Looking out from my third-floor balcony, most people would say I don’t have much of a view. An alley runs below the porch, and other than a couple of church steeples in the near distance, the immediate view consists of backs of apartments, a traffic light, a small segment of my street, and a parking lot. Yet, it’s rarely uninteresting to sit out there and take it all in. City life is largely characterized by a bombardment on your senses: sirens blaring, people constantly on the go, indistinct noises in the distance, a constant flow of planes leaving or coming to Midway and O’Hare – even the occasional odd smell drifting your way. It doesn’t matter how late you’re out there, there’s bound to be something going on.
Another fascinating thing about my neighborhood is the diversity. Not only is there a glaring sense of economic diversity among living spaces, with burgeoning condominiums shooting up on street corners beside a mishmash of low-income housing, one-family brick houses, multi-story apartment complexes, and two-flats, but the racial and ethnic diversity is even more acute. The 2000 U.S. Census reported Rogers Park to be among the most racially and ethnically diverse communities in the country (second behind somewhere in New York City, I believe). Anywhere you go around here, there’s a mix of every shade, color, and shape. Shop at Devon Market, and you’re apt to believe you’re at a corner market in Bucharest or Kiev. A short walk from there holds much of the best Indian cuisine in the city, and keep walking for another few blocks and you’re in the middle of the neon lights of Mexico City. There’s an Iraqi art gallery, a Pakistani hair dresser, many Thai kitchens, an eastern Asian liquor store…all within a very short walk of my apartment. Even though gentrification threatens to push out many of the ethnic minorities from an area whose affordable rents and welcoming spirit attracted them in the first place, Rogers Park remains microcosmic of the American Dream as a whole – people from all over coming together, making ends meet, and trying to lead an honest, happy life. Coming from an area of St. Louis dubbed affectionately by some as Mr. Rogers’s Neighborhood, where my idea of ethnic dining was a night at Taco Bell and of racial diversity was watching a movie on cable, the past five years I’ve lived in Rogers Park have been eye-opening, if nothing else.
As I sit out on my balcony tonight, with the official Independence Day festivities having long since wound down, the celebration in this hodgepodge community in the far northeastern reaches of the city is only getting started. Stepping one foot off the bus at my street tonight, the smell of fireworks and smoke flooded my nose. There’s been a near constant barrage of fireworks for the past four hours, finally dying down a bit in the past hour, now with only the occasional blast or sparkle. This is my first Fourth in Chicago, and never before have I seen such a steady stream of unsanctioned fireworks; it’s almost as if people in the community coordinated how they would time it to make sure the celebration run deep into the muggy summer night.
Tonight in Rogers Park is a true American celebration. How do you say “Happy Independence Day” in 80 different languages? If you listen closely, amid the rumbles and screeches of the fireworks, you may be able to pick up a few. It’s in the air tonight.
