Category: Chicago

Anything and everything about my beloved, fair city of Chicago.

Fourth of July


U.S. of A.

Independence Day has to be the most patriotic of all American holidays. For as long as I can remember, we celebrated the day by going on picnics, pigging out, playing soccer, volleyball, baseball, or badminton at a state park, city park, or at the beach on Chicago’s lakefront. My favorite part was always the fireworks.

The last few years, everyone has been more conscious about protecting our environment. So we try not to litter and not to pollute the air. However, the Fourth of July is the one day that it’s permissible (though not legal) to set off illegal fireworks in Chicago. The streets are littered by the remains of fireworks and the air quality is clearly polluted for a day or two. Independence Day is a day when hardly anyone thinks green. Some people in Chicago even shoot off guns on this day. You don’t really want to be driving around while all the fireworks are in progress. It’s just too dangerous in Chicago. On the news you hear reports of people getting shot and/or getting injured by fireworks. There are also accidental fires caused by fireworks. But that’s how we celebrate Independence Day in Chicago. I find it hard to believe that no one I knew was ever injured by fireworks.

Growing up in Back of the Yards, everyone had illegal fireworks. We knew all about how to handle fireworks safely, but we used to do everything possible that would place ourselves in the most possible danger. Only adults were supposed to handle fireworks. But my friends and I have been lighting firecrackers since we were nine. You were supposed to set firecrackers on the ground and then light them, but we used to light them in our hands and then throw them at each other. Timing was especially important. You also had to watch the others as they lit their firecrackers in order to be able to dodge any and all firecrackers that came your way AND not let your firecracker blow off in your hand. Yes, I’m still truly amazed that no one was ever even slightly injured!

One summer, one of my friends got the idea of letting a firecracker blow up in our hand. We all thought he was crazy. But then he held his open hand palm up and let a firecracker blow up in his hand. We just stared at him in amazement. Then, he dared us to do the same thing. We all hesitated, but none of us wanted to be called chicken the rest of the summer so we all did it once. I must admit that it was scary watching the wick burn down until the firecracker blew up. It was loud because it was so close to my ear and my hand did sting a lot from the explosion, but I didn’t get burned or anything.

One summer, on the fifth of July, I woke up early and I walked all through the neighborhood picking up all the dud firecrackers that I could find. I carefully collected all the gunpowder from them and put it in a lead pipe about four inches long. I put a cap on one end of the pipe and a firecracker on the other. I wasn’t even sure if this thing would blow up. But if it did, I knew it would be a huge blast. All my friends wanted to see the explosion, but I told them that they had to hide until after the explosion was over.

We had a clubhouse in our back yard at our house at 4405 S. Wood Street. I set the pipe down by the clubhouse. My plan was to light the firecracker in the pipe and hide behind the clubhouse. I only had to take two steps to duck for cover. I made sure everyone was hiding before I even thought about lighting it.

Well, I lit it, I turned to run, and I took only two steps when the pipe blew up. I barely made it behind the clubhouse for cover. That is, most of me had made it, save for my left foot. I felt the blast on my foot and at first I thought I had blown off my foot. About a second later, I heard some of the shredded pipe pieces falling on the concrete in the alley. When the smoke cleared, I looked at my foot. I was wearing low-cut gym shoes and the blast had blown off the part of my sock that covered my ankle. But I was uninjured! By sheer luck!

Now, every Fourth of July, I keep a wary eye on my sons lest they injure themselves with fireworks. Of course, I never tell them any of the things we used to do with fireworks when we were boys. I don’t want to give them any ideas!

DDR

What a riot


2509 W. Marquette Road, Chicago, Illinois

When I lived near Marquette Park, there was a lot of racial tension. The neighborhood suffered from panic as the blacks moved closer and closer due to white flight. When my mother bought our house at 2509 W. Marquette Road, the neighbors said, with a sigh of relief, “At least you’re not black.” But we weren’t completely accepted by many in the neighborhood.

No matter where you lived in Chicago back in the 1970s, there would be someone who resented you, regardless of your race. In 1966, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. had marched in Marquette Park was greeted by whites who threw bricks, rocks, and bottles at the marchers. We moved to Marquette Park in 1973 and people still talked about the Doctor King march. I was a typical teenager in that I wasn’t fully aware about the political events in Chicago or our neighborhood.

So, one Saturday in 1975, I was driving home from work at Derby Foods. When I got close to my house, all the streets were blocked off by the police and I couldn’t drive home. Helicopters flew overhead. I drove around until I found a side street that wasn’t closed. I managed to park my Firebird about four blocks from my house.  I had no idea why there were so many police officers in our neighborhood, nor why all the streets were closed.

As I walked home, I could hear people chanting in the direction of my house. When I reached Marquette Road, there were hundreds, if not thousands, of people lining both sides of the street. Reverend Jesse Jackson had led a protest march, but I had just missed it. The street was littered with rocks and bottles. A black man and a boy drove up Marquette Road and people threw rocks and bottles at his car shouting racial epithets. The car sped off westbound where he was greeted by more projectiles.

