My Chicago Story

Watching the federal government terrorize my hometown is as infuriating as it is heartbreaking. So I wanted to shed a little light on what it's really like living in this "crime-infested war zone."

Hi Monday!

Today, I am going to be short and sweet. (Literally, because I am 5’4.5” and because I have not been my sweetest lately and want to change. Examples: I yelled “DUDE!” at a guy who took out his phone to text during a thoughtful moment at a performance last night, making everything worse. And then another guy asked me what I thought of his work - at a whole separate occasion yesterday - and I told him the truth, which was not kind. I think it is a hormone-induced version of ‘roid rage and I’m sorry, Dudes.)

I love today’s thoughtful piece from our thoughtful Charlie. Let’s thank him and talk about our own feelings about what is going on in Chicago and elsewhere in the comments (and if you are in a mood like me and want to tell me so in the comments, that would help too). I also have some incredible news to announce tomorrow about a favorite writer of yours who is returning. Plus a hilarious story tomorrow so that you don’t think I am letting my hormones get in the way of also publishing stuff that will make you laugh and is happy and SWEET.

I love you, sweeties! And I think that’s about enough of that theme…

Jane

This was shot by Kim during our first visit back to Chicago together. This is the face I make when we’re spending way too long being tourists and not nearly enough time eating encased meats at Hot Doug’s.

When I was growing up in a shitty little farm town called Morris, Illinois, there wasn’t a whole lot to do. I lived across the street from a corn field; this was not a hub of activity. When I turned 16, that all changed. Now I could jump into my Chrysler LeBaron and take part in the one ritual that bonds teens from coast to coast — driving around.

Countless days and nights were spent in that car, packed with friends and blasting Operation Ivy, flying down desolate farm roads. And when driving around started to get boring, we’d turn to mischief. Like when we used to shoot bottle rockets out of moving cars or throw bread at mailboxes — we were really fucking bored. So one night a friend of mine and were driving back to Morris from a concert at Off The Alley¹ when we passed through a town called Elwood. Actually, “town” is probably far too generous of a term, it was more of a speck on the map we only noticed because of its name. Elwood is a funny name for a town, so when you’re a teen who has watched the “Blues Brothers” far too often with a penchant for mischief, this is an invitation.

It was late enough, so I pulled over near the sign welcoming us into the glorified speck — population: who cares? — and my friend and I jumped out to see how that sign could be liberated from this lousy location. As we were inspecting it, we saw a pair of headlights coming towards us, so we tried to act cool as if we were worried about a flat tire or something. The car started to slow, and we began to panic that we were selling the act too well. It continued to slow. The car stopped and the driver rolled down their window.

“You boys aren’t thinking about stealing that, are you?” the woman behind the wheel said with a smile. We were terrified. Not because she found us out, but because it was my friend’s mom. We had a laugh, abandoned our plans for thievery, and headed back towards home. All in all, a harmless and fun story that I hadn’t thought about for years. Until this morning, when I saw the words “Elwood, Illinois” in the New York Times.

As I’m writing this, 200 Texas National Guardsmen are camping out at a base in Elwood, waiting to unleash terror on the citizens of Chicago and its suburbs. To call it anything less than an invasion is sugarcoating the fascism. This isn’t Trump “pushing norms,” it’s blatantly illegal and would have been an instantly impeachable offense for every previous president. It’s despicable, it’s terrifying, and more than anything, it’s heartbreaking. And it feels very fucking personal.

Of course, it is personal for our famously vindictive president, but that’s not what I meant. Chicago isn’t where I was born, but it’s where I became a person. I have two Chicago tattoos, for god’s sake². I love that place more than anywhere on Earth, and there isn’t a day that I don’t miss it for one reason or another. No matter where I live, Chicago will always be my home.

For the past month, ICE has been terrorizing the city, and the National Guard is being sent in to give them some extra muscle to keep at it. This isn’t hyperbole nor am I attempting to sensationalize the situation by using strong language to describe mere enforcement of immigration laws. Only a week ago, over 300 federal agents using Blackhawk helicopters raided an apartment building on the South Shore, indiscriminately rounding up the residents (including children), placing them in zip ties, and separating them by race before detaining them. This is the sort of shit we always say couldn’t happen in America, but it happened and barely cracked the national news.

In Broadview, a village just outside of the city, peaceful protests have been taking place outside of an ICE facility, with the level of violence used by federal officers appearing to escalate with each subsequent one. It’s hard to imagine a better encapsulation of the authoritarianism involved than federal thugs shooting a pepper ball at the head of a priest peacefully exercising his First Amendment rights and praying.

Even the head of Homeland Security, Kristi Noem, was able to get away from her busy schedule of slaughtering family pets to witness the inhumanity firsthand and, of course, get a photo op. This administration loves their photo ops, don’t they?

Every one of these acts feels like a simultaneous punch in the gut/kick in the balls/stab in the heart as I watch from afar. Witnessing the brutality is difficult enough, but the pain is compounded when considering the reasoning behind it is based entirely on score settling and the dehumanization of immigrants.

Jean Baptiste Point du Sable set up a trading outpost along the banks of the Chicago river to become the first non-native resident in the late 1700s and immigrants have been leaving their mark on the city ever since. People move to the city to find opportunity or a place they can safely call home, and in turn, they reward the city with their culture and personality, creating the melting pot that makes America an experiment worth hanging on to.

