Considering Chicago’s Homeless Population

Two days ago, I was coming into my apartment complex through the alley, and I saw the garbage man locking up the trash cans. My initial thought was something along the lines of, “Seriously?” I know that that’s part of his job, but really, all I could think was that the transients I often see reaching into trash cans on the El platform were completely locked out. I mean, is it really necessary to lock up people's trash? But then again, I know the city has to be concerned about people sleeping in the dumpsters, let alone rummaging though, and I have to admit that being greeted by throngs of transients every day when I try to enter my apartment building is a little disconcerting. I understand the safety issues. Yet, there’s something absurdly inhumane about locking a dumpster closed.

The first time I ever visited Chicago, I was not prepared for the number of homeless on the streets (a lot of tourists are like this—I see the mixed reactions on their faces all the time on Michigan Ave., and watch them hand over loose change on the train). No one warned me about this before I came to the city that winter, and it broke my heart to see people standing out in the frigid February begging for money. Yet, I was simultaneously uncertain how to react. It's difficult to hand over money to someone you know nothing about, whether good or bad.

The day I moved to Chicago I had a scary experience with an irate homeless man. My roommates had taken me along with them to a free concert in Millennium Park, followed by a drink with their friends in Lakeview. On our walk back toward Uptown, I was verbally attacked by this man, who bee-lined for me, and screamed choice words to tell me that he was gong to kill me. My male roommate jumped between us and told him to back off, at which point the crazed-eyed man spat on my roommate’s shoes and continued his swift pace in another direction. I’d never been verbally attacked by a stranger before, and I’d never had my life deliberately threatened. My roommates assured me that they had never seen anything like that before, despite years of living in Chicago. I chocked it up to a fluke, and went on with my day. I did, however, purchase pepper spray the next day, and became rather wary of my surroundings and strangers in general.

I’m never sure how to feel about transients, and, specifically, what I can or should do about their situation. The economy sucks. And even when it doesn’t, there are honest people out of work and home. But at the same time, that man who came toward me screaming expletives at my face was clearly out of his mind, and if, in fact, he was high or drunk, I do not feel that I should contribute to that habit. Because I do not know who I'm dealing with when I bump into someone on the street, I am very wary of how to respond.

I know that people wind up on the streets for wide and varied reasons. What I don't know is what to do about it. If I give someone a dollar, he will probably still be homeless tomorrow, but maybe he will eat. Or maybe he will feed an addiction. I know some people who say, "Who cares what the person does with the money? That's their prerogative." I don't really agree with that philosophy. I don't want to help someone destroy him or herself.

If you live in Chicago, you see homeless men and women everyday. On the El; on the streets; outside your local Walgreens; on the intersections as you’re walking to work; sleeping in the underpasses. Do you give them money? Or do you just keep walking? This is a dilemma I face nearly every day, when I encounter someone who asks me for change.

Please read my follow-up post: Soup for You.

Gimpsing the Sublime

Tonight was glorious: the wind blowing hard, the lake tempestuous, the rush of autumn upon the city. Goethe Street became a wind tunnel as gales swirled between buildings as I ran toward the lake shore. A storm appeared to be brewing, despite the cloudless sky. As the wind unfastened strands of my hair and aroused goose bumps on my skin, I felt so filled with energy that my face burst into an inexplicable grin.

As I approached the beach, it became clear that the autumn wind was energizing the lake, too. I watched the waves repeatedly splash up into white foam and then roll away again as I ran north. Viewing the intensity of the lake and the strength of the wind exhilarated me the way storms do, making me feel small, yet powerful at the same time. Tonight, with my lungs full of fresh, night air, I felt weightless.

When I finally turned southward to head home, I was enraptured by the city lights. They dotted the skyline as though Chicago were a Christmas tree. The Ferris wheel at Navy Pier boasted its patterned, flashy lights, the Drake hotel proudly displayed its name across the night sky, and even the headlights smoothly flowing down Lake Shore Drive emitted a strangely-organic beauty.

It is during moments like this when I feel as though Chicago just wraps me up; she stops being a pitiless city with cold angles, and stern architecture and reminds me that nature courses through her, too.

Celtic, Er, Um, Mexican, Or Yeah, Celtic Fest

Joy and I let the sound of bagpipes guide us toward Grant Park on Saturday: we were headed to Celtic Fest. As we approached Michigan Ave., we realized that a parade was taking place and expected to see bagpipers, men in kilts and Irish dancing. At first, all I noticed were brightly colored costumes and blaring music. It took me a few seconds to realize that there was nothing Celtic about the parade and that, actually, I was watching Mexican dancers and listening to Spanish lyrics. Right next to Celtic Fest was the Mexican Independence Day Parade! Joy and I looked at each other, wondering briefly if we were in the wrong place, but we could still hear the bagpipes in the distance. So, we delayed our foray into fiddles and kilts and spent a little while observing the parade.





