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Chicago (novel) by Rodrigo Haro

                                  

Also by Rodrigo Haro

 

South Chicago (a novel)

 

Content Test (a novel)

 

Short Stories II 

 

Gangero (a novel)

 

Short Stories 

 

 

 

                                                              

 

 

Chicago (a novel) 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Rodrigo Haro 

 

 

 

Imprint: Independently Published

 

 

 

 

In memory of my niece Penelope Chanel Vitela (March 29, 2018 - November 25, 2018)

 

Chapter 1: Columbus, Ohio   

                                                                                                                                    

I was in Ohio when Barack Obama got elected. The people celebrating the election jumped in the campus pond. They undressed to their underwear and dove in. The campus, and Columbus Police officers were on horseback. They were doing nothing. They were watching. The students pulled off their shirts, the girls took their clothes off as well, got down to their bikinis, and jumped in the almost freezing water. This was winter. Some people wore tape shoes. They wrapped upside down tape on their feet and crawled around the yard. I walked back to my small room in an apartment which I was sharing with other people. I saw two girls walking sadly. They said something uplifting and kept walking. They said something similar to,” They’re not with me.” They were wearing different shorts than the Obama shorts.  I went back to my room and thought about God. My life was changing in Ohio. I was once drunk and walked to a hospital looking to share myself in.  I walked in and asked to use the bathroom. I needed to live. I did not need to die. I kept walking and thinking. I eventually made it back to my room. I was safe in place. Life was not bothersome. I always saw the girl from across the hall. I also attended church every Sunday. I prayed. I stared at the big screen. Mass was short. After one of the Masses. I saw a seminarian in an after Mass event.  

               I was thinking of Chicago when I was in Ohio. I used to go to the Newman Center, a church run by the Paulist fathers. There was a big screen TV in the middle of the church. I sat in the back. The sermon was telecast on the television. The priests poised questions and ideas on the screen. The church was a proscenium theater. I went every Sunday. Some days I went during the week. I saw families and friends at the church. I rarely spoke. I went to confession. I wanted to inquire about joining the Paulist fathers. There was a man who was celebrating his ordination. He wanted to make it big. There was a reception. I attended and ate what I ate. Sandwiches and drinks were served. I went in. I wanted to talk to him and congratulate him. I spoke to him and asked him a question. I wanted to speak to the rest of the fathers. I went to the street after praying. I wanted to make sure I was okay. I was spiritual like my mom told me. “Tienes que tener temor de Dios,” she always said. I always try to follow that guidance. I wanted to stay with them. I saw food. I saw drinks. I saw camaraderie. I saw myself doing me. I wanted some guidance. I went home and prayed. I saw myself being part of them. I felt myself going in a fruitful way. I saw me in a way completely in God’s plan. I wanted to know how to join the church. I wanted to join others. I wanted to be with them and know what I wanted to know. I wanted to belong and know where to go. I needed to be with them. I needed to stay put. I wanted to know how to join the church from upstairs. I wanted to know where to go. I wanted to know what to do. I wanted to walk. The church was big. It was huge. It had a big altar.  

            I missed Chicago. My brother visited me once in Columbus. He dropped off my mail. I could not catch him and said hi. He drove off in his van with his friends. I caught my mail in the mailbox where he left it and did not catch him. I saw him drive away and get into the van. He and I never got along. I went back to Chicago a year later at the end of the school year. I went back to my mom’s house and reapplied again to Northern Illinois University. I was accepted. I packed my things at the end of the summer and moved to Dekalb, IL. I went back to Chicago and made up with my mom. I even got a summer job. I knew I had to persevere. I told my mom, “I am going back to school.” I went ahead and got an apartment, a room, in a three story house. God bless. Amen.   

            My mom tried to control my sister. I tried to wait for her in grammar school to walk her home. My mom used to tell me to wait for her. I waited for her as much as I could. One time I did not walk her home because my teacher Mrs. C. (Eternal Rest) from seventh grade told me to load books into her trunk. I loaded crates of books. I then walked back home and my mom yelled at me for not walking her home. I was with my friend Ruben as well and I ran home telling him with a loud voice, “ I have to go home.” “Wait,” Ruben yelled.  

            Another time my mom yelled at me for smoking. I smoked a cigar from my friends grandfather (Eternal Rest) and went home smelling like smoke. My mom berated me for not getting home early. “We had a doctor’s appointment,” she said. God help me. Amen.  

                       

            

                    Chapter 2: The Idea of Liberty (Freedom)  

            

            The idea of liberty was into place after the financial crisis of 2008 and the ensuing protest of Occupy Wall Street. People were suddenly aware that their money was gone. The Occupy Wall Street movement and protest involved people of my generation, Millennials, the generation before me (Generation X) and after, and other others occupying Wall Street St in New York City for a common cause. They marched, but mostly they blocked people from entering work. These people build camps, got tents, and chanted “We are the 99%!”. People, financial workers, were seen carrying their boxes full of desk stuff out of their offices. The CEO’s kept most of their money, and Barack Obama bailed them out with more money. He passed the Bailout Package with Congress. The banks were saved. Fred Bermanke was on TV talking-to Congress and others asking for money. My friend Jim lost his money after the crash again. He told me one time while studying. “I lost it all,” he said. “I then found an opportunity to go back to school,” she said.  

            The idea of freedom (the idea of life) was questioned once again. Around this time, people were dying at the hands of the police. The police in New York City killed an unarmed citizen who begged for his life, “I can’t breathe!” was the rallying cry of many protesters. We protested his death all over the country. In Chicago the Police shot and killed a young black teen, Lacuna McDonald (RIP). George Floyd also passed away (RIP) and the city shut down. The city was in a mass protest. He also said, “I can’t breathe” similar to Eric Garner (RIP) in 2014. Breonna Taylor passed away (RIP) in 2020. The police shot her too. A mass protest ensued because of her as well. In Mexico a group of students went missing in Iguala (Eternal Rest). The students were pursued by military police and criminal organizations, they were gunned down. It is right to fight for the right to life. It is wrong to take someone’s else’s life. The idea of ethics stems from these protests. We protested the War of Iraq as a generation as well. We marched the streets all over the world chanting against the War. We marched against sexual violence against women. Me Too! was created in 2006 by Tamara Burke, a Harvard researcher. It spread fast on Twitter, a social media platform, it also got it started on MySpace, in 2017. People, mostly young women of our generation, posted their stories of sexual abuse and survivorship followed by the word MeToo! in 2016. These protests were about ethical issues, issues of right and wrong, were put into place and front-center as a means to give response to the crisis. 

            In Chicago, the Chicago Public Schools CEO resigned over the right to be safe. Many children were abused by security guards in Chicago as our CEO announced her resignation. The right to an education was questioned. In 2008, the Chicago Public Schools closed more than fifty schools to transfer children to other schools and neighborhoods. The schools were closed or reused as other schools. The idea of Art was exemplified by the creation of the Hope poster by Shepard Fairy. He created the poster for the election cycle. The poster garnered critical attention. The poster became the most famous painting of Barack Obama and his slogan “Hope,” and created many fans of Barack Obama. God bless. Amen.  

