I spent my weekend ICE watching. It had nothing to do with the great outdoors, climate change, or glaciers. I volunteered to stand on a corner in a predominantly Hispanic neighborhood and be on the lookout for suspicious cars with tinted windows, driven by White Nationalist masked “SS,” otherwise known as ICE.
Earlier this week ICE attempted to intimidate the Puerto Rican community in Humboldt Park. Set aside the fact that Puerto Rican’s are American citizens. They have brown skin and many speak Spanish, that’s enough to make them targets of Trump’s fascist regime.
This weekend the predominately Puerto Rican neighborhood of Humboldt Park celebrated their annual Barrio Arts Festival. Due to recent events there was a heightened concern that ICE would target the community. So, trained community activists and ICE watchers were stationed at every corner of the vast park to keep an eye out for suspicious unmarked cars. Happily, the event went off without a hitch and the ICE “fear factor” didn’t keep families away.
But this post isn’t about my experience standing on a street corner for 12 hours over the weekend on high alert. It’s about the gift I received.
I live in a “vanilla” Chicago neighborhood. If you’re a tourist in Chicago, you’ll probably visit my hood. I live one block from the “loop” or the Magnificent Mile. If you go to the museums (Art Institute, Shedd Aquarium, Adler Planetarium, or the Natural History Museum) you’re in my neighborhood. Ask anyone who knows me, I LOVE WHERE I LIVE. But I didn’t realize until today… it’s colorless.
Chicago is a city of neighborhoods. We have 77 distinct neighborhoods. Up until this weekend, I’d never visited Humboldt Park’s 207 acres. I’d driven past it or through it, but never once stepped out of my car. How different it is from my quiet and staid neighborhood park (Grant and Millennium Park, think Chicago’s idea of Central Park).
Even as I arrived early each morning before 10, there were multigenerational families gathered in the park, grilling out, listening to lively music, and laughing. Honestly, if there was that much “joyous noise” in my neighborhood at that hour someone would be calling the police. There was a cultural community and cohesion that my neighborhood is sadly devoid.
On my way to my car yesterday I ran into 3 men sitting on rickety stools playing different size drums. They didn’t need sheet music, they knew the rhythm in their very souls, just like the generations before them. Small groups seem to gather everywhere. A card game played over an overturned milk crate. Soccer games seemed to appear out of thin air. There was so much LIFE.
Today as I crawled back to my car, hot, sweaty, stiff, and bug eyed after staring at license plates all day, I saw this store window. There was no signage, just colorful doorknobs and I had to smile through my exhaustion. Thank you Humboldt park for graciously sharing your vibrance with me.
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