Showing posts with label neighborhood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label neighborhood. Show all posts

Friday, October 10, 2014

Sanctuary!

No!  This is not about Quasimodo.  This is about that one place when you were growing up that you could escape to when you needed time to think or not think at all.  That one place that you could be alone or with a group of friends looking for the answers to questions that scared you, worried you, and interested you.  A place you could walk to or run to.  A place to hide in or a place to cry.

I have had many sanctuaries in my life, but none more memorable than the one I had growing up in Brighton Park.  When I lived at 3440 West Pershing Road, my sanctuary was in the backyard.  What I loved about it the most was the green grass.  Laying on it or playing on it, it was my place to escape and think.  I am not sure if I was the only one in the neighborhood laying on the grass at night looking up at the stars, the moon, and clouds, but I didn't care really.  Truly there may have been thousands of young eyes gazing at the night sky!

What did we try to escape from when we visited our sanctuary?  Sometimes I would pretend that I was Mike Krukow from the Chicago Cubs pinching to one of the teams in the National League: Phillies, Reds or the Mets.  Holding the Flyback rubber ball, looking for the sign from the catcher Joe Walis or Steve Swisher, and imagining the strike zone.  I was only throwing the ball maybe 15 feet away, but you couldn't tell me that!  Those were my no hitters in the land of pretend and fantasy!

Sometimes I would just sit on the concrete floor not doing much or thinking much.  I wonder if our children have a moment to do that nowadays in our busy world of video games, endless amounts of homework, and school activities.  My big decisions were based on whether or not I should walk over to Theresa's Grocery Store and buy a can of Country Time Lemonade or a bag of Munchos Potato Chips.  Hell, that was a big decision between sweet and salt with 25 cents!

My favorite memory was laying on the grass and looking up at the night sky.  Amazing the amount of stars (that's almost impossible now) I could see then and the occasional cloud that would float by.  Sometimes, I swear I could feel the earth rotating under me.  I felt it and believed I could hear it moving.  A low hum, the earth spinning on it's axis slowly, and I was totally connected, plugged into the forces of nature.


Well, now I know it was the cloud really moving and the humming could have been a million things, but in my sanctuary, I was right, I knew, I felt the connection to the earth's atmosphere.  For the moment, I had a relationship with the earth like no one else had through my sanctuary.  For that moment, family quarrels, homework, unemployment, 70's gas prices, inflation, Watergate could not enter my cosmological place.

I have never ever experienced a feeling like that again.   I did have other places, other sanctuaries like 'Jack-knife', Davis Playground, my workplace as an adult, sometimes the bathroom could be my sanctuary (stop laughing).  But that true feeling of power and spirituality under the Brighton Park sky, never again.

Sometimes I think about going to ask the owners of 3440 West Pershing Road to see if they would let me come AT night.  Come by to lay down in their backyard on grass and escape to my old sanctuary, and listen to the earth move, listen to it hum.  To hear the earth speak to me again and welcome me back as I escape once again.


Thursday, April 17, 2014

Let's Talk

What a simple process talking is. What a simple thing to have a conversation with family or a group of friends is. As children or teenagers, talking on our stoop, on the corner of some street, or sitting on the hood of someone's car back when cars were made of steel, not aluminum, talking and laughing.

What exactly were we doing? An anthropologist would say we were storytelling. Conveying a story about something that happened yesterday, this morning, or a hundred years ago about someone you knew, or a character, ten feet tall, that ate whole cows for breakfast. The stories sometimes had second hand embellishments but sometimes they were as real as could be, especially if the storyteller was one of the oldest kids on the block. The neighborhood clown, maybe? Or maybe it was a "guest" storyteller from around the block or from a far off location like east side of Kedzie?

Storytelling has been around for centuries; we may also know it as the oral tradition. 
Many of what we know about our families is based on storytelling.
For my brothers and I, we gathered around Gary. Gary lived two doors down from us; he was older and cooler than anyone living on 39th Street. I really don't know if 38th Street, 39th Place or for that matter, anywhere else in Brighton Park had a cooler dude then Gary. His walk, the way he dressed was straight out of the 70's. He wore glasses, too, but no one dared call him four eyes, though he wasn't known as a tough guy. He was just "The Guy." He was our storyteller between Homan and St. Louis.
3446 W. Pershing Road: Gary's home before the fence and bay window. 
This was the stoop where we laughed and talked for hours because he was "The Guy."
Did you ever notice how when you were listening to your own storyteller, you were generally for the most part gathered in a circle? Circles are interesting because they provide comfort and a sense of belonging. It has been around for centuries, the circle process. It provides, most importantly, a sense of community. Block by block, we were a community, small or large, in Brighton Park. Our communities were multiple not singular. And in each community we had a storyteller, a mentor, a leader, someone we looked up to.


Who was it for you over by 45th and Richmond? 38th Street and Washtenaw? 41st and Albany? In front of Jim and Anne's? In front of Kelly High School? In front of Club Roma? In front of Galaxy?

Gary was our guy. He played an instrument, he owned a science kit that had a microscope, he was the first guy on our block with a job as a teenager; he hit the softball further than anyone on 39th St.  Hell, he even ran cool! And honestly, Gary was no angel, but he was our storyteller and our guy on the block. We all looked up to him for his problem solving, for his funny laugh, for the guy that was going to give us something to do on a summer day or night. Yeah, he was our after school coordinator alright.

No matter what, though, he was going to describe a situation in his fashion, tell a story about something we did, he did, and that he saw. Who opened the fire hydrant and got caught. Who let the pigeons out of the cage from the corner home on 39th and St. Louis. What happened when you go on the train tracks at night. What do you find when you dissect an alley rat.

All of those stories were funny, scary, tempting, and for the most part safe...for the most part. We did do some daring things, but didn't we all? And no one got hurt. Sure, some adults in the neighborhood knew it was always Gary, but there was no great harm done, no property damage, no police call. We worked things out; parents talked, parents resolved the issues, and the kids continued on. There were conversations between us in the neighborhood, on our little one block community. And there was usually kids and parents from west of St. Louis or south of 39th St. around, too. No borders, no turf.

I think of this so much now because we don't talk much anymore, or do we? Do you still sit in circles? Who is your storyteller now? Does it bring back memories of Brighton Park on a cool April spring day, the week of Easter or Clean Up Week? Where will you gather?

Conversations and storytelling went a long way. It was a lesson on how to or how not to. It could be one-sided, but it could also be a true demonstration of a democracy. Conversations can motivate, conversations can help you explore; conversations can bring resolve to ambivalence, help  facilitate change. Conversations don't cost us a thing, but their value as a positive, learning experience has guided us to where we are today, all through birth, through adolescence with our grandparents, parents and friends.  It has brought us here to this point safely.

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