On a personal level, when I moved to the city I was leaving a farm town of 10,000 people, almost all of whom were white, so it was on the streets of Chicago where I learned how much more the world has to offer beyond high school football games and a strip of fast food spots. In a short half-hour walk through the neighborhoods of Chicago I was exposed to more diversity and experiences than in my four years in Morris, and I immediately fell in love with all of it.

Every single neighborhood — and I do mean that literally — wouldn’t be what it is without immigrants. Here are just a few of the incredibly small ways their influence

has touched me personally.

From the Nisei Lounge to the Art Institute to the sausage counter at Gene's to my very first apartment, Chicago is the greatest city in the world

In Beverly, where they host the South Side Irish Parade, people still want to know which county of the old country your family came from. Experiencing this grounded me in the reminder that even if the Connells came here over a century ago, we didn’t always call this country home.

In Pilsen, I saw Los Crudos in a loft and very quickly learned firsthand that the punk community is so much more than white suburban kids who hate authority and love skateboards. I screamed along to the songs in Spanish, then did my best to translate the lyrics at home (despite a lot of the lyrics being too colorful to make it into my English/Spanish dictionary).

In Portage Park, I went to karaoke night at a Polish bar and signed up to sing Elvis’ “Suspicious Minds.” It wasn’t until I was on stage that I realized the lyrics on the screen would be in Polish, but I did my goddamndest to sing the words “Wpadliśmy w pułapkę, nie mogę wyjść” to hearty laughter and encouragement from the crowd.

In Chinatown, I was taught how to hand pull noodles by an octogenarian with infinite patience and a sense of humor that came through despite our lack of a common language.

In between Little Italy and Greek Town, I’d routinely get called into the office of my Russian history professor at UIC. Usually it was to get chastised for turning work in late, but no matter the occasion, he’d pull a bottle of vodka from his bottom drawer and we’d talk for far longer than either of us had time for.

In Wicker Park, I drank in dozens of dive bars eagerly awaiting the arrival of Claudio, better known to barflies as The Tamale Guy. Every night he would make the rounds selling homemade tamales out of a red cooler, selling a piece of home for $6 a bag.

On the far North Side and into Evanston, I found my first afikoman at Passover and learned a beautiful new way to grieve by sitting shiva.

In Andersonville, I drank my fill of Glögg at Simon’s (and its frozen version in the summer) in an embrace of one of the neighborhood’s few remaining nods to the Swedish immigrants who once flocked to the neighborhood.

Not only can you grab some Swedish mulled wine here, but they have possibly the best neon sign in the entire Midwest.

In Uptown, I frequented a grocery store run by a Vietnamese man who would never let me pay without going through the process of haggling for a better deal — which I did half-heartedly except when I was really hurting for cash — because that was the way things were done.

In Logan Square, I punched my first Nazi outside of the Fireside Bowl. I’m not a violent person and I never have been, but when someone gets in your face and starts spewing racist shit about your community, none of that matters. I will fiercely defend the people I love.

I never would have become the person I am today if it were not for the city of Chicago, and in the same way, the city wouldn’t be worth a damn without the millions of people like me who moved there seeking something. It’s a symbiotic relationship where one can’t exist without the other, and that’s why it’s so fucking hard to watch modern-day stormtroopers invade the city. The hardworking people who are currently living in fear that they’ll be kidnapped and disappeared into an ICE facility, and from there moved to god knows where, are a part of me. They’re a part of all of us who shop at “da Jewels” and place out folding chairs for dibs.

We’re a crazy bunch of people who will lose respect for people who put ketchup on a hot dog and waste every Sunday afternoon screaming for the glory of the Chicago Bears. But we’re also the home of Jane Addams and Studs Terkel, two people who taught us the importance of knowing, understanding, and, most importantly, loving our fellow Chicagoans. That spirit still runs strong and it’s going to take a lot more than a New Yorker sending in jackbooted thugs from Texas to make a Chicagoan turn on their neighbors.

Tough talk aside, I’m still terrified about what is already happening, and completely paralyzed by the fear of what could happen in the days to come. My mind is beyond scattered. No matter how hard I try to focus on work or doing chores or watching fucking Dateline, my thoughts turn back to Chicago. I feel impotent following the news from a thousand miles away; I need to do something useful but I don’t even know where to begin.

Then I thought back to the face conservatives make when I tell them I’m from Chicago. It’s always the same exact look followed by the same tied questions — isn’t it a war zone? Weren’t you afraid of all the crime? I relish fielding these questions because it gives me an opportunity to laugh directly in their faces. When I think of the community and love I experienced in my time there, the concept of it being a place to fear feels completely absurd.

I’ve had this conversation dozens of times, so clearly there are people who truly believe this, so I wanted to share my experiences and hopefully shed a little light on what it’s really like living in Chicago. I’ve always been more of a pamphleteer than a bomb thrower, this is all I really know how to do. Maybe it’ll count for something.

1. This was an all-ages venue in the southern suburb of Homewood. My ska band played there many times and I loved the weird little place. The community that was built there among the punk/ska scene of the mid-’90s is one of the many things I love about Chicago. It was such an eclectic group of kids and the place I made friends I still hold dear decades later.

2. My worst tattoo is of a Chicago flag where all four stars look different. To be clear, they aren’t snowflakes, they’re stars. Remember boys and girls, don’t accept free tattoos, even if an article you wrote is framed on the wall of the shop. They’re never worth the price.