Tidal Basin Review, Summer 2010

The numbers on the street signs continued to lessen. They became unfamiliar: 55 th St, 47th St, and there was a street called Pershing Rd, and 35th St. That‘s where I witnessed a large sign that read: ―Welcome to Bridgeport.‖ The Bridgeport neighborhood was something I‘d overheard my parents arguing about. Mother wanted to move into an apartment that was on the outer edge but Father was strongly against that idea. He complained consistently of how much violence occurred there toward black people; said that he would not have his son growing up in fear of his neighbors. After dark in that neighborhood black people‘s tires were slashed, car windows ended up broken, and a few beatings occurred which were barely reported on the news. ―One day I‘m going to take you away from the segregation and madness of Chicago,‖ Father said during one of our buffer-argument-drives. Surely he used those soothing facial expressions and that deep dimple in his left cheek to calm Mother as well. But I could understand why she wanted to live there. Flooding the streets were fancy restaurants; people dressed in ties and collared shirts, and the sidewalks were immaculately cleaned.

As we drove the neighborhood, father‘s face continued to grow stiff as he stared at white men along the streets of Bridgeport. But the further we rode, the more the stiffness of his face turned into a smirk, a smirk without the warm dimple. He looked like an Indy car driver passing you on the track toward winning the race. You realize that you will never catch up. And Father turned sharply right on 35th St, passing those smirking, over the shoulder glares at any man he could view.

We began approaching streets with names I‘d never seen. ―Look there, son,‖ he said after we drove under a viaduct. ―That‘s Comiskey Park.‖ But all I noticed were the twenty story project buildings which were just across the expressway and the black men standing on the street‘s corners. They were peddling bags filled with sweat socks, barrettes for a young girl‘s hair, and lighters for smokers.

Father rode down the expressway ramp and immediately picked up speed. We passed more green signs that read: Lake Shore Drive, Cermak Rd., Division St. I wondered did those enormous signs drop even larger quarters than the ones I imagined from our apartment building. ―Where are we going?‖ I asked.

DRAIN ∫ 73