            I was in Ohio alone.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 3: The idea of happiness  

 

            I was not happy. I was sad. At times, I was mad. Back in South Chicago I was happy. I was happy in Springfield as well. I drank on my back porch multiple times. I drank and got mad. There were other times when I was not happy. I wrote in Ohio. I wrote a story about the campus. I submitted it to the New Yorker. It was not accepted. I received an email back telling me it was not accepted. In Springfield, I wrote as well and submitted a story to The Alchemist as well. The story was not accepted. The editor of the literary journal told me, “writing takes time.” The summer before I had started a story about my Theater professors. I lost it. The summer before that I started the first page of my novel Gangero. I was ready to make Art. I wrote the story in my basement on my laptop. I wrote the first pages of Gangero on loose-leaf paper. I also painted years later. I painted in my backyard. I went to therapy at Mercy Hospital. My art therapist showed me how to make art through painting. I painted in my backyard and my roommate Ari said to me. “I like that one,” she said. I submitted my story to the literary arts journal SEEDS. The journal and editors accepted it. I attended a reception. My William Shakespeare professor gave me a certificate. The story, “Report Card Day” appeared in the journal. The literary arts journal was published in 2012. The paintings were painted in 2013. I wrote the theater story in 2007. I wrote for the student newspaper, The Journal. I enjoyed my art in the newspaper. I attended meetings with friends. I attended staff meetings where I did not talk. My art was created through journalism. I published articles on education, racism, and human rights. I wrote an article about speech. I wrote an article about a student. He was tased by a police officer. He asked for the microphone to ask Mitt Romney a question. He screamed out, “Don’t tase me bro!” I also wrote an article on the environmental degradation caused by The Coca-Cola company. I attended a class for my World Literature class. My classmate recognized my writing. He congratulated me on the article. The article was on race. He mentioned that he had an argument about the content. “I told the guy you’re wrong,” he said. In high school I played the guitar. I attended a guitar workshop with Mr. S (Eternal Rest). He gave us brand new guitars. He taught us major chords. He gave us chord charts. In South Chicago I published my first collection of short stories. I passed the “publish” button. I published it in the memory of my faithful departed niece (Eternal Rest). I sat in my room in Albany Park. I sent a copy to my mom. I went to the apartment to rent. I walked all the way to South Chicago. I sent a message to rent the apartment. I received a response once I got to South Chicago. I got back on the train and dropped the money. I then went back to South Chicago. I went back to the empty house that my sister had emptied out. She packed her bags, She moved in with my mom. The kids as well. My niece (Eternal Rest) passed away. I kept writing. I survived. I made Art. I choose life.  

            I went into the house after her passing. I saw God bless. Amen.  

             

 

 

 

 

 

            

 

 

 

 

            

Chapter 4: Truth needs to be told 

 

            There is one truth. The truth lies in faith. Before Ohio, I was a student at The University of Illinois at Springfield. I was living with my girlfriend in my off-campus apartment. She used to walk back to her dorm occasionally. She used to say hi to her roommate. Her roommate cried one time. We were trying to make love. I was lying on top of her, and looked up. We heard her crying. “What’s wrong with her?” My girlfriend asks. “I’m not sure,” I said. We hurt her. I am sorry. Ethically, it was wrong to have sex with her in the room. Before our relationship, she was a really good friend. I knew God and I knew I was wrong. The truth lies in God and He took my girlfriend away. I ran away to Ohio the next year. I emailed her from Ohio State asking how she was. She emailed me back stating that she was okay. I had faith in her. Our faith turned to hope. Our hope turned to love. We stopped loving at the end. We still have faith. Truth lies on knowledge. The knowledge was that I was not supposed to isolate the roommate. The reality of the situation was that I was in a relationship (which was hurting the roommate). Our existence at the time was known through our love. We existed therefore we loved each other. I saw J. Years later. I met her for dinner. I drove three hours to Round Lake Beach. She cried in front of me. She cried on the table. I held her.  

            My sister changed after the accident. She was always my own. She was always by my side, or at least I tried to keep her by my side. My mom carried her how she could. She had weaknesses. Her weakness was running away. In college, she dropped me off at The University of Illinois at Springfield. She told me, “You’re going to afford this?” Looking at the bathroom.   “Yeah, financial aid,” I said. A year later she was with child. Her first child, and our first nephew. By then I had come back to South Chicago for my first summer vacation. She carried her baby how she could. My nephew, D., used to cry at night. My sister never got up to feed him. 

I used to knock on the door lightly.  

             “Chacha, get the kid,” I used to say. She never got up. The baby would simmer down. She would get up the next day and carry him. My sister ran away two years before that. I used to go to work throughout the day. I used to come home at night. I came home after working at Sears in the shoe department. I also worked as a busser. The bussing job was the best. I got hired by the restaurant owner. I wiped down the counters with a rag. I also refilled tables with cutlery. I took the buns to the dishwasher. I got paid in tips and my weekly check. I struggled to keep that job. The restaurant manager once said, “Do me a favor, learn the menu.”   “Okay,” I said.  

            “It would be a good idea. You can apply to be a server,” he said.  

 I worked the rest of that summer. I studied the menu. The restaurant served diner food. The restaurant also served jewish delicacies. The restaurant served Matzah Ball soup. We refilled the matzah ball soup container with new balls every thirty minutes. I carried my red bucket and disinfected tables. I also filled the bus bins with dirty plates. My back hurt a lot. I got to know the servers well. I got along with one of the waitresses. She was flirty. She was Latina. She spoke 

Spanish to me. She introduced herself to me as Blessed.  

            “You have to hit with your heel,” she said.  

            I kicked the side bar under the table. I then got up and folded the table.  

 “Thanks,” I said. Her eyes were beautiful. I fooled around the restaurant. I kept talking to her. She used to hug one of the other bussers. I stared. Her smile was contagious.  I kept working. I went home early one day after breakfast and lunch. I got home at around 4. I did not know where to go. I wandered around downtown. I walked out of 11th and Wabash and walked right. I crossed Roosevelt Road, and there’d Line. I did not get into the Red Line. I was walking. I started the first pages of my First novel Gangero that summer. The idea of the novel (was foreign yet familiar). I read Song of Solomon by Toni Morrison in my A.P English class. Mr. Abrams signed to us. “Draw a picture of the end,” he said.  

            I read the instructions on the assignment sheet. I drew a fence and Milkman and Guitar leaping over the fence. I drew them facing each other. I read the whole novel. I also read The Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka. That year, I read Great Expectations by Charles Dickens. My 

English professor also assigned other novels. Years later I read Sons and Lovers by D. H. Lawrence. The idea of the novel was familiar to me. I also read Things Fall Apart by China Achebe. My professor explained the novel as a historical fact. The novel is also a product of genre. The idea of a novel follows a plot. The idea of the novel started with Daniel Defoe and his novel Robinson Crusoe. Later in my third graduate school program, I wrote about the idea of the novel. The novel is an experiment in literature. Miguel Cervantes wrote Don Quijote. It was hailed as a masterpiece. The idea of the novel starts with Defoe. The idea of a tragedy stems from Aristotle and his throes of tragedy, art, and narratives, and language in Poetics. He wrote about the tenets of tragedy, a reversal and a recognition. He wrote about the need to write the answer to, who did what? Also, the answer to the question, what happened? pushes the plot forward together with the first question. He wrote about tragedians. He wrote that a tragedy should not have episodes or details. The plot should push the novel, he said. A writer should not rely on deus ex machina. A writer should not insert himself into his text. Further, a tragedy should instill fear and pity. The idea of the novel stems from all these things yet is an idea of its own. The idea of the novel was born before the novel was born. The idea of the novel takes the short story and elongates it. It produces a novel from itself. God bless.  

