Brighton Park-Now

Sunday, June 22, 2014

Communities within a community

Is Brighton Park unique in its geography? Or is Brighton Park's uniqueness due to its geography?

Since I left Brighton Park in the mid-90's, I think about where I lived for those 27 years. I lived at 3440 W. Pershing Road, 3026 W. Pershing Road, and 4145 S. Albany Ave. All three locations are in Brighton Park, but they were extremely different back then and even now.

If you think about each corner of Brighton Park, it was uniquely connected to a particular parish or school as they are now. Roughly, those four corners are 49th and Central Park, on the south, and about 31st and Central Park on the north side. On the other side, 49th and Western Avenue make one corner, and about 31st and Artesian the other one. We have some pretty interesting landmarks and border markers: I-55, Western Avenue, and the old "fire road." It seems that a lot of Brighton Park was surrounded or blocked in by manufacturing, transportation, railways and other businesses.

Community Number 58: Brighton Park

When I look at each section or quarter of Brighton Park, wow, were they ever different worlds!!!

My claim to my family, friends, coworkers, and others has always been that I owned the neighborhood. I don't mean that I ruled it, conquered it, drew its borders, made enemies, and established boundaries. What I really mean is that I could walk from one side of the neighborhood to the other and know someone or recognize something. But reflecting back, there were invisible boundaries present and even today, walking through the streets, I can actually say there is a block or an area that I have not been through once, or twice, or ever. It's odd, but so true.

So this weekend I set out to walk and see each corner of Brighton Park and finish in the middle. Well, as close to the middle as possible, all the while thinking back how often did I wander with friends, with family or on my own in these four corners of Brighton Park.

31st and Western: Northeast corner of Brighton Park

My first walk was to the northeast corner of BP, right by the Illinois Michigan Canal. The memory that comes to mind from this view is "jackknife." "Jackknife" is a bridge where, as teenagers, we would walk to mainly at night. This is close to Burroughs Elementary School, close to the old bus barns, to what was once St. Agnes Parish, St. Joseph and St. Anne Parish, and the Campbell Soup Company. Of course, as teenagers we really didn't know how dangerous it was to be in this area. As you walked over the bridge, you were above the canal and trains moved through there pretty regularly. We were also fairly close to the highway, I-55. We would walk under the overpass, come up in the middle of the inbound/outbound traffic. Sometimes one of the guys would get crazy and run from one side of the four lanes to the other.

View of the Orange Line: 48th and Western, the southeast corner of Brighton Park.

I braved the crazy traffic on Western Avenue to the southeast side conner of Brighton Park. It is not 49th and Western anymore; now it's the Orange Line, close to the new Shields Middle School. This corner of Brighton Park borders the New City community, better known as Back of the Yards. This area is close to Kelly High School, but as most of the Brighton Park community, it's bordered by another railroad track. This is one of those areas I seldom visited. It's not until now that I travel between New City and Brighton Park on 47th Street at least once a week.

Behind the new Shields Middle School - railroad tracks and a water tank.

Next, I went across 47th Street to the southwest side of BP. In the distance, the Orange Line again. Talk about walking through a desolate area! I had no clue these warehouses existed in Brighton Park, or what their purpose was. I was about two or three blocks from the border of Archer Heights and Brighton Park. The most notable landmark: the railroad overpass on 47th Street and Archer Avenue, close to the Polish Highlanders Banquet Hall and the used car dealership that seems to change management quite frequently.

Smith Brothers: 48th Street and Drake

Not too far from the warehouses, going North between Drake and Kedzie, is a residential area. It was my dream to live in this area at one point in my life because it always seemed to be insulated from the rest of Brighton Park, insulated from the schools, busy streets, and older home construction. My uncle lived on 44th and Sawyer, and I loved to go visit him. He basically lived behind the old Kedzie Bowling Alley.

As close as I could get to the northwest end of Brighton Park.

Finally I arrived to the northwest corner; well, close to it. This picture is taken from St. Louis, but I needed to walk another two blocks to get to Central Park if I really wanted to be at the northwest edge of BP. It wasn't happening as everything appears to be closed off. I was picked up by the police as a very young kid near here for allegedly opening up a fire hydrant. My friends and I actually didn't open the fire hydrant, we were merely playing in the water. I guess the police officer felt he needed to teach us a lesson; he left us sitting in the squad car for about one hour.