The parade itself was a bit lackluster at times, with long patches of space between each performance/group/display, but it was dotted by periods of excitement. Amidst the less exciting groups, you’d have a dance troupe who really knew what they were doing, or men in costume on horses, or the Chicago Car Club. This last one was pretty hilarious. These guys rolled down the street in their huge old cars all decked out with crazy hydraulics. They’d make their cars dance by raising and lowering the frame, bouncing the front end up in the air, or doing wheelies in the road. The kids inside some of the cars were having a blast. Joy and I couldn’t stop laughing at the seemingly possessed cars. As the last one rolled by us, we left the parade still chuckling, and strolled into Celtic Fest.

Leave it to the Midwest to genericize its festivals. I mean, you can name a festival anything you want, but ultimately, the core components—local food, beer, and hokey marketing schemes—never change. The same booths selling tickets for food and drinks that had dotted Taste of Chicago reappeared for Celt Fest. Similar vendors like Rainbow Cone were there, too. I guess if you go to more than one Grant Park festival, you have to accept that some things are always going to be the same.

What we didn’t find at Taste of Chicago, however, were kilts. Lots and lots of kilts. As we walked into Grant Park, we started counting them. Of course, we only made it to three before I spotted a huge group and said, “Oh, man. I give up counting!” I have the sneaking suspicion that these men wait in great anticipation of occasions like these, when it’s perfectly acceptable for them to spend a whole day in a skirt (I know, I know, it’s not a “skirt”). I enjoy the role reversal. I personally find it quite sexist that only women are supposed to wear skirts. So, more power to you if you rock out your kilt. I’m a little disappointed that we missed the men in kilts leg competition later in the day. Hokey, maybe, but undoubtedly hilarious.

After meandering through the park, and then listening to Cu Roi for about half an hour (they’re very talented—check them out!), we headed back toward the dance tent to watch the Irish dancers, which I was anticipating more than anything. Going into it, I half expected some rag-tag group of young dancers hiding behind fancy costumes, but I was pleasantly surprised to discover that the dancers were, in fact, very talented. As a matter fact, this dance studio (Dennehy Irish Dancers) produced the 2009 World Champion, Michael Putnam, and he performed on Saturday.

After they worked out some technical difficulties with his music, he took the stage under the makeshift tent set up for the event. As the music began, a woman behind us remarked, “The music seems kinda slow. But maybe it’ll pick up.” The funny part is that, yes, the music was a little slow, but there wasn’t anything sluggish about Putnam’s footwork. He pretty much quadrupled the beat with his footwork. I may not be an Irish stepper, but I am a classically trained dancer, and he just blew me away. I guess that’s why he’s the World Champion. Move over, Michael Flatley—there’s a new Michael in town!



Once we’d seen the dancers, we felt we’d seen the best that Celtic Fest had to offer (I know I was satisfied!), so we headed back toward Michigan Ave. As we walked toward the El, we spotted a stray kilt-wearing man. I remarked to Joy about his bravery, taking the kilt beyond the boundaries of the festival, as I heard a woman giggle at him. Joy noted that within the festival bounds, you’re safe, you fit in, you’re all set. But take the outfit beyond the safe space, and you take a risk.

Thank You, Craigslist, the Modern Newspaper

In the opening pages of Devil in the White City, Larson’s narrator describes Chicago as both a liberating and precarious opportunity for women in the late 19th century. (This resonates with me on a variety of levels, but I’ll save you the literary and feminist theory.) I was struck by the following warning for ladies that Larson quotes from the March 30, 1890 Chicago Tribune: “[N]o thoroughly honorable business-man who is this side of dotage ever advertises for a lady stenographer who is blonde, is good-looking, is quite alone in the city, or will telegraph her photograph. All such advertisements upon their face bear the marks of vulgarity…” The reason this struck me is because you’ll find exactly the same thing on Craigslist today, and, I bet, unsuspecting women still respond.

I recall trolling through the employment pages of Craigslist Chicago throughout summer 2008, and for much of spring 2009, reading very similar postings, playing themselves off as legitimate employment ads: I would read them aloud to my friends for a laugh. Under the office/admin category, men would post ads for young women who were “good-looking” to fill a personal assistant position, and part of the application requirements stated, “Must include photograph.” Now, we all know there are certain areas of Craigslist where you’d expect to find something like this, but I guess I was surprised to find them masquerading as something legitimate. I just feel badly for any young woman who unsuspectingly applied and interviewed for one of those positions.

When I first started using Craigslist, I was fairly naïve, myself. The site is pretty much useless if you don’t have a sizeable population that’s actually going to use it. So, I didn’t really know much about it before I started using the site to find jobs in Chicago. Yet, if it weren’t for Craigslist, I most likely would not be where I am now. I did not come across the posting for my 6-month internship on any other sites; in fact, the line of business was a bit different from anything I’d ever really contemplated. But I found it on Craigslist, applied, and ta-da, I was moving to Chicago to work for a big corporation. But not before finding roommates--through Craigslist, of course. I met my future roommates when I came to interview, and I was comfortable with them and their home (so comfortable that I didn’t meet with any of my other Craigslist possibilities), and had no problem moving in two weeks later. In fact, I never had a problem with my Craigslist roommates at all.

