Chicago for me was everything that I imagined it to be, based on the countless stories I’ve read that have taken place there. Brick buildings dotted with white window frames and porches tucked under awnings in the front or perched atop wrap-around staircases in the back sit nestled against one another on streets in rows and columns like a grid. Vines that climb along hot red bricks towards rooftops remind me of my own stories in the ways that they cling and grow and constrain. The architecture and layout of the city was a reaction to The Great Chicago Fire– a preventative measure against future fire-related catastrophes. I find the idea of an entire city turning a tragedy into a tradition fascinating. (Although, I did just finish Morrison’s Sula, so maybe I’m preoccupied with thoughts of The Bottoms and how nearly the opposite happened there– a tradition ultimately turned into a tragedy.) Regardless, I’m not sure exactly what it was that made Chicago sing so powerfully to me. I usually feel uncomfortable around loud noises but in Chicago during the week of the Fourth of July the bangs of fireworks and crackers echoing through the streets sounded more like bass drums bumping out low, soulful beats. We spent the day lounging on the beach, and although the waves of Lake Michigan are nearly still compared to those of the Ocean, I felt swept away by the sultry sunshine of the day and then washed back ashore by the steamy, starless night.
I know my storybook romanticization of Chicago comes from a place of privilege. I have no idea what it’s like to truly be there. The cold winters that lock people inside for days and turn peaceful snow into violent, dirtied clumps of ice on sidewalks really don’t sound like my cup of tea. My memories of Chicago will be those of a passerby soaking up the summer sun in a dazed fantasy, walking through alleys of brick buildings with an oat milk cold brew in-hand. Oh, what a scene!
Thanks, Chicago.
***photo taken at Indiana Dunes State/National Park
Wandering Woman 