                                                 

                          

 

 

 

 

 

       Chapter 6: Truth, Ethics, and God  

                                                 

            If we think about truth, ethics, and God we find a way to knowledge, reality, and existence. We have knowledge about our life which is our reality and our existence relies on a Higher Being. The truth is God, the knowledge we have is to do right, and God is our Father (coming full circle). The truth is that I have a sister who I adore. The ethical question stems from our knowledge of doing right and wrong by each other’s side. God provided us a way back to each other’s side. I suffered in Ohio. I was not right in Ohio, and I found my way back to her through God. I had not forgiven my sister for her misdeeds (for running from my mom) actions that she had committed seven years before. I turned twenty-one in Ohio. I was in high school when she ran away. I went to a bar for my twenty-first birthday. I told one of my co-workers that it was my birthday. He visited me at my second job at a restaurant. I said hi.  

            “Do you have to work?” he asked.  

            “Yeah,” I said. He stared at me.  

            “It sucks,” he said.  

            “Yes,” I said. He walked away and I saw him the next day.  

            “We finished all the beer,” he said.  

            “Oh, cool,” I said. I grabbed a small cup. I tasted the chicken noodle soup.  

 I went to bars on my twenty-first birthday. I bought beer and shorts for other people. I went to a bar. I ate a Rueben. I also had an Irish coffee. I climbed the stairs back up to the sidewalk. I went to another bar. This bar was a dance bar. I went to the second floor. I drank a couple of beers. I met a Navy veteran. He told me he was a couple of years younger than me. I drank with him. One time I saw a girl on top of the bar. He was shaking her butt. I thought about Chicago. I was angry at my sister and in pain. I once bought a girl a drink. She took me and never talked to me again. She walked away. She told her friend, “that one,” pointing to me. I went out to the sidewalk and cried. I screamed out for my sister. I kept thinking about crying by myself in the bedroom. I thought about honor. I thought about my mom. I felt rage, pain, and sadness. I called out to her and I needed to understand. I went to my apartment and stood on the back porch and screamed out. I screamed out to the skies knowing I was wrong, knowing I was calling out God in my rage, I knew I had to exist with her not apart. I called my mom sporadically. I called her from a pay phone. “Estoy solo,” I said. I was crying. I told my mom I did not have money. “Yo se,” she said. “¿Cuánto necesitas?” she asked. She deposited onehundred dollars in my account soon after. I hung up the phone. I walked back to my room. God bless. Amen.  

            I spent the rest of the year in Ohio. I went to the Quad one of my last days on campus and wrote. I wrote a short story that I submitted to The New Yorker. I did receive a response back. 

            They read my story. Before my junior year at Ohio State, and before my sophomore year at Springfield, I spent the summer in Chicago in my neighborhood South Chicago (on the Southeast Side) and met a girl. She was from Slag on the Southeast Side, south of South Chicago in what the city terms South Deering. Slag was familiar to me. It is where my grandparents lived together with my uncles, wife, and kids. It is also where my childhood friend lived. I met her in South 

            Chicago three houses from my home. She was in a friend's garage. We were drinking. “Hi,” I said. “Hey, my name is Ashley,” she said. “I am Rodrigo,” I said. We were already pretty inebriated. We decided to go to a bar. We climbed into cars. I slipped myself into the car with her. “No, no, what are you doing?” she asked. She was giggling. I kissed her deep. I stared at her big eyes, and stared at her lower lip which she was biting and kissed her. She was ecstatic. She looked at me with huge eyes craving more. After the bar where a black guy tried to sell us marijuana and I bought a dime, we went to her house. She was house sitting for her aunt. She sneaked me in. I got naked. “You’re naked,” she said. “Yeah,” I said. I slowly took her clothes including her Spanx. I adored her butt. I took off her bra. We made love. In our young age, we were lustful and lovable. We were in love. I smoked a joint afterwards. She told me to stay. “I can hide you,” she said. “I can offer you cereal,” she said. “Okay,” I said. I did not know what to do. I left for my house. She closed after me. I saw her again a couple days later. She came to my mom’s home. I sneaked her in the basement. There was a mattress. I laid her not the mattress and made love. She moaned. Afterwards she said, “ I want to go home and wash.” I walked her home. She texted me later that day. “I took Plan B,” she said in her text. I said okay. She had asked me if she should take the pill. I offered her my advice. I should have kept her. I saw her again at her campus, The University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign. I took a Greyhound and found her. She was in her apartment. I made love to her again. She was having a party with her roommates and friends. I did not want to let her go. I went back to Springfield and my roommate picked me up. I saw him at the dorm. “I went to visit a girl,” I said. I texted her when I got back. I wanted to go back. I felt broken. I laid on my dining room floor. I texted to see her. “I want to see you,” I said through text. “You’re gonna go to the party and get high,” she texted back. “Do you want to go to me?” I asked. “I can text you while you are partying,” She said okay. I missed her. I went to a party with my high school friends and got drunk. I called her drunkenly like she said I would. I missed her. I texted again when I was in my dorm. I wanted to see her. I called. “I want to see you," I said. God bless. Amen.  

                                                                                           

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                                       

 

 

 

                              Chapter 7: The Idea of News                             

 

            The idea of news was detrimental. We relied on the news like Fox News, CNN, and MSNBC to tell us what to believe. The news got less biased. The War in Iraq created a news cycle that told us news from the War, body counts, battles, and atrocities. Soldiers swept through homes thought too belong to enemies. Whole families were killed. The body count was shown daily in the news cycle. The Guantanamo Prison was on the news. Soldiers took pictures of them torturing and piling up prisoners. We saw on television how the statue of Saddam Hussein crashed on the floor. American soldiers pulled him down. The War in Afghanistan was a far flung conclusion, second best, and the battles in that land were not calculated or shown. The news was used to captivate the audience and show the effort of war. The news also showed the mass scale protests before the War started. There is and was oil in Iraq. The War kept going. My friend Adrian and I tried to join the military. We were sitting on the porch. We said no. The War was our War, the news said. 

We all struggled to understand. When John Kerry was running for President I was in Springfield. 

            I was with a new girlfriend. I wrote about the War. I missed my sister. I spent time alone writing. I wrote my articles at times with my girlfriend. I spent my sophomore year there. In Springfield, I spent my last year, my second year, writing. I did not think I would go to Ohio the next year. I arrived in Columbus and called the rooming house. I kept writing and living there. The housekeeper smoked a lot of weed. I called and told him that I was with my traveling bags. My bags were on High Street. The house was on 4th street. I walked with my things to the house. I made it to class every day. I took a women’s literature class. I also took a World Religions class. I saw my co-workers at the class. “Mr. anti-social,” she called me when she saw me again at work. “You have the World Religions class, right,” she asked me. “Yes,” I said. We ate pasta with cheese. She was pretty and skinny. She wore make-up. She loved me. I was close to another coworker, she was close and dear, she was the friend and roommate of another co-worker. She was beautiful. I talked to her around the salad bar. The bar where I was during a football game was close to my apartment. I drank a couple of beers and went home. I drank everyday while in Ohio. I wanted to go back to Chicago. I thought about Chicago every day. I went back to Chicago late. I went back in the summer. I took a plane.  

            The year before I was in Springfield writing for the newspaper. I showed my mom the printed versions of the newspaper. I told her to save them. They were the First pieces I published. I put them in a plastic gray bin. I found the bin in the basement. I went to a college press association dinner. The newspaper won a prize. The photographer of the paper won an award. She went up to the podium to receive the award.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

   

 

 

 

 

Chapter 8: Roommate, and First Semester

 

            Before the newspaper, I spent the year with my girlfriend and her roommate. She was a pretty girl, and her roommate was Asian. This was in Springfield. The roommate was from her hometown and her high school. I spent time in their bedroom. I was dating My Pretty Girl. My Pretty Girl was the first girl I made love to. She kissed me the first day in the dorm room. She was the first one I was intimate with in the dorms and the first woman I made love to. She kissed me on the way to her bedroom. She said goodnight. I then went downstairs to my dorm. My roommate was in the top bunk bed. He stepped on the bottom bed to get to the top. My Pretty Girl shared her food. Her mom and dad visited once and brought her homemade food. She also went home for the weekend and brought back food. “I am mad that you ate my food,” she told me one time. 