I had a tough time crossing Marquette Road to get home. When I finally got to my house, there were hundreds of people standing in front of my house. I couldn’t reach my front door, so I watched until the march was over and most of the people left. My younger brother told me how he saw police officers on horses near California Avenue. Someone blew up a cherry bomb near the horse and scared it so that it stood on its hind legs. Someone kicked one of horse’s hind legs and the horse and police officer both fell. The police immediately arrested the offender.

One of my friends told me he was standing on the curb watching all the action when a little old white lady gave him a brick and said, “You throw it! I’m too old!”

When I finally got home, my mother asked me where I was. I told her that I was at work and that I had a hard time getting home. When my mother asked my brother if he was at the march he swore he was at his friend’s house. My mother didn’t believe him. She didn’t want the neighbors to think we were causing trouble. Little did she realize that all our neighbors were out there throwing things. The next day, my mother punished my brother for being at the march and for lying to her. She had seen my brother on the news near where the horse was kicked down. They had more protest marches after that, but that was the only one I saw up close.

DDR

Patrick Fahey


International Union Stockyards, Chicago, Illinois

I met Patrick Fahey when I attended Tilden Technical High School in the Back of the Yards. We were incredibly good friends, but only when we were in school. I’m not even sure when and where I met him. He just somehow materialized at school, and we often sat together in cafeteria or the library. Sometimes when I walked home from school, I would walk over to his apartment because he only lived two blocks from the school.

His apartment didn’t have very much furniture, and no one was ever home. Patrick was Irish with brown hair and freckles. He was tall and thin. His face wasn’t exactly symmetrical, and it reminded me of Pablo Picasso’s portrait of Gertrude Stein. I often found myself staring at the dimensions of his face, but he never said anything. Perhaps he never noticed since he always was off in his own little world. He didn’t have a girlfriend that I knew of, other than his imaginary ones. Sometimes he would show me a model in a magazine ad and say, “I wouldn’t kick her out of bed.” But I couldn’t even picture him approaching any girl even to say hello to one since he was so painfully shy. I didn’t think he would ever attract a beautiful girl like the models in the magazines, or any girl at all for that matter, because of his extreme shyness.

But, one day, as I was putting my books in my locker between classes, I closed my locker door and I suddenly saw a girl standing there, smiling nervously. We were both speechless for a moment. She looked Irish to me. She was pretty in a plain sort of way and pleasantly plump. I finally said hi. She said hi, but then the bell rang, and we went our separate ways. The whole incident was overwhelming. I couldn’t fathom why this girl would be standing by my locker.

I forgot all about her until the next day when I saw her by my locker again. “Do you know Patrick Fahey?” she asked. “Yes,” I responded feebly. “Do you talk to him a lot?” “Yes.” Then, the bell rang, and we went to our respective classes. I told Patrick about the incident, but he didn’t even acknowledge what I had told him. That was quite normal for us because we didn’t always talk to each other. We often just sat there in the library, just reading. We were like Pedro and Napoleon in the movie Napoleon Dynamite, only I didn’t have a mustache then. Now that I think of it, we spent a lot of time together, but we hardly ever talked, even when we walked to his house together.

A few weeks later, the girl was at my locker again. This time she talked and talked so much that I couldn’t get a word in edgewise. Her name was Maureen, and she was in a history class with Patrick. She said she really, really liked Patrick, but he would never talk to her. So, she approached me to help her. I said I would talk to Patrick. When I saw him, I asked him if he knew Maureen. He did. But he wasn’t interested in her. End of conversation for the day.

I would see Maureen by my locker regularly and she would ask me for progress updates. What I gave her was more like lack-of-progress updates. Patrick just wasn’t interested in her, not even as a friend. I eventually broke the news to her gently, but she was in denial and only tried harder. Finally, it was the end of the school year, and it was time for the spring dance. Maureen came to my locker and asked me if I was going to the dance. Then, she asked if I knew if Patrick already had a date for the dance. I knew he didn’t because we both confessed that we weren’t going. Maureen then told me to ask Patrick to take her to the dance. She stood there by my locker, the epitome of woeful lovesick misery, so I agreed to talk to Patrick about her. Patrick immediately said no. When I saw Maureen again, I told her his response. She cried and said, “But I love him!” She begged me to talk to him again. To ask him to please take her to the spring dance. I felt uncomfortable because she had her arms around my neck and everyone in the hall was staring at us.

I told Patrick everything that had transpired between Maureen and me, but he was unmoved. He said he wouldn’t go to the dance with Maureen. He just wouldn’t. Just because. For me that wasn’t a good reason. Somehow, I had to help Maureen. And by helping Maureen, I was also helping Patrick. “Just take Maureen to the dance!” I finally said. “I can’t.” “Why not?” “Because she’s fat!” “That’s not true!” Suddenly, I had to defend Maureen since I had gotten to know her a little better with all the time she spent talking to me by my locker.

