Every Chicagoan has a story that could only happen here.
We call that a Chicago story.
It could be a rant, a love letter, a wish list or an incident that helps explain what makes our city so different from other Midwestern cities.
Chicago’s streets have always been poppin’ with art, music, dance and commerce.
Unfortunately, Chicago also has lived up to its gangland reputation that dates back to the days of Al Capone.
While we might be divided by race and class, we are united by anxiety and fear associated with gun violence.
Still, how we view Chicago depends heavily on the side of the city we live in.
For instance, there has long been a rivalry between those who live on the South and West sides. Sometimes our differences are lighthearted. How many South Siders root for the Cubs?
Unfortunately, our divisions have sometimes gotten in the way when it comes to solving the city’s most pressing problems.
For instance, how many times have you heard a South Sider say: “If this level of crime were happening on the North Side, it wouldn’t be tolerated”?
Too many of us fail to realize when one neighborhood is under assault, we are all under assault.
Like many Black Chicagoans, my journey began on the West Side. After briefly living in a basement apartment, I grew up in public housing on the South Side.
I didn’t know how segregated the city was until I graduated from high school and went looking for a job. Dressed to impress and armed with incredible skills I learned at Dunbar — then one of the city’s premier vocational schools — I headed to the Loop confident I’d be hired on the spot.
I was rejected for every office job I applied for. I will never forget the sad eyes of one interviewer when she turned me away.
That was three years after Congress passed the Civil Rights Act of 1964, prohibiting discrimination on the basis of race, color, religion, sex or national origin.
Two decades and several jobs later, I found myself stuck in a dead-end secretarial job. When I tried to move up the proverbial ladder, it might as well have been 1963.
Corporate America’s blatant disregard for the civil rights law still haunts me.
But here’s the thing: The rejection changed the course of my life.
I quit that dead-end job, went back to college, and earned a degree.
A professor — someone from a different racial and socioeconomic background, someone who lived on the other side of the city — encouraged me and gave me the support I needed to find success.
That experience led me to a career that showed me there are decent, fair-minded and caring people in every part of our city.
If we are willing to listen and learn from voices across the city, we can begin building bridges between our neighborhoods.
A Chicago story is one that gives us hope.
What’s yours?