            I would go home to Chicago as well. I would take the long Amtrak train to Chicago from downtown Springfield. We needed to find a ride back to campus. One time I met her on the train. We secretly took the train back together. I was her campus boyfriend. Her parents were trying to arrange her marriage to another man. He was from Indian-American. During the train ride we made love. She was seated next to me. I looked around at the train. I saw a man, and other people walking down the aisle. I caressed her head above my lap. I love her. She was in rebellion against her family. I needed to keep her. 

            That whole year I got along with my roommate, Kal. He was Indian-American as well. I drank with him a couple of times. I visited my mom one time and got robbed at the 87th Street 

Metra station. It was a young guy. He wanted to say hi but did not know how. “Who are you? What you claim? He asked. He asked if I belonged to any gangs. I did not. 

God let us understand.  

 The guy took all my credit cards. I did not have any money. I missed the train. I also missed Kal. He was going to give a ride to campus. She stayed silent the whirl way. We were both angry. He waited more than one hour. His sister drove. When we got to campus we were glad. My mind was always on My Pretty Girl. She always gave me a kiss. We always made up at the end. Our love was unconditional. We were hurt when we did not love. We had a fight once. She chased me down the hallway screaming at me. Our roommate from the dorm who was her wing mate was with her. I asked her,” Do you want to be my girlfriend?“  

            “What does it matter?” she asked.  

            “I think you’ll use me,” I said.  

            “I don’t want to put a label on us,” she said. 

            “I need to know,” I said.          

            “I’ll break up with my boyfriend for you,” she said. 

            “Okay,” I said.  

            She went back upstairs with her friend. I stayed cool. The same day we made love. We were back together. I was working at the time. She picked me up from work one mite at the 

Sequin lab. I washed petri dishes and lab equipment all day. That morning we had not made love. 

            We made love again. I bought her fast food once. I passed all my classes and read when she wanted me to read. I read for my Communication class. I read about speeches. I sat on her top bunk bed and read while she read with me. Kal went up to her room one time yelling, “Somebody stole my laptop!” he said. “Who did it?” I asked. “I don’t know,” he said. I was scared and felt his emotion. He was heart-broken. The laptop was the concern, it was the betrayal of the one who did it. I tried to be compassionate. I even thought of offering my laptop which was a Dell. We confronted and asked one of our wing mates and he said he did not do it. We kept being friends. We had a meeting one day in Spring. “We have to pick roommates for next year,” he told me. “Okay," I said. “Do you want to be my roommate?” he asked me. There was one more friend in the room. “I am not sure,” I said. I was sentimental and slightly angered. I wanted to hang out more with them. I hung out with him the next year. I needed two roommates right away. Someone from Theater and two random guys were my roommates. We had the meeting, and we were both heart-broken. I ended up losing the university because of my need and unrestrained anger and revenge. I did not know why I wanted to hurt him, our relationship, and myself. I talked to my Pretty Girl about it, and she said to make up with him. I did.  

             Vane wanted to stay with her job. She struggled to stay in school. She gave me the job to get with me as a friend. She was smoking too much. Although, I always wanted to smoke with her. I tried to make her understand that she needed to keep going. She left the Spring semester and went to South Chicago. I saw her in the summer. She did not go back for the Spring semester. She was going to graduate although she needed extra semesters to finish her work. I needed to give her job back. I wanted to see her grow with me. Vane was leading the pack. I saw her on the second floor. Her room was shared with another girl.  

 Pretty’s roommate, Vicky, was a journalist and had a clown at The Journal, the student newspaper. She wrote about dating, and advertised her sortie. She told one once about an opening after I asked.  

            "Do you know of any openings in the newspaper?” I asked 

            “Yes, you can talk to my editor,” she said.  

 “You can send your resume to my editor. I will ask her personally. I will send an email,” she politely told me.  

            “That is perfect and nice of you,” I said. “Thank you,”  

     She inquired and I sent the editor as well. The editor contacted me and scheduled an interview.  

            “I am writing to inquire about the position of reporter/columnist for the upcoming year,” I wrote to her an email and sent it.  

 The summer went by fine. I saw Pretty the last day on campus. We re-consumated our relationship. Then we all went home. I saw her again in the fall. Her husband-to-be had transferred to the university. He was now by his side. I got a girlfriend as well, Joe. She was part of a group of Latino students: OLAS (The Organization of Latin American Students). I did know how to consummate. She helped me out. She stared to the right. On the road, we walked to my apartment. We then made love. She screamed out, ‘Thank God!” We stayed together, but the group came apart. There was another who wanted to date me. She was her roommate. We all hurt. Our decisions are ours and God gives the will be free. To me that means, that we will judge by our actions as well. But God helps those who do good. I stayed with her. One day we were walking back to the dorm (was walking Joe back to the room), and I saw Pretty and her husband walking towards us. She said to Joe. “What’s your name?” She said. “I’m Joe,” Joe said. She did not talk to me. “She’s nice,” Joe said after walking away. “Yeah, she used to be my girlfriend,” I said. “Oh,” she said. We dropped the conversation. I was hurt. Why didn’t Pretty say hi to me? Why did she have to talk through someone else? Why was there immense silence? Why did I have to run? We went up to her room and grabbed some things. On another day, Joe saw one of former partners walking up the stairs. He was a black guy. “Hey,” she screamed at him. He lowered her head. “Hi,” she said again taking a step to the left and getting his attention. “Hi,” he finally said. He did not want to make eye contact.  “I had sex with him,” she said. “Okay,” I said. “I had sex with him,” she said again, “we had sex on a desk,” she said. I kept walking. “Okay,” I said. I did not understand. Her shame had turned into something else. It had trued into jealousy. But jealousy for whom? Did she want me to feel jealous of the other guy, and thereby gain (negative) energy or confidence to date her? But I was dating her. “Well, go with him,” I thought but did not speak. A couple of days later she said, “I am sorry about the other day,” she looked right into my eyes. “That was not right,” she said. “It’s okay,” I said.  

The rest of this novel is available from Amazon. 

 

Manuscript of South Chicago (novel)

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

South Chicago (novel) 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Rodrigo Haro 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

© 2022 by Rodrigo Haro

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I would like to dedicate this piece of writing to my niece, Penelope Vitela (March 29, 2018-November 25, 2018). Eternal Rest Grant Unto Her, and Let the Perpetual Light Shine Upon Her. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                                                        

 

 

Table of Contents

Prologue                                                                                              6

South Chicago                                                                                    7

South Chicago II (Factories)                                                              29

South Chicago III                                                                               39

South Chicago IV                                                                               48

South Chicago V                                                                                57

South Chicago VI                                                                               60

South Chicago VII                                                                              62

South Chicago VIII                                                                            70

South Chicago IX                                                                               78

South Chicago X                                                                                90

South Chicago XI                                                                               102

South Chicago XII                                                                              114

South Chicago XIII                                                                            116

Interlude                                                                                              130

South Chicago XIV                                                                            131

South Chicago XV                                                                              135

South Chicago XVI                                                                            140

South Chicago XVII                                                                           149

South Chicago XVIII                                                                          158

South Chicago XIX                                                                            166

South Chicago XX                                                                              172

South Chicago XXI                                                                            187

South Chicago XXII                                                                           191

South Chicago XXIII                                                                          195

South Chicago XXIV                                                                         201

South Chicago XXV                                                                           207                                                      Epilogue                                                                                              231

                                                                        

                                                            Prologue 

 

 

            This is an account of my time in and out of South Chicago written in 2022 after the COVID-19 virus, the passing away of family members, and a blessed move to San Francisco. 