When my internship was ending in the spring, and I started job hunting again, Craigslist had been thoroughly infiltrated with scammers (I hadn’t noticed it being as much the summer before). Well aware of the hardships faced by so many Americans during the recession, many posts would prey on desperate job-seekers, directing them to other sites to try and gather personal information, or tricking them into scam jobs (like my friend Jess who handed out The Printed Blog for hours one evening and then went to pick up her paycheck and they made up an excuse not to pay her.) I finally learned not to include any personal information on my resume, other than an email address for contact, unless I could find a legitimate company website through which to apply, or the company responded to me and, in some legitimate way, identified themselves. There are a lot of honest people on Craigslist, but, as in reality, there are plenty of ill-intentioned souls lurking there, too.

I like living in a place where people actually use the site, even if you do have to be cautious about how you use it. I actually owe Craigslist quite a bit, and I feel like it’s an integral part of city life, particularly for those who live on a budget, because the site is loaded with deals. If I’m looking for used furniture, or freebies, or even a date, I can go there. That last part was a joke; I do, however, know some women who have met guys through Craigslist, but that, to me, is scarier than interviewing for one of those sleazy ads for a leggy young chick.

I read in the news recently that Craigslist encompasses the simplicity for which newspapers strive but can’t achieve, and that the secret to that simplicity—and the site’s success—is that its creators didn’t care about making a profit (here’s an article from Boing Boing that will insert you into that discussion.) I feel like Craigslist really does encapsulate the simplicity of early newspapers. You’ve got your classifieds, your job postings, your personals, your humor/advice/opinions (Missed Connections, Rants and Raves), your apartment-hunting. All you’re missing is news. And what makes Craigslist better than a newspaper is the fact that there’s a search box in every category: minimum energy, maximum reward. And as much as I don’t want to see print newspapers go extinct, I won’t be giving up Craigslist anytime soon.

Starry Skies, Pine Needles, and Chicago, My Stinky Love

(An appropriate title for a rambling post.)

Spending last weekend in Toledo, the little city felt oddly defamiliarized for me, for the first time in my life. As a writer, I challenge myself to defamiliarize the familiar on a regular basis, but you don’t expect the place where you grew up to ever really feel that way. When I went home, I was reminded that the recession is still on. Sometimes I feel like I’m living in an economic bubble in Chicago. I know that many jobs have died in Chicago, that the city is hugely in debt, and that people living here have seen hard times, too. But the rate of decline feels much slower here than in so many areas of the country, and the rate of recovery seems quicker here as well. Toledo isn’t a back-water town. It’s a small city, but it’s blue-collar, and a lot of those jobs are gone. It’s only a matter of the ripple effect from there. Many shops in my parents’ part of town sit empty. Toledoans have talked for years about the depressing facades of empty buildings filling the downtown after all the fortune 500 companies that once propped up the city moved out for cheaper lodgings in the suburbs and other Midwestern towns. But, as if tentacles had reached out from downtown Toledo, the little places on the edges of town are emptying out, too, and most of those businesses aren’t fortunate enough to relocate.

Hotels along Reynolds have been abandoned, leaving only their dated 70s construction and bland window treatments behind (yes, the curtains are still hanging in the windows). Restaurateurs have moved out of their buildings, with no new tenants to take over their abandoned kitchens. Some areas of the city look on the verge of ghost town.

Riding around Toledo, I was struck by how low everything was, and I don’t just mean depressed economically (don’t get me wrong, the city isn’t dying—I refuse to believe that—though certain limbs are faring worse than others), but physically low to the ground. I have become acclimated to high-rises and skyscrapers, and that was the single most conspicuous detail I noted about my hometown that I had never considered before. So many one- or two-story buildings! I don’t mean this in a condescending way, but some parts of the city started to feel like a toy town.

I enjoy visiting Toledo. In addition to spending time with my family, it’s a nice break to take a leisurely drive through streets that feel practically empty; I don't feel rushed there. And it’s nice to walk down quiet neighborhood roads where stars can be seen at night, and you can hear crickets and falling acorns.

And, honestly, my nose appreciates the break. I mean, I have to admit that one of the first things I recognize when I’m back on the streets of Chicago is the foul smell. It’s that waft of sewage that drifts up from the manholes in the streets, or the sweet perfume of fresh urine, or that odd, stale McDonald’s scent that drapes certain intersections downtown. I’m reading Devil in the White City right now (fantastic!) and when I was reading about the dead cats and the sewage and the muddy streets I thought of that Swift poem, “A Description of a City Shower,” and felt like 19th-century Chicago and 18th-century London weren’t all that different. But then, today, when I was walking downtown and my nose was assaulted by a urine-and-moldy-Big-Mac odor, I thought, “Well, we may not be wading through shit, but you can never get away from the smell of it in a city with so many people, whether its 1889 or 2009.” Anyway, that’s the long way of saying that I appreciate the scent of pine needles and fresh grass in my parents’ neighborhood.

But after a short while away, the rumble of the city starts to call me back. The activity, the people, the events, the architecture—they all contribute to the overall seduction of Chicago. Chicago, you are a stinky city, and you’ve got lots of crime and homelessness and corrupt politics and frigid winters, but somehow I just keep coming home to you.