Besides, to a Mexican, she wasn’t considered even remotely fat. “She just wants you to take her to the dance,” I said. “She’s not asking you to marry her.” Well, this sad tale eventually had a happy ending. Maureen, with all of her perpetual persistence–with a lot of help from me–, eventually went to the spring dance with Patrick. Afterwards, he wouldn’t talk about the dance or Maureen. In fact, Patrick acted as if the spring dance had never occurred, as if it were some sort of void in his life. But I knew they were happy together because Maureen would constantly update me on their relationship on her regular visits to me by my locker. I don’t know whatever happened to Patrick and Maureen because I transferred to Gage Park High School the next year. I like to imagine that they’re still together, happily married with children. Only Patrick doesn’t tell his friends about her.

DDR

Canaryville


Gate to the Union Stockyards, Chicago, Illinois

Canaryville is a neighborhood that is south of Bridgeport and southeast of where the Union Stockyards used to be. I spent a few years there visiting friends who lived there.

I was from Back of the Yards, so not many people from Canaryville knew me. I was risking life and limb every time I went, but I liked the sense of danger I experienced every time I visited. When I left Divine Heart Seminary, I had to attend Tilden Technical High School at 4747 S. Union, right in the heart of Canaryville. As luck would have it, the school had a lot of daily racial fights between blacks and whites. But that was my school and I was stuck attending it. I made the best of a bad situation.

I lived about a mile and a half away from school. After the first snowstorm, it was too cold to stand at the bus stop to wait for the bus, so I started walking to school in order to stay warm. I planned on getting on the bus when it eventually showed up. However, I walked all the way to school without ever seeing the bus.

I didn’t mind walking at all since I used to walk seven and a half miles to town every weekend when I attended Divine Heart Seminary. The next day was even colder, so I left the house a little earlier and walked all the way to school without looking back over my shoulder for the bus. I ended up walking to school the rest of the year because I was able to spend the bus fare on magazines and books. A few months ago, I was talking to my cousins about high school and it turns out that they also walked to school so they could keep the bus fare for spending money.

I never had any trouble with anyone until I got near the school. Someone, they would either be white or black (I was an equal opportunity crime victim), would ask me for money, implying that I should comply with their request or they would use physical force if necessary. I never gave anyone any money. I always had a response for them. “If you need money, you should get a job!” Or, “If you want my money, you have to take it from me.” I would then give them my crazed look that implied they might get the money, but they would be sorry they did because I would inflict some pain on them in the process.

Surprisingly, no one ever accepted my invitation to take my money. Although I did get close once. Two Canaryville residents on their way to school saw me and told me to give them my money or they would beat me up, only not in those words but a rather more colorful vocabulary. They looked like they were really going to beat me up but good. I collected myself and focused deep within. I clenched my fists and gave them a deranged look that I hoped would scare them off. Suddenly, they looked at each other, and as if by silent agreement, they walked away from me. They continued looking over their shoulders at me as they walked away. Then a police paddy wagon passed me from behind. They had walked away from me because they had seen the police! The police asked me if the boys had threatened me. I said that we were friends. I don’t think the police really believed me, but I stuck to my story. Those boys never bothered me again. In fact, they were so grateful that I didn’t rat them out that they even protected me on a few future occasions when I really needed some help at school.

DDR

Mexico vs. Poland


Bishop Plácido Rodríguez and Pope John Paul II

A few years back, there was a soccer / football / fútbol match at Soldier Field between Mexico and Poland. The game sold out almost as soon as the tickets went on sale. Why? Well, because Chicago is the fifth largest Mexican city and Chicago is also the second largest Polish city. Chicago has a lot of people of Polish and Mexican descent living here.

For as long as I can remember, I have always had Polish friends. In Chicago, it’s just inevitable. In many Chicago neighborhoods, Mexicans and Poles live and work side by side. Despite the language barrier, they get along quite well because they have so many other things in common.

First of all, many of them have strong connection to their home country because they are either immigrants or they know recent immigrants. Most speak English as their second language. Both Poles and Mexicans are mainly Catholic and have a great devotion to the Virgin Mary. They both come from rural areas and adapt to a major city like Chicago. Both groups are known for being hard workers. So, there are many couples that are Mexican / Polish, or, if you prefer, Polish / Mexican, in Chicago. And they, too, get along just fine.

How they meet often remains a mystery since both Mexicans and Poles prefer their own people. But they have plenty of opportunities to meet each other in Chicago because they live and work together. Sometimes, only one person of the couple is a U.S. citizen. Usually, gaining U.S. citizenship has nothing to do with their becoming a couple. There is a genuine attraction between the two because they have so much in common. I’ve been to many Polish parties for baptisms, weddings, birthdays, and family gatherings, and I always felt like I was extremely welcome there. In fact, many times Poles would approach me with a friendly smile and immediately begin talking to me in Polish. I’d have to shrug and tell them that I didn’t speak Polish and that would end our conversation since they didn’t speak much English. Considering how many Polish girls I have met, I’m amazed that I’ve never had a Polish girlfriend.