            Once upon a time, not too long ago, I lived in South Chicago. Now, I do not. I do not believe this is a good novel nor a good one. This is a record of my heart and should be read as such. 

            The record is real. Names, characters, places, and settings have been changed to resemble the real. Please accept my apologies for any discrepancies (in people, places, or things). The fault is my own. 

            The names of real people and events have been used sparingly. Historical accounts have been used and fictionalized. All accounts are true and their discrepancies are my own.

 

 

 

 

                                                            

 

                                                            South Chicago 

            I have to start a new short story. I have to follow through and just write. I have to think of a new project. I have to wait. A new short story is in the works. I have to collect a new collection. Thoughts that come to mind are: The City of Chicago, guns, and war. I have to write a short story about the young men that lost their lives in South Chicago. “South Chicago'' will be the name of the new short story. 

Ben  

I know three people who lost their lives in South Chicago. There are four. Maybe more. I will count as I write. 

            The first that comes to mind is a kid I knew in high school. I always saw him. He once told me, “I’m going to be your bully”

            I shook my head, “no.” 

            That was the first time he talked to me. I used to ride his bike around and sell weed with his book bag. My friend Chema brought him to me. He stood in front of my house while I told him no. He was on his side of the fence. I was in mine. 

            Eternal Rest. 

            He got shot and laid down in front of my sidewalk. There was an incident. Some would call it an accident. It was probably pre-planned.                         

The other gang came up to him one day after high school. He was walking home on 89th. Walking East. We were in front of the school. The opposite gangs was about five deep. One was carrying a bat. Wooden. They threw down their signs to him. He walked up five against one and threw down his signs. 

            They nodded at least one of them and walked away from him. They walked back to their truck. One of them, possibly the one with the bat, made a trigger gesture with his index finger. 

            I walked home. 

            About ten minutes later he was lying face up on the sidewalk by the front yard. I walked out and saw my friend, she must be a mother now, and she stared at me. My mom yelled, “Vete adentro!”

            I hesitated. He was my friend. If I did not consider him a good friend, I considered him a good friend for friend. I stared at my friend, Jay. 

            I went inside after my mom yelled at me a second time.

Linda’s brother (LB)

The second person I remember (again in non-chronological order) is a big brother of a friend. I met her through my sister. She lived around the block with her mom. Her grandmother also lived a block away on 87th. I knew him from the block. He would ride his bike real slow through the sidewalk. He was peaceful. He was older than me. 

            He rode his bike one day through my block. I was by the stairs inside my gate. He drove real slow. 

            “Man, I’m high,” he exclaimed. “I feel good,” I saw his eyes and they were completely red. I nodded back and forth with a friendly smile on my face. I was contended. We were both happy and at peace. 

            “I just smoke two blunts,” he said. 

            “Yeah,” I am a person of few words unless I want something. 

He rode his bike to the next block, a block that I knew was in control of another set, I set that controlled north of 87th. THis was the 88th block. It should be controlled by people South of 87th. People. It should have been controlled by People since it was South of 87th. I was always suspicious and nervous, anxious of him hanging out on the 87th block. We had to stay on 88th street. I Guess the gang had taken over the block, had passed the threshold, and was now on 87th. 

“‘I'm going to hang out,” he said as he drove North to the next block. .

I always thought he was a good guy. I was getting close to Mel as well. My sister would bring her around and I would hang out with her. I love Linda. 

He was shot by the police. That’s what I heard. You never believe the police can shoot (in cold blood, in the back) until you see it. Have you seen the 60 shots to the body of the young African-American boy? May he rest in peace. One shot and the rest took shooting practice. As if he was not a human being. When I wrote about my bully I was thinking of the 21 in Uvalde that lost their lives (Eternal Rest). 

Linda’s brother was not a foe. Neither was Ben. He made his peace by coming to my address. 

LB was a real person. Peaceful, so how did he get involved in violence? 

My sister came crying to my mom one day after the shooting asking my mom to sell our house in order to help LB’s mom with the funeral expenses. 

My mom said no, but she offered her condolences. She went to the funeral. 

It’s ironic that Shinzo Abe (Eternal Rest)  got shot the other day by a gun in a country that does not allow guns. What are we supposed to do? What do guns mean? 

The Chicago River flows out of the Lake. I want the press to know Chicago is Chicago. I hate it when newspapers use a picture of Chicago to point out New York City. This is not that city. This is our city. There are bridges. We’re not that expensive, but we can make an expense. We are Chicago and we know it. Caption appropriately. 

He was shot by the police. My sister told me that she asked to see the police body videos and police car videos. His mom sat with the police in a station. All this is from what I heard. They showed him running from the cops. And then he fell. 

I guess he fell after running from them. Away. He was running away. 

Maybe, the cops shot him in the back. Maybe they shot him and did not pray for him. The cops shot him. 

Andres 

I met him in high school. He was a student, a grade behind me, and he got along with my sister later in life. He lost his life due to a work accident. Although, he was dating my sister near the time of his death. He was in his twenties. One time I was hanging out with him in front of Chema’s house. He wanted to get involved in gangs. He wanted to look for a set to kick out and away from Commercial Ave. He was already in gangs. He was wearing a large t-shirt. That was his style. I like him. He grew up to his twenties. His real name was Andres. 

He had a truck. I saw it in the truck one day. My sister wanted to buy weed from him one day driving by. I saw cross the street in the block our house is in. He lived near. He was in his twenties. I guess he worked in a factory. My sister mentioned they were hanging out. I guess they were a couple. 

My sister said he was electrified. He most likely did not pass away from gun violence, or people with guns, but most likely passed away from an accident. 

            May He Rest in Peace 

My sister's boyfriend 

When my sister was a teenager she was kidnapped by her boyfriend. He was her age. He was in the Latin Kings. My sister was away from home for a year. She came home once after about a year. I met her in the basement picking up socks. 

            “What do you want me to do?” she screamed out at me. 

            “Stay,” I said. 

            We went back upstairs with her crying. God bless the girl reading. She went away again after that. Her boyfriend was there at the meeting with his mom. They were sitting on the couches talking to her. He smiled at me as soon as I walked in. I quickly looked for my sister. I found her down the steps. She was bruised. She was beaten. She was raped. 

            She eventually ran away from him. She went back to my mom. She stayed put. 

            She would listen to him on the phone. I thought it was abusive. 

            He would drive his mom’s Astro Van down and around the block honking for her in the front and back of the house. He would do this once in a while. He braked his tired one day and honked his horn on the alley. I went to the alley and saw him in his van. We made eye contact and he drove on. 

            He passed away that summer. 

            His mom came to our house, from Indiana, to tell my sister he had passed away. I walked out and told her that she did not have to know. 

            That’s something she has to know, she said in Spanish. 

            “Ella tiene que saber,” she reprimanded me. 

            She drove away when my sister collapsed. He was a teenager. He was shot by a gang not his own. He passed away and everyone knew. 

            He was talked about after his passing. I had a friend who mentioned him. He was in another gang other than his gang. I’m snot sure how to explain. There’s aggravation. I don’t want to talk about gangs.

            My condolences to his family. 

            Eternal Rest. 

