The Segregated North

I came of age in the urban north.
Chicago.
Low-slung ranch houses 
jostled for place in line 
with two-story square, symmetrical Georgians, 
creating the linear order of the neighborhood in which I grew. 

Row after row of homes 
with bare cement alleys 
and identical squares of monotone green grass 
provided the backdrop for all my daily relationships. 
Joyful and contentious. 
Amiable and adversarial. 

Men, carrying brief cases or wearing work boots, 
left the neighborhood in masse early in the morning, 
leaving behind wives and children 
to roam the explicit boundaries of their independence. 
Railroad tracks to the west, 
busy streets to the north, east and south. 

Once a year, friends and squabbling neighbors alike 
came together to eat hot dogs, 
toss water balloons 
and share stories under the bright summer sun. 
For all our differences, 
we looked remarkable alike. 

Our histories and futures merged and intersected 
at multiple possible points. 
At school or at church.
In ethnicity or in levels of discretionary income.
The monotone green of the grass of our front lawns 
echoed the uniform color of our skin.

A hodgepodge of many different neighborhoods,
Chicago, 
was geographically bifurcated 
into the northside and the southside, 
my side and the other side, 
the Cubs and the Sox. 

I grew up on the northside, my side, 
rooted for the Cubs 
and rode the Red Line to State Street
to visit with Santa who resided in Marshall Field’s 
while, along with thousands of other Chicagoans,
munching on our city’s unique take on pizza and popcorn.  

Downtown, I mingled with people from across the city, 
but always returned to the confines of my own community. 
I didn’t see the invisible walls surrounding my neighborhood, 
shutting certain people out 
and keeping other people in, 
limiting possibilities on both sides of those walls.