I remember this area well since I had many friends in this area from elementary school. It was two blocks from my home on Pershing Road, and close to "the fire road." I'm not sure why it was called the "fire road," but we could walk or ride our bikes to Venture down "fire road." My mom and aunt worked close by as well; they worked at Clark Foam Products which was on 38th Street. In the mid-70's, I remember a small prop Cessna crashing into a warehouse nearby. Imagine how incredible that must have been for a young kid to see! Then I think of all of my friends that lived even closer to that area: what was going through their heads when this happened?

And now I'm in the middle: Archer Avenue Big Store, Standard Federal Savings, Chicago Firehouse (home to Truck 52 and Ambulance 88), Watra (back then Wolf Furniture), and around the corner, Pants Box (it's still there!) and Brighton Park Theatre. That's all gone now, but some of the buildings are still there with different names. The center of Brighton Park, not a surprise when you think about it. It was the busiest part of Brighton Park then. It still looks pretty busy now, doesn't it?

Would you say you roamed all of Brighton Park as well? Or was it limited to a parish, school or another type of landmark? We were all neighbors though, all Brighton Park residents. We all went to Kroozin' Music, ordered our pizza from Falco's, ate Huck Finn Donuts, shopped at Archer Avenue Big Store, and most of us had a library card from the Brighton Park Library.

It was our neighborhood despite the distance between each Brighton Park corner. Despite the different schools, churches, banks; despite our backgrounds, most of the time, Brighton Park was ours and mine!

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Friday, April 25, 2014

417 Steps-Part 2

The can that was kicked!

Really more like 24 steps to the street…

Pinners, kick the can, softball, fast pitch, hide and go-seek, Santa Fe railroad tracks, snowball fights, hop scotch, tag, red light-green light, go karts, bike riding, catching grasshoppers, catching fireflies, playing catch, listening to the radio, hanging out on the stoop, laying in the grass, walking, talking to your neighbor, playing war, building a snow man or woman, washing your families car in front of the house, playing with the garden hose, water balloons, looking for coins under the sofa for candy, swapping baseball cards, visiting family two blocks away, building forts in your back yard, chasing the ice cream truck, playing in the fire hydrant, running home from school on the last day, blowing the seeds off the dandelions, cutting your neighbor's grass, climbing a tree, jumping rope, hopping fences, playing marbles, Big Wheels, pinwheels, picking crabapples, planting flowers, selling lemonade, ring-a-leevio, walking in the grass barefoot, listening to the birds-blue jays, cardinals, robins, backyard pools, breaking in baseball gloves, jacks, AM radio, cardboard airplanes, kites, hula-hoops, blowing bubbles, colored chalk, and so on…

How far from home were you?

Where was your local baseball field? Your secret hideout? Who was the fastest kid on your block? Who was the bully? When did you remove the seat from your Big Wheel? Who had the Billy Williams baseball card? Or Jorge Orta? Who had the Schwinn Sting Ray on your block? Who was your best friend in the neighborhood? Jays, Lays or Vitners?

Close your eyes for a moment and remember your Brighton Park from back then-40's, 50's, 60's, 70's, 80's, 90's…00's? 10's?

Low cost-no cost fun, right?

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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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Monday, March 17, 2014

417 Steps: Part 1

How many steps did it take you to get to the sidewalk in front of your home? How many steps did it take you to get to the curb or the street?

Maybe I should ask you how many steps were you willing to take and still feel safe and secure back when you were growing up? The sidewalks and streets were our playgrounds back in the day; back in the day of growing up in Brighton Park. No membership, no photo ID, and no fee!

I remember Pershing Road (39th Street) was this immense street. I thought planes flying into Midway could have landed there. Now I drive down Pershing Road and think how do two cars fit in this small thoroughfare? Lots happened on Pershing Road. When I was 5 years old, right after completing Kindergarten at SJSA, I was struck by a car driven by a Santa Fe Railroad police officer. Four broken ribs, a broken leg, and a concussion was the result of me versus car! I also learned to play hockey right in front of my home with my neighbors and brother. My older brother is a huge hockey fan. Or the Fourth of July, I could literally look east down Pershing Road or west down Pershing Road, and see fireworks in front of every single home; Francis Scott Key would have been proud. He may have added a guitar solo somewhere, but in the end the illumination from all of Pershing Road was incredible to witness. We didn't go to a suburb, to the lakefront. We walked outside of our homes and participated in the safety of our Brighton Park streets.