Arnold Mireles (Eternal Rest)

            He was a community organizer. He was older than me. A whole generation. He had a college degree. He was alive when I was a teenager. He ran and worked in a community center he founded called El Centro Communitario Juan Diego that still exists today on Commercial Ave. When I was growing up the center was in a house, an address turned into an office, on Escanaba. They filled out your work for free heating during the cold months. They put together picnics, black parties, health fairs, and other events. He was also involved in the local CAPS meetings. The meetings were held in the basement of Immaculate Conception Church on 88th. CAPS is an organization between the Police and the community in which the police serve.  

            He was walking home from a CAPS meeting one winter night. He had to walk by 88th and Exchange our block. He lived with his father and mother on 89th right by the corner. I heard, “Pa, pa, pa, pa,” in a row. When you hear gunshots you know they are gun shots. Fireworks are methodic, they almost sound like a metronome, “Pa,” and then “Pa,” and then “Pa,”. Gunshots are “Pa, pa, pa, pa, pa, pa, pa,” repetitive. You know the gun shots are gun shots and not fireworks. Minutes later the ambulance lights could be seen through my living room windows. Mom said she walked out and saw the body bag being dragged. 

In the morning, I saw the red blood, streams of them, on the snow. There is a small memorial where he passed away. This is close to the place where my schoolmate passed away. 

Our community school was named after him. There was a ceremony when I was about ten or eleven and we all walked out to the playground. I think the mayor was there. Mayor Daley was in office. 

They did an investigation on him. He was shot by some guys hired by a landlord. The landlord was in the process of paying fines to the City. He was a slum lord. Arnold Mireles had taken action to stop this landlord from operating. 

            The guys were found at a restaurant in the South Chicago or the East Side. They were conversing about the incident. A local girl called the cops informing them that she was hearing of a murder.

                                                            

 

                                                            Mr. Rodriguez

There are other faithful departed from South Chicago I know. Some of them are far acquaintances. Some are closer. 

Like my Drafting high teacher, Mr. Rodriguez, who passed away when I was in high school. He was a South Chicago resident, who grew up in South Chicago and attended James H. Bowen high as a student as well, and had a son. His son was grown, adult age, and he would visit his father during field trips. Once he fell on his back on the hallway. We were trying to get out of the building. He got up and went back down the stairs. Mr. Rodriguez took us downtown to an architecture excursion. He painted all the well-known architecture in downtown, The Rooker, The Water Tower Place, and others. We went to The Chicago Board of Trade and my economics teacher explained what was going on the floor. He explained that if you bought a ton of grain you could sell it on the Board of Trade without ever seeing your product. We sell, buy, and trade commodities. 

We all suffered and were shocked from his loss, our loss. He did not pass away while I was in school, but after I graduated. 

We heard about it and were shocked. It seemed he was to his high school sweetheart. 

He had his drafting well organized. There were only two drafting teachers in the high school, the other was Mr. Swanson, who was a seasoned teacher and guitarist and taught a guitar workshop on Wednesday as well. Mr. Swanson, who might have passed away from old age, had his room with updated computers. Mr. Rodriguez was insular. He too had updated computers on every station with the latest programs and software. But his doors were always closed. He always wore a tie. He was a marxist. He once showed us a video of the military practices in Latino/a and African-American communities and told us not to join. This video was during Wednesdays when we had workshops and not our regular classes. They were half days. I never had him as a drafting teacher, the school termed itself an architecture school, I had Mr. Swanson. 

I never understood why. He passed away from a murder-suicide. He shot his wife and then himself. His son is still alive. I heard he drove out to the highway. It might only have been his suicide that occurred. Most likely it involved his wife. Rest in Peace. May she Rest in Peace as well. 

 

 Mrs. Foin

I met Mrs. Foin as my art teacher. She was the only Art teacher in James H. Bowen High School. I have been teaching there for more than twenty years. She never had any children, a choice she explained as, “My personal choice.” 

I want to be a father. May God hear my words. I want to be a dad, and a biological father. I also want to be a husband. 

Mrs. Foin was also there as my Academic Decathlon coach from Art. I took part in the team and competitions. She hosted Art study sessions on Saturdays at the school in her homeroom. She had a huge Art closet where she stashed all of her supplies. It was a room to herself with lock and key in addition to their classroom. She loved art. She had graduated from The University of Wisconsin and moved to Chicago to work. She lasted until retirement. The year I graduated she was planning on retirement. She went to our prom downtown at a hotel. She was dancing with me. I had two dates. One I really liked and wanted to date, Illumina. The other friend was Vera. 

I danced with both although I wanted to stay close to Ilumna. 

She danced and I graduated and moved on and went on to college. She passed away after I left high school. May she Rest in Peace. 

            Mrs. Foin did not die in South Chicago. She worked in South Chicago. She established herself in South Chicago. 

            There is a memorial on 87th for a faithful departed soul. May He rest in Peace. I think it’s a young man, probably gang related. I don’t know who he is. All I know is that I pray for him. There is a big heart next to a cross. I pray for him everytime I get on the bus. 

            There is a faithful departed soul next door as well that served in the military. I saw a yellow ribbon on their yard fence. May He Rest in Peace. He must have served in The Iraq War. 

            What is going on in South Chicago and everywhere else in the country is something destructive. I remember multiple times we had to stay after hours at the school due to gun and gang violence. The security guards would keep us inside the building until we presumed we were safe to walk home. The day after Ben passed away the whole high school shut down. They were students on the stairwells crying and pronouncing his name. Counselors came into the high school. The principal, who almost never used the intercom, announced that we had help if we needed it. Nobody wanted to go to the first period. Everybody was down. The whole student population was distraught. They were all sad and taken aback. The young man was popular. We were all grieving for him like we knew how and that was together. We all gathered around the third period. 

I am reading The Divine Invasion (1981) by Philip. K. Dick. There are three plots I am trying to keep track of. One involves a love triangle. The other involves finding the past parents of Zina and Emmanuel. The last involves a Cardinal in Catholic Church and his dealings with criminal enterprises. I understand the characters. 

War. I wonder what made the characters leave Earth in the novel. Lack of faith? Most likely it was war. War is what tears us apart and lets us know we are not following God. The War in Iraq is something we (millennials) all grew up with. I was born in ‘87 (“my grandaddy’s a legend”) like Kendrick. I grew up with the war. Do you know how many Iraqi people actually died in the war? I don’t. It’s millions. In one war. It is people we killed. We went into homes with our metralletas and killed innocent children, mothers, little girls, boys and daughters. We went in there and killed. How many U.S. soldiers? May they Rest in Peace. The government said go over there and start a genocide. A Iraqui genocide. For what? So we can drive our car one block to the store? It’s unfair. They are people, living, breathing people. People means all of us. Now there is a war in Ukraine. Did you see the movie? He put out a movie to promote WAR. He made a comedy out of a tragedy. A young girl named Liza, also known as Elizabeta Dmytriyeva (Eternal Rest) passed away. Am I angry? Probably yes. 

I need to think of other people who passed away in Chicago, South, Chicago, or in the world. I am listening to Mac Miller. Do you know he passed away? Rest in Peace. 

I think I have to talk about War. The War in Iraq happened when I was in my first year of college, 2006. It might have started sooner. When Barack Obama was elected we were still in Iraq. I’m listening to Kendrick Lamar, 

What do I know to 

There is something coming up. What do we know about war? 

