This is America to me

On Chicago’s streets I saw a Jewish man on a Metra train, hunched over what appeared to be a prayer book, his lips silently moving, the words inscrutable to me.

I saw two young men, teenagers maybe, locked in a loving kiss on a street corner in the Loop. When the light turned green, they reluctantly parted.

In my office building, I saw two Muslim women descending on the escalator, their dark eyes luminescent beneath their hijabs, their dimples creased in laughter.

Later that day, I saw an albino bucket boy playing his bucket drums, but solemn between shows for the tourists, his pale blue eyes looking up to the sky.

I saw three young black women, their smiles knowing and sanguine.

By the Randolph Street Bridge, I saw one elderly man standing over another, pressing money into his palm. The homeless man croaked out his blessings in a deep baritone.

On Randolph Street a few days prior, a blues band of black and white men played a searing tune, its title just beyond reach, as passers-by lingered to listen. Some nodded to the thumping bass line, others held up their phones to record video they would later share. “I was here,” they might say. “I saw this.”

Above ground, the lights of the theater marquees twinkled in the dusk as commuters hustled home. For others, the day was just beginning. What beautiful sights to see in the city of Chicago. How lucky I was to see them.

This is America to me.

Greg Trotter is a reporter for the Chicago Tribune.