Let's not forget the alleys. How many things did we do in the alleys behind our homes? We played hockey there, too. I would cross the alleyway and visit friends or look for my brothers in their friends' backyards. It was a meeting point, an exit or escape route, and sometimes it was a milestone, a milestone to verify how safe and secure we felt from the doorstep of our homes. I would ride my bike around the block a hundred times: east down Pershing to St. Louis, down north to the alley, then a right turn. Now west towards Homan Avenue; another right turn, south to Pershing Road and around again. If I was brave I would start by going west!

How far was that from my home?

No GPS, no MapQuest…I was simply able to navigate around the block. I was free, safe and secure. Did I really think of those things? Did my parents think about my safety and security? Of course they did. I am sure I did, too, because that was a part of my development – safe environment that includes safety in psycho-emotional terms as well.

Take a moment to think back when you last saw a toddler wander away from his mother or father, how he or she reaches along a table or furniture: confident, but always looking back to check to see if mom and dad are still around, always looking for that security blanket or secure attachment.

I was eight years old when I went on my first 'away from home' errand: down the street to Theresa's Grocery Store back when neighborhoods had their two or three little Ma and Pa shops. We had Bogie's, Theresa's and Stanley's on 38th Street. These little shops had what we needed for smaller families, for couples, and for those special dinner dishes that needed an ingredient that our parents may have forgotten to buy.

Theresa's Grocery Store was 417 steps from my home.

How far would you go back then? Now, think, how far would we let our children or grandchildren go? Is there new fears or old ones? New barriers? Is it too far? Or is it unnecessary now?

Interestingly enough, I really didn’t think about it last week when I retraced my ancient, fossilized footprints. I was not restricted then nor when I was eight in 1975. Hmmmmmm...

Theresa's Grocery Store: the business is still in the family, second generation currently. My first visit to the store was about 1975. I probably visited with my older brothers a couple of years before then.

Monday, February 24, 2014

A Beginning, One of Thousands…

We all had a starting point in Brighton Park. Our family and where they came from. Our connection came from across the northern border, southern border, across the Atlantic, across the Pacific or we simply were already here, if we were Sauk, Fox, Miami, and Potawatomi. Chicago was then known as the 'wild onion' or 'shikaawaka.'

Of course, we now know that the French were the first Europeans to cross California Avenue and Pershing Road before it was California Avenue and Pershing Road. Jean Baptiste Pointe du Sable is credited with discovering and laying claim to the area now known as Chicago, incorporated in 1837, and the rest is history. I think we're well versed in Chicago's history and have some pretty good ideas of Brighton Park's history.

But Brighton Park would not be Brighton Park if not for our families coming from all directions. Their journey, their quest to settle here, raise a family, work, buy a home, and grow old is a dream most of us have currently. I think we can surely state with some confidence what our status is now. Mine has been here in Chicago for the past 47 years. Work in Brighton Park currently; married, one daughter in college and one in high school. I am in the middle of my life, fingers crossed.

When my grandfather arrived in the United States from Yuriria, Guanajuato, Mexico, he was probably around eighteen or nineteen years of age. He was part of the Bracero Program, a program that brought Mexican workers to the United States to work in the fields and railroads in much of the southwest. He was the first to come from Mexico in my family.

He himself had immigrant roots - he was first generation Mexican; his father came from Spain. I did not know my great-grandfather, but I did know my great-grandmother, Pachita. She lived to be a 110!

My grandfather worked in the fields in Texas, but didn't like that type of work much, so he traveled on what was called 'the migrant stream.' He worked on the railroad from Texas to Pennsylvania to Illinois. The work that he did was referred to as 'el treke' or translated as 'the tracks.' Fixing, installing tracks along the railroad system that eventually led to the hub of the country, Chicago. My grandfather landed in Argo, Il, a small village outside of Chicago. There were several Mexican families living there already, specifically from the town of Yuriria in the state of Guanajuato.