War is ugly. War is stoppable. War is avoidable. War is unnecessary. May God protect us and Russia. What do we know? The Motherland of some. I need to stay calm. I knew many girls in high school. Can we skip how we experienced 9/11? Mr. P. put his lesson on hold and he said, 

“I don’t know what to say. We have never gone through this before. I would pay attention to what the Principal has to say>” 

Suddenly the intercom turned on and Mrs. Silva talked through the speaker phone. I knew something was happening. I had watched the infamous video now of the planes hitting the second tower. I watched them with my mom in the morning. No, turning on the television in the morning before school or work is not normal. But we did it with the rest of the country that day. My mom did not know what to say. It was everywhere. 

I went to school. I thought about it as another day. It was not. School stopped. Work stopped. Family stopped. People passed away. Then there was War. More killing. More people passed away. Millions of people passed away in Iraq. People are dying in Ukraine. We lost Iraq. Russia will lose Ukraine. 

I don’t think we were supposed to take over Iraq. Millions of people died. Passing away. Millions. This was not a World War, it was more like Vietnam like we knew we were going to lose. We wanted to do something. Boom boom boom a gun goes. Not boom. Boom. Boom. Thot thot thot. 

I don't think we are supposed to take over the country of my patron Saint, St. Josaphat. November 12 is my birthday. What. I think the War will end as long as we stop making a War out of it. Probably millions of people will die as well. Lil Peep passed away. Eternal Rest. That’s cool. Gimme some. My mind is constant. Not erratic. Probability. Stability, Ability. Necessity. Pour Up. Drank. 

There’s Afghanistan which we took over first. I’m sure there are hundreds of thousands of people who passed away in Afghanistan as well. Rest in Peace. 

What mom? Do I obey or do I stray? There’s a question coming up. I think War is unnecessary. I think my mom, you, went through the first Iraq War. I heard about that, but this was our War. And what the fuck? Mark made money out of the War. Maybe we came together to talk about the War.  

I saw my first gun when I was five years old. I found it underneath my dad's couch when we were living at the restaurant. It was a revolver. I found it with my sister. I slowly took it to my dad who was naked in bed with my mom. 

“Look I found this,” I said in Spanish. My mom stared first then my dad. They both gave me eye contact. My dad did not say a word. I heard guns almost every weekend in South Chicago much like Little Village now. I saw another gun when I was thirteen. I was hanging out with Chema and a pirate. He always wore a pirate hat, had a small gun. He was part of the gang. What set I am not sure. Maybe the main. He fired it across the alley and asked me if I wanted to shoot it. I said no. 

There are other faithful departed in Chicago. The gang wars are real. I never held a gun. I have never owned a gun. I have been around guns all my life. A gun is an object made to be fired. It can be used to protect yourself. Most likely it is lethal. I Have used Bb buns. My friend and neighbor who is married now and left land (South Chicago) to live in Rogers Park when his then girlfriend got into Loyola had a BB gun in his car as well that looked exactly like a real gun with a metal handle. He shot at someone once, and according to him he screamed out, “they got me!” not knowing that it was a BB gun shot and most likely artificial, superficial. 

Later on in life when I was older, I saw my dad’s apartment. We were separated from him. I saw his apartment full of stuff. I saw boxes full of things he owed. I saw a cramped apartment. He also had birds. We visited his apartment. The birds flew out of the cage. They flew all over the place. 

I had a feeling, and I have an image of him passing away on the ground. My mom was always talking about him passing away alone. She had hate in her eyes. Why would you choose to love someone who you later hated? Why would you cause that pain to yourself? Why would you cause anger to yourself? It’s unhealthy. My mom is always doubting herself. May God forgive me, but I would always see her being unsocial, scared of people, and always thinking the worst of people instead of the best. I always saw her suspicious of the people around her. May God allow me to trust. 

I once held a BB gun. I got it from my friend, Chema, who worked at the Swap-O-Rama, what we called “La Garra.” The store is a huge discounted store, and outlet mall, where families can sell. Families can be vendors and you can practically sell anything. I ordered it from him. The pellets were orange and made of a hard surface, not metal, but resembling chalk. I shot at my sister with the orange pellet BB gun. She was fine. She only had a couple of bruises. She screamed. She was on the couch. Other than a slight pinch she was unharmed. 

            I have to write. Arnorld Mireles’s father also passed away a couple of years later as well as his mother. Eternal Rest Grant Unto Them. The parents of my best friend in grammar school, Jaime Nunez. His father passed away first. God Rest his Soul. His mom passed soon after from a stroke (Eternal Rest). The mom of my high school friend, Tony, passed away from COVID (Eternal Rest, Light). I think we have to keep counting our days if we do bad, wrong.

            What else is there in South Chicago? 

            I am drinking a beer. I think this story has to be tighter. I have to keep writing. I have to think of myself. The father of my brother-in-law recently passed away. Refugio Vitela (Eternal Rest). I have to think of what is going on in South Chicago. I have to make peace. South Chicago has to be published. I think it’s ready to be a story again. 

            When I was in high school I knew my high school security guard, her name was Beth. I saw her everyday. She was from South Chicago as well. I have to let myself breathe. I think I have to chill. I have to do something. I also recently saw Beth in church at Immaculate Conception church. I have to go on. This story is almost done. I think I have to edit. 

South Chicago has to survive. The neighborhood has to be clear. This story has no conflict, but merely reflection on the people living there. The story of South Chicago is a story of us. Established by Polish-Americans then re-established by Mexican-American WWII veterans after the war. An influx of immigrants as well as African-Americans finally settled in the neighborhood making it theirs. There are murals and memorials for the veterans of the neighborhood that served in WWII in both churches, Immaculate Conception and Our Lady of Guadalupe. South Chicago has a history and my story as well. My story of South Chicago is my childhood, teenage-hood, and adult life trying to save myself by South Chicago, through South Chicago, and from South Chicago. I was born in Cook County Hospital.

                                            

    #

            South Chicago is one of seventy-seven neighborhoods in the City of Chicago. My mom arrived here at the age of seventeen with her mother (my Grandmother, que en paz descanse) and her two sisters (my aunts, now mothers). They arrived here after my Grandfather’s (Rest in Peace) accident. According to mom, my grandmother took care of my Grandfather through work. She worked in a bolt and screw factory, probably U.S. Steel. She occasionally smoked cigarettes. She was here with her son, my Tio Jorge as well. None of them were married. Now I don’t live in South Chicago although I was born (actual birth in Cook County Hospital) and raised there.  My mom married at nineteen, had my brother, and stayed single for a bit until my dad, at age forty-five, and she had me (at age twenty-five- and my sister at age twenty-seven (and my dad was forty-seven). I grew up in South Chicago until I left my land to go to college. I went to Springfield at The University of Illinois at Springfield. 

            I came back one summer later. It was not the same. I was getting kicked out. I worked a bit at a Sears downtown and met a girl, a young girl older than me, who is a mother. I visited my mom sporadically throughout the year. 

            South Chicago is my home and I kept going back home. I kept being taken back home. I came back each summer and winter break except for one winter break in my second year of college whenI stayed. I also ran away to Ohio for a year running from pain that I caused myself. Running from my sister's pain and my mom’s pain in anger. I lived in my mom’s basement for a bit after graduate school. I also fought my mom a lot. South Chicago is my home and I kept going back home. I never thought I would be getting kicked out of my home. 

            I have been back to South Chicago all my life. I will be going back to South Chicago, my home, for the rest of my life. I will probably retire in South Chicago and live a long life as an elder. 

The history of South Chicago is my history. I can’t know, write about, or talk about history before 1987 because I was not there. I can only provide my story. I know South Chicago. It comes and goes. My dad had a restaurant. Business and money comes and goes from the neighborhood. That is what I learned about money living in South Chicago. Money is not permanent and does not stay. It might come back. The restaurant was in the main corridor of the neighborhood, Commercial. There is cause for concern when businesses do not prosper. I think there are families with money that run successful businesses that have stayed. There is one store that has been cruel to its workers and has faced legal action for not paying its workers. 

