‘Chiraq’ is the wrong name for the city I know

Life was less about the accumulation of things. And growing old was everyone’s destiny.

This is the last in an occasional series titled “Chiraq.”

Farewell to Chiraq. I never loved you.

You are not my city. Never my kind of town. Not the one I was born in. Not the one I remember growing up as a little boy.

I remember Chicago. . . . That glistening city where a winter’s wind on bitter-cold days licked that frozen lake, frosting everything in its path, turning even mustaches into white ice. And yet, everything still felt just right. Chicago. Where men on my side of town during the most unforgiving winter nights disconnected their car batteries and brought them inside. Chicago. Where even on the coldest of nights and the darkest of days we still knew that the children could eventually come outside to play.

Chicago— bright and also gritty. City of hopes and dreams.

Where a man with no education, but with a strong will, strong arms and a strong back could find his way. And a family could pinch and save to their slice of the American dream.

And though you were poor, you were rich— as the scent of chicken and dressing and sweet potato pie and cakes and the sounds of laughter and loved ones made life here full, whole, complete, even if life here wasn’t always fair.

In my Chicago, little boys climbed high in Old Man Newell’s sprawling, emerald apple tree. And apples rained from marshmallow-clouded, blue skies and neighbors gathered them for treats and pies.

The streets were cordoned off for our annual block club party. And my friend Elvis’ oldest brother Willie grinned and twirled his drumsticks as his band played. And we all danced in summerdrenched delight. And everything was all right.

White smoke rose from the barbecue grill. The Kool-Aid tasted like sunshine. And there were no worries about bullets flying, or murderous plots by armed young thugs, no drive-bys. No Chiraq.

In my Chicago, I remember the fires of ’68, the orange glow against a purplish night sky as I watched from our third-floor apartment window: the crashing of glass, the sirens, the smoke, the death of hope.

The National Guard rolling down Pulaski Road at 16th Street by morning’s light. The loss. The blight.

And yet, no matter how bleak, there always seemed some degree of sanity back then. A threshold that had not been crossed back when we were clearer about who we were and who we might someday be. Life was less about the accumulation of things. And growing old was everyone’s destiny. Back when we could see the value of family, community, of being neighborly.

In my Chicago, sometimes we sat on our front porch, dreaming under a starry sky with no fear of dying and no mother’s crying from news of slain daughters or sons. No pools of blood that run. No incessant thunder of guns.

It is a reminder for me that the state of killing and chaos from which “Chiraq” was derived— half Chicago, half war-torn Iraq — doesn’t have to be. A reminder — even in an imperfect world amid memories of an imperfect past— of what once was and also of future possibilities.

A reminder of the power to speak into being those things that are not as though they were. Power to change the state of our minds. To shift the paradigm, to chart a new course, to make this world a better place— one act, one hope, one word at a time.

So farewell “Chiraq.” I never loved you.

I was born here, bred here, nurtured and fed here, right here. In the city I love: Chicago.