Back then, if you had a sponsor, a family that would vouch for you, a job, and references that included law enforcement from the city or town, you had no problem staying and starting a new life. Thus my grandfather stayed in Argo for some years. Eventually, he would leave the railroad and work for Reynolds Metal Company in McCook, Il. Reynolds and the plant that was there and employed thousands is gone now. My grandfather moved to Chicago - Brighton Park to be exact. The building where he moved to is still there., a two story, framed house 3223 W. 38th Place. He lived on the second level.

My grandparents lived on the second floor of this building - 3223 W. 38th Place.
Vacant lot next to it and different colored facade in 2014.

Here I am at 3223 W. 38th Place in the living room with my grandfather.

My grandfather lived in Brighton Park for approximately twenty years, bringing my grandmother, my mother, and my three aunts as well in 1957-58. He started his life in the Chicagoland area in '53, and through sponsorships and close-knit ties with Yuriria and other towns in Guanajuato, he would bring a young man at the age 16 to Argo, too. That young man was my father.

My grandfather worked for Reynolds for approximately 19 to 20 years. He retired at age 62 in 1973. I remember the work boots, the lunch pail, and the overalls. I remember his walk and I remember that you didn't make a noise after 9 pm at my grandparents' home. Not only was my grandfather the first person from my family to come to Chicago, he was the first person in my family to retire and benefit from his hard work, raise a family and grow roots in Brighton Park.

That was our beginning, the Fernández-Rodríguez creation story. My mother's parents, the Rodríguez, were the initiators of our family. My grandfather was a part of the millions that experienced the 'push and pull' of immigration. Leaving their country for a better opportunity to work and send money back home, start a new life, start a new family, leave a revolution, leave to eventually return again covered in gold! My grandfather did that. After working in Chicago for 20 years and in the United States for well over 40 years plus, he retired and returned to Mexico, to Yuriria. He lived the American Dream and passed it on to his family that stayed in Brighton Park that would attempt to do the same. He earned it.

My grandfather represented all that is good. Not all that was perfect, but what was this young boy's fondest memories. Those days of walking down Pershing Road holding his hand. Or walking to this store on Kedzie Avenue between 38th Place and Pershing Road.

My grandfather and I at McKinley Park. Lagoon is right behind us.
One of several walks around the park.

I remember that store for two reasons. The first was a particular gentleman: heavy set, always wearing dark glasses, wearing a white t-shirt, grey pants, white-slick back hair either sitting in that store's entrance or roaming down Kedzie Avenue. Never too far from the store it seemed.

The second reason: that's where my grandfather bought me my first baseball cap. Hold your breath Brighton Park people, because it was a Cubs baseball cap! I have been a Cubs fan ever since. What do you expect? You put a black cap with white letters in front of a four year-old versus a royal blue cap with a bright, red 'C', and I think the entire south side would be cheering for the Cubs right now. Maybe not?! By the way, my grandfather was a White Sox fan, but he never interfered with this four year-old's choice.

Besides introducing me to eternal baseball misery, he introduced me to my first adventures in BrightonPark. Although within a few blocks radius of his home, I was introduced to a new world. My grandmother would also introduce me to the fascinating world of Huck Finn's Donuts, White Castles, and David Berg's.

My grandfather returned to Chicago every year after retiring in '73. In 1995, he returned again for a check-up after beating cancer in 1990. He would never leave Chicago again.

I owe him as we owe many people for our beginning. The foundation laid by people from all over the world that helped build Chicago, helped build Brighton Park. Helped build our memories of living in BP.

Tuesday, February 11, 2014

The World Around Us….

What were the things that have most influenced your life? Your environment? Your teachers? Your parents? Your brothers and sisters?

I would think that most of us would argue all of the above. Some of those factors influenced us more than others, and some were more positive than others, too. Some were for longer durations than others, some with a greater intensity, dosage, frequency, etc. We were in school at least half of our waking day. If we had basketball practice or Cub Scouts, like I did, we spent the whole day at school. And that time included an adult or two, and in many cases, our parents, too.

Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs: How many of these levels were reached
when we were growing up and engaged in school and programs?

The adults included teachers, religious figures, coaches, neighbors, parish leaders, and of course, our parents. It seemed like we were always surrounded by two or three adults who worked with us, guided us, and sometimes yelled at us to keep us in line and attentive. I would venture to say that for the most part the adults in our lives were positive in the context of the ‘50s, ‘60s, ‘70s, and ‘80s. But so much is known now about youth development, brain development, engagement, voice and choice that even some of the best adults in our lives would be shocked to discover some of the things they did or said did not always followed the best approach. Yes, they were not perfect. We certainly were not and continue to be imperfect. Any takers on that one?

