Chicagoland is your greater area

Little Lady is back in the psych ward. I went to see her today. I am not a women of the whole world, but I have been around, and this place was grimy. The hospital, the street, the dudes on the street, the whole bombed-out area. MLK Jr. came to Chicago to save the west side, once upon a time. He did not succeed, people. It is bleak.

I took Jackson downtown, toward the looming Sears Tower. My friend from Texas called it "Chicago's big middle figure to the world." I passed the demolition of some project towers around Western--research indicates that Rockwell Gardens is 'changing.' Changing with a slow-moving wrecking ball. When being torn down I think buildings look like they were made of fabric the whole time: how the cement clings to the iron rods, and everything is shredded.

I passed Malcolm X College and thought, damn, I should have gone to MXC. Because I want to wear the sweatshirt and I can't really justify that without having attending MXC.

After a tasty Korean lunch with a generous friend I took Pulaski down to 183rd. And while my Little Lady is stuck in hellville, a young woman for whom I am the legal guardian went and 'mauled' another girl. Sweet Boy decided to re-up with his crew, even though 3 kids have been shot in his neighborhood. Another, possibly sweeter boy is struggling with encopresis--look it up. I wore bright tights and a nice skirt and prayed for all of them when they weren't looking.

As much as I hate my own poverty and as sick and sad as things are making me lately, Chicago makes it better. From 183rd I traveled through the suburbs of the Black middle class--was there ever a better town name than 'Country Club Hills'? Through the fringes of Beverly and the remnants of the Irish Mafia, past the stunningly, warmingly, nostalgic 1960s apartment complexes of the southwest side. Who lives in those buildings? My dad did, during one of their separations, and I remember the smell and the globe chandeliers and the open slat stairwells. I imagine that all of those buildings are filled with divorcees, old people, and ghosts from swankier times.

There is a strange little strip of perfect brick bungalows just south of Little Village. And as always, when in the near south side, I miss Pilsen. I miss the checkerboard brick house I would pretend was mine as I walked to the Fairplay. When the debt disappears it will be time to man up and get some land. Right now, my fantasy choice is between the checkerboard on Oakley or a mini-castle in Beverly.

But make no mistake: Chicago, I am yours.