August 1992: Prairie, Pavement, Poetry, and Perpetrators
I think, silently, about the old man who stands in front of my building talking with his dog all day, holding him in his arms like a child. I forget how his loud monologues unnerve me in the morning. I think about the integration on my block, the Hispanic girls with their high ponytails like I sometimes wear, the black children running home from school everyday at three with their white friends. I forget about the fact that my building is mostly white and the building on the corner, which is Section 8, houses mostly blacks. I think about the yippies and hippies hanging out at the No Exit Cafe, where it is still 1950 or 1960 inside depending upon which day you go, and the groovies and yuppies at the Heartland Cafe. I think about my friends and acquaintances across the street or next door: photographers, ESL teachers, lawyers.
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During this conversation I don’t mention the drug dealers hanging out on Morse Avenue, or the shooting at the Morse el station last year. I mention instead that the lake is a block or two from my home, that my rent is cheap, and that my apartment overlooks trees, gets northern light. I say it is a community. I brag about our crime meetings, about the Guardian Angels who moved into the neighborhood last year. (A poet at the table jokes about the Guardian Angels moving into Lake Forest.) I tell about when Elaine’s Bakery still existed, less than a year ago, how every time I stepped in Sylvia would know to put a little cream and no sugar in my coffee. Max, the owner, would discuss the fate of Israel with me during the Gulf War. Old men would argue politics with ignorance and passion. Misfits would gather together and feel at home. People came in for a bit of warmth before leaving for their jobs in the larger city.
I have only been back from Ragdale two days when I return to UIC to teach. I have been away from this institution for three months and 20 days; the concrete stuns me. My feet are blistered from wearing real shoes. I can’t wait to return home, read my mail, see if any poems were returned to me from friendly editors, or better yet accepted for publication. I can’t wait to go for a quick swim in the lake on this muggy day of 90 degrees. I take my shoes off when I step down from the el platform at Lunt. I don’t care about the urine or the glass. I don’t see anything. I am simply tired. I want to return to my trees, my small haven.
The cops fill out forms. They ask my profession. I say I teach English at UIC. From then on they refer to me as “professor.” It rings false in the foyer on Greenleaf with the wild assortment of people. They ask Tony for his title. He says janitor. We have never been divided into these categories before. They ask him his age. He says 57 and laughs. We offer to give them our weights as well. They take us seriously and say that because we aren’t perpetrators they don’t need such information.
“Dear mail thieves,
He enters my apartment and I follow him. No one is there. Everything has been dumped over–drawers, shelves, purses. Letters, photos, and Israeli coins are strewn across the floor. As I stand there while the cop takes notes, I am stunned by the disarray. I am not sure what is gone.
