fortune to visit this place a second time and the flexibility to add this note to my blog. But I am a journalist by profession and there will be times when I am expected to write about things which I will not have the chance to revisit. How can I trust myself when I realize my lens is hopelessly screwed?

Well, Solution Part A is that I will try to always visit a place more than once (something I have tried to practice, especially as a journalist because each time you visit a place or speak to a person, you learn something new.)

Solution Part B: Now that I am aware of certain blinders I wear, I can be on guard for them. 

neyo's gift to chicago

July 1, 2009.

Something very good happened to Chicago today. 

Ne-Yo happened to Chicago today.

And it wasn't just a good thing because, let's face it, this crooner can dance and sing until even I am crying "Closer!" and I am ready to trade in all of my independence for one little swivel of his hips.

It was a good thing because in one evening, the entire clientele of the Taste of Chicago changed. I wasn't looking around at the middle and upper class white residents and vacationers. I was looking at a group of people that actually did represent the diversity of the city. At one point, I turned away from the magic on the stage to look at the magic around me. I began to count. Without moving my feet, yet turning 180 degrees, I saw black, white, Latinos and Latinas, Indians, Chinese and Southeast Asians. I saw uppity, fashionable college students whisper to each other intimately and junior high kids in bright colors and skin tight jeans gather in posses. I watched a beautiful African-American woman in cutting edge business clothes and stilettos start dancing with a group of reefers. I was intoxicated by an amazing family next to me. The little, caramel colored boy, age five, moaned and begged to leave. The chubby, eleven-year-old girl with the same caramel skin, sang into an imaginary microphone without ever lifting her eyes from the stage. She knew every word by heart. Their mom and aunt alternated between rocking the boy and rocking out-- but no one rocked out as hard core as the white as wonder bread Granny in blue leggings and dorky glasses. 

Thank you, Neyo, I whispered instead of lip synching. We needed this. 

Arvis lays down the law

Southside Tour. Saturday, June 13, 2009.

We had just eaten in happy oblivion at a Soul Food restaurant called B.J.’s Market when Arvis Averette arrived. The professor of economics at Columbia College was eager to go—ready to take us in the infamous Southside, a place we were all fascinated by and yet terrified of after years of hearing nothing more than stereotypes about it. After we had all piled in to the tan van, he lay out the rules. “I know you all think you all that and a bag of chips. Well, I don’t want no texting,” he said, looking back at us. “Otherwise, I put your lil’ happy ass out in the hood.”

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. 

 

Joe rocks his kicks... and describes the dangers of clubbin' and leg braces

Verbal Balance/SpokenWord. Wednesday, June 17, 2009. PART THREE. 

Next up, the Emcee announced, was Joe. “Our Joe?” I swiveled around to ask the director, Scott, seated behind me. Scott shrugged, nodded and a second later, Joe, an employee at the Chicago Center, struggled up from his seat. His leg braces clanked as he jolted to the front of the group assembled.

“Has he ever done this before?” I asked Scott.

“I don’t think so,” Scott said.

“I’m going to do a stand-up routine,” Joe said. “It’s my first time, so, uh, bear with me.”

And he began. His entire routine was based on his disability and it was one of the funniest, bravest things I have ever heard. I took notes, even while I was shaking with laughter and I’m jotting them down here.

First topic? Goin’ to the clubs.

Joe said: “The problem with clubs—they combine two things I hate more than any other. Dancing and moving in crowded spaces….

“So, I’m standing at the bar, talking to a girl and things are going well. I mean, she even looked over my kicks. Some guys have the, uh, Air Jordans and I am rockin my Kmart special. (Joe shows off his super supportive white shoes, the type worn by old ladies.) So things are goin’ well. And then she utters those two horrible words: ‘Wanna dance?’ It’s then that I remember the movie Hitch and the wise words of one character. Women equate dance with sex and I think… oh, shit…

“The problem with dancing is you move your arms, and then you move your legs. Well, I can do one of them, but the combination just… stumps me. It doesn’t work. So, it’s a little like… DJ, hit me up with some music!... (DJ obliges and Joe does a cute, awkward dance with all of us cheering him on.)

Next topic? 4 am bars.

“Three bad things about them—there’s dancing, I got my leg braces and by this point… I’m fucked up…”

Joe continues to tell about the time he arrived at one, hammered, and fell down. After that, the bar tender refused to sell him drinks. Joe was livid—“You don’t understand! I’m not drunk!” he yelled, “I’ve got a disability!” When the bar tender still refused to sell him drinks, drunk Joe yelled: “I’m gonna sue your ass!”

A Soul Speaks

Verbal Balance/SpokenWord. Wednesday, June 17, 2009. PART TWO. 

His name might have been Big Owie or maybe it was Big D. In any case, “Big” was certainly the adjective. When they announced his name to resounding applause, I turned around to see one of the largest human beings I have ever seen amble slowly up to the stage. He was like a human block, and I looked at him with a little bit of awe. He seemed to be made of mountains of flesh.

He seemed shy and awkward and once at the microphone, he spoke softly. His baby face was turned away from me and I strained to hear snatches of what he said.  It sounded like he said he had just been released from the hospital—the applause must have been a welcome back to a good friend. What I did hear him say was: “Well, you know, I at a high risk for diabetes. It on both sides of my family.”

My heart broke for this soft-spoken giant. Did he really think that the only reason he was at risk with diabetes was because it was in his family? It was probably in his family because of their situation, their family style of eating, and probably, because of their poverty. It used to be poor people were skinny, nowadays, it seems the poorer, the fatter.

He couldn’t have been older than me, but he already had so much working against him. To me, he seemed trapped—in poverty, in a certain lifestyle and in a hot, uncomfortable, awkward body suit.

He paused, breathed and then drew the microphone close. And  something escaped, flew free from that prison. His voice, gentle and sweet, rose up and filled the café. His song was of beauty, heartbreak and a peaceful place he’d escape to. A peaceful place, he repeated, a peaceful place. He spoke, then, his words rhythmic and strong. But it was the melody that haunted me. He sung it again and all I wanted in the world was for him to have that peaceful, beautiful place always.

I knew the thin, haunting melody was his soul.  All I could hope was it wouldn’t be crushed.