Three weeks ago, I moved from the sunny exurbs of Philadelphia to the windy south side of Chicago. After escapades, explorations, and the accumulation of mundane habits, some reflection is called for.
The weather here has been clement. There was heat, to be sure. And sweat. But by and large it's been balmy, swelter undermined by brisk breeze. Chicagoans take advantage of the happy climate: biking, running, and walking along Lake Shore Drive, sailing, swimming, frolicking about. I met an Ohioan runner hanging from a tree who eulogized the lakeside; he claimed Cleveland's is overbuilt and underutilized. Consensus is that Chicago's pretty and well planned for play and commerce. At least, during the summer.
Second, there is this business of mid-western hospitality. I'm predisposed to view this thesis with some skepticism. It goes against my assumption that people are pretty generous and pleasant nearly everywhere.
I recall positing to Pedro Cuperman - eminent Argentine scholar of language and literature at S.U. - that, "People are like pretty nice everywhere, man." I then attempted to get out an anecdote about some Turkish farmers inviting my family and I, and our interpreter and bus driver, into their home for fresh natural honey, bread, and tea; we had picked them up in our van. Before I could articulate the details, Cuperman shot me down with an ad hominem of sorts - my claim was mud on the grounds that my family and I are Caucasian bourgeois chumps. And I'm a man-cherub. His point was that other people sometimes have distinctly less rosy realities. He's right.
Race affects grades of positive or negative responses. It depends on the place and person. In my limited, prosperous, educated, and white experience, Chicago people have been hospitable, helpful, and garrulous, be they white, black, or brown. I could illustrate with a yarn or two, but I'll desist. Let me mention, though, that the by chance twice-met Bahá'í cyclist who invited me over one evening for a barbecue party, spiritual chat, and music session is definitely the tops. She and her friends were heroically welcoming.
I were different, so would be my experiences and impressions.
I've been all over the city. I'm making it mine or myself it or something like that.
Cars are great for exploration and destination-achieving. My parents had one and so did a guest. They helped me penetrate Pilsen (lil' Mexico) twice. The best way to see things, however, is from the ground: engulfed in the delicious effluvium of the city, trodding the pavement, part of the masses, with edifices towering around. Walking is effective when combined with public transit (gotta love the El). Together these have helped me cross many a neighborhood, hitting destinations such as Myopic Books, Gramaphone Records, the Bahá'í place of worship, Sultan's Market, and all of Hyde Park. I also run around a fair bit. The bike is my standby most of the time. But I did take an accidental 50 mile ride which smarted of betrayal. The water in Wilmette (a northern suburb) freezes bone marrow in mid-September.
A former new acquaintance now seemingly new friend raised the issue of identity the other day. He pondered identity shifts and re-inventions. Grad school, he postulated, is a good time to do such things. Then he asserted that it wasn't quite his bag - he had found himself pretty well content with himself already.
I think I might very well have found a pretty stable me, a long-term me, but I'm not sure - I'm open to new things. I think. I hope. But instead of identity reformation or reinvention, it has been more interesting recently to adjust superficialities and then record people's book-by-the-cover appraisals.
For example, my friend gave me cornrows the other day: flat, tight, beautiful braids which hug my dome like furry snakes. This allowed my face to emerge from the lion's mane and reassert its prominence. I'm told the braids - aka Chi rows - made me more fierce and stylish looking. And when I removed them (to be ambushed by immediate hypochondriac terror at ultra post-cornrow hair loss) I suddenly became or appeared to become more approachable, friendly, amiable. In short, I went from sharp and fearsome to soft and cuddly. My imagined personality, it turns out, had taken on the physical characteristics of my hairdo! And hairdo determinism being in my power, I can now tweak my perceived personality as much as my hair allows.
In Chicago, I'm a superhairo.
Even more importantly, I'm happy.
No comments:
Post a Comment