The neighborhood is the neighborhood. I think the neighborhood is my neighborhood. The schedule for my visitations is random, up to me. I think I will visit soon. South Chicago has to survive. I think having a place to call home, a culture, and a place to pray is what one needs. The neighborhood is far South and East. I guess the city is divided to be united. The whole South can be mine. I think the Southeast of Chicago gives me access to the rest of the South. 

            Guns? I don’t have one. I don’t think guns are the answer. I think I have experienced a lot of guns in my life. I have to not get a gun until God tells me to. I think I will have one soon. I might need one to be a cop. I think I had to bear arms after I started going to South Chicago daily. I have to bear arms soon if I am going to baptize my nephew. I think I have to do anything to get things right. My mom is from South Chicago. That is the land she chose for her children. I think my Grandparents (Eternal Rest) chose this land for us and their grandchildren inherited the land. I probably will live in South Chicago again. I will probably seize the day when God tells me to move back to South Chicago. I will probably see South Chicago. I have to look for the Southeast side soon. 

The Southeast side of Chicago seems like it's empty, but there are communities there. Hegewisch, and the East Side, and most importantly South Chicago. The East Side is a little more developed. There are no reasons to not go to South Chicago. 

            The neighborhood is my neighborhood. It’s close to the lake. It’s my lake, our lake, and the neighborhood’s. There is something peaceful about smoking a blunt in the parking lot of Calumet Park on the shore looking out at the lake. I think it is beautiful. The city provides you with what you want. The city provides you with nature when you need nature. The city provides a population to get along. The sand, beaches, and lake provides us a way to congregate, look at each other, and cook out. The lake provides us with a peaceful way to be together. The further west you get from the lake the more violent it gets. The lake provides a peaceful way to get along. At times enemies get along well at Lake Michigan. The way to get along in South Chicago is to go to South Chicago when you are invited. I think the way to get aligned with South Chicago is not to ignore the community, but at the same time respect the community. The way to get to the South is to follow the lake. There is a highway that splits up the West Side front eh Southeast side. 

            South Chicago is close to the lake for a reason. South Chicago is close to Indiana in case you need cheaper gas. South Chicago is the gateway out of the city, but also a way to view the lake. What does water mean? How do we pollute the water? In South Chicago there are plants or factories contaminating our earth. I’m guessing they go into the water as well. The chemicals are from fossil fuels. Carbon footprints are huge. These companies mostly use our land to build profit. They most likely do not have the neighborhood as their best interest. The Koch brothers most likely use their company, land, pier, and money to make more money without taking into account the future of the community. Our earth has to be nutrient-filled soil, it has to be plentiful. There are oil refineries in Indiana as well as South Chicago. We house the petroleum coke in our neighborhood and Indiana burns the oil. Refining oil is a process that attacks our senses. It smells awful like death. 

There was a movie made years ago called Southeast. It actually has been released yet. It seems like a big thing to release a film on the Southeast Side which is South Chicago and the East Side. It seems Burnham is also part of it along with Hegewisch. The film seems ready to take off. It seems based on the petroleum coke that is causing health concerns and effects on our community. Petroleum coke is based and comes from the companies owned by the Koch brothers in South Chicago. South Chicago was established as a steelworker community. I think the refineries from Indiana that turn oil into gas are polluting our land, our earth, and infecting the food that we grow in our yards. Many people have independent gardens like the rest of America. We grow tomatoes, cucumbers, tomatillos, chiles, and other vegetables for personal use. We grow them expecting them to be better than organic. But they are tainted by this dust, this petroleum coke left over after the burn of oil into gas. This dust, petroleum coke (that inauspiciously is produced by companies owned by the Koch brothers, lexically and to the ear they are related) is mostly generated by those companies. Coke? Koch? The piles of this petcoke are stored in South Chicago close to the harbor, Calumet Harbor and the South branch of the Chicago River and Calumet harbor consist of Calumet River flowing into Lake Michigan. 

Petcoke is causing huge damage to our environment and health. The chemicals used to refine oil are causing cancer, birth defects, and polluting food and air. The petcoke mountains have been on the Southeast harbor for years, decades. Since I was a little kid they have been there. I have been critical about the hills of dust in the park. The petcoke most likely is making millions of dollars for the company owed by The Koch Brothers. They most likely don’t care about South Chicago and most likely have never seen the petcoke mountains in Southeast Chicago, my home in South Chicago. Petcoke is something we hear everyday and most likely we think it does not affect us. The way to recognize that we are being poisoned is by believing what are facts. There are oil refineries in Indiana that make gas out of oil. The leftovers, the dust left behind, is being dumped in South Chicago. This is called petcoke. Petroleum coke. 

What the future holds for South Chicago is not known. I have to think of what will happen to South Chicago. Will it survive? Will petcoke go away? Will those mountains of dust that we see in the harbor go away? If you drive down the bridge down 95th street close to Calumet Park heading to the lake you can see the dust piles. In the winter they look like salt piles with the snow on top. But it's coal. Coal dust. It’s toxic. It’s dangerous. The dust settles in our food, in our skin, in our street. It’s coal and coal parts in our food poisoning us and our children. The way of the cross is through God. La estacion de Dios es en la Cruz. Mom is the way of the cross. My mom is my burden. I have to carry her. I also have to love her. There are ways to the cross. I think God told me my mom is my cross. She does not want to be held, she does not want to be carried, she wants to be fallen. I think I have to pick her up and she honestly does not realize how heavy a burden she is. A burden? I am looking at a picture of Christ next to Saint James the Major on the cover of a book. The petcoke business will never go out of business. I have to join a union. I think I have to learn about St. James the Great. I have to announce that I will be a father when I want to. Why do people have problems? 

I miss South Chicago. I want to go back. I want to move back soon. I also want to live permanently in South Chicago after I turn sixty. After I complete my forty if wandering, I want to return and live in South Chicago. I want to retire there in South Chicago and have a home, and family. 

I dream of going back to South Chicago. I dream of living there and leading my late-life in my neighborhood. I think it’s a person's dream to go back to where they were born or raised and love their last chapter of their life. I believe it's possible. I am thinking of Herman Melville. He retired in New York City in the last chapter of his life. He went back to his land. He died poor. He did not become rich or his estate did not make money until after he passed away. He had a regular job with the city, a desk job, where he worked everyday until he passed away. He did his forty. He came back home after sixty years old. He wandered for forty years liek eerie one else that leaves home before age twenty. He got his land. He seemed to have known that he needed to live in New York City, the birth-city where he grew up. He struggled his whole life to accommodate himself and have a home. He had a mansion (home) next to Hawthorne (Eternal Rest) and admired Thoreau (Eternal Rest). I have read Moby Dick and some parts of Bartleby. 

            South Chicago is there. South Chicago I will return to. South Chicago will see Gangero again. I have to listen to this story. What I termed Inferno will not burn, or go away. It will not be an Inferno again. I have to return at old-age. Maybe Cielo will come to earth. Maybe, Space (the North Side will remain Space and I will ignore Space and not get there anymore. My flight there since I was twenty-two or younger has been confusing. The West will remain the West. I have to return to the South, to Kush, to the promised land after my forty years. I am thirty-four. I left before twenty. I have served fourteen years. Only twenty-six more years more to go until I return home. 

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Penny Vitela (February 28, 2018- October 25, 2018)

The hardest was my infant niece, a holy innocent, who passed away at seven months.