What I appreciated most was their determination. Their quest to keep us safe, entertained, focused, and committed to the task at hand. Baseline stuff, the minimum you can provide for children and youth. That seemed to be enough back then, or was it?

Which leads to…

Yesterday I had a forty-five minute conversation with a grammar school teacher of mine. I cannot share the name now, but I hope to eventually, with her consent, of course. I have been trying to find and reach out to this Teacher to thank her. I have much to be grateful for. Well on this day, I got lucky!

I did not want to sound like some creep who was seeking revenge for having to write ‘no horse playing’ ten thousand times. I wanted to call this Teacher, re-introduce myself, and say thank you. Where do I begin? One thing about me is, I am one determined individual (ask my wife). Maybe a little stubborn, too. Anyway, I looked for the name and phone number, and found a hit.

WOW! I needed to think about my approach. I asked my wife and girls: what should I do? Write a letter? Call this person? Go to her home? Well, my oldest daughter suggested I give the Teacher a call. She’s bold! So I did! I was truly excited about it. I knew what my lunch break at work would entail. I took a step back in time and dialed the number.

After about six rings, a ‘hello’ finally over the phone. One thing I learned over the years is to always have an eleven second speech, elevator speech if you will, prepared in your head when you are asked what do you do for such and such company, who do you work for, etc. I quickly gave this person my name formally and respectfully before the anticipated ‘click’, or “you’re nuts for calling me”. But it did not happen.

In the world of bad news, sad news, and money and power changing everything it touches, this person that influenced me, helped in molding who I am today, pleasantly greeted me. Didn’t know who I was immediately, then asked if I was related to Rita, my younger sister. Big smile; then like “what the”?!

As we spoke I did not want to come off as some kind of marketing person or a robotic nightmare from the past; I wanted to hear the thoughts and reflections. This person was calm, and so her words calmed me. At first I thought it was going to be a short, thanks for calling, type of conversation, but it developed into a reflective conversation about the past, present and possible future.

The same person I remember is the same person that spoke to me: overflowing with confidence and interest; marking points in our conversation and asking for clarification or elaboration when she felt there was a need for more details or an interesting topic to tease out. I felt like I was writing an English paper again!

What did we talk about? Everything! Life and life’s challenges now and back then. The sincere care and love this person and teachers alike had for us students. How difficult it is to be teaching now with all of the great challenges that exist in today’s world. This Teacher was very critical of where we are now with education and families. This Teacher is an expert, as a matter of fact. Hell, after literally hundreds of students and families in over five decades of teaching, you would think this person knew a little something about something. And she did…in volumes!

This is the stress of today on our children. Did we feel this growing up back in the day?

A couple of things resonate from our conversation. This Teacher believes in our children, their goodness and well-intentioned actions. This Teacher believes that families, parents are the key to successful children, to be successful in life.

As we were making plans to meet after ‘old man winter’ goes south to Florida, I thanked this Teacher for everything, specifically for those times that there was a true vote of confidence in me, when she believed in my abilities, believed that my parents would be my first and most important teachers. Believed in their abilities to teach and guide me through elementary school, so I could succeed in high school. Believed most strongly on the first principle of being an adult – do no harm.

At the end of conversation, one of this Teacher’s many signature sayings, “Good bye, Kiddo,” concluded our phone conversation.

Her determination like so many others in the field of teaching, or in the field of being a caring, loving adult, shapes our world, gives us hope to continue, to reach for the impossible. Most of us have felt it, saw it, and ran with it. Determination is that one skill that takes both the heart and soul of a human being to influence and impact those around them in a positive way. My Teacher admitted some failures or wrong choices in her career, but her commitment to forge ahead and see us as her focal point defines determination. Or maybe there is another word for it?

That was the brand of determination I received. I cannot assume everyone received the same. Is that what our society lacks now in the field of education, teaching, parenting? Or is it something else? Another word?

My Teacher is still filled with that same spirit even after she retired from teaching. She volunteers as an English as a Second Language Instructor. Now that defines determination.