Cliff the street poet
“Those are not gun shots”
“…What?”
“Those are fireworks”
And so my fear was revealed to me.
My universal trust in safety acted like a double paned window to a storm; the colors and muted sounds permeate, but the storm is no longer real. At times I step out onto a porch to experience the force of nature, a testament to the layers of personal protection afforded us by years and years out of the weather and without hunger. Dry towels and tea await my back turned to the unknown.
I had stopped in my steps to look in the direction of the sound.
“Just stupid kids playing with fireworks, they would not think it is so funny if they were dipped in gasoline.” Cliff was assuaging my fears as well as venting his qualms.
The streets of Chicago do well to give space to the pedestrian. I felt comfortable and stimulated, unlike New York where one has to pay for comfort and stimuli.
Day 3 in my Chicago visit, I was returning from Filet Minion and a tour of the city, navigating my way by a business card sized map of the El train. Locals know that the buses are the way to bridge the gaps between you and the nearest stop of the Blue line or the red line. I had none of the savvy of a local. I having been in Chicago only once before in my 14th year and spending much of it reading fantasy novels. As well the preceding 2 days were a whirlwind of people I adore, dancing, and a roman candle war in the wee hours of a night full of riding a piñata and playing the make-the-straw-disappear game so I had little working knowledge of the city as a whole much less the inner workings of the bus system.
In my venture towards the Blue line-off which my gracious host Ruby lived-I was taken out of the streets demurred by the grandeur of the buildings showing the triumph of man and the price of progress. I was taken by fire stations and street side cafes by residential blocks and now by subsidized housing. One can always tell a ‘project’ house from a place where people opt to live by the architecture. The building is made to impose its self on the inhabitants and leave nothing left to pull off or dirty. Every brick suggests lethargy, not by the people living there, but by the burocraticaly imposed aesthetic of Big Brother.
Nothing of the place says ‘home’ or ‘take pride in yourself because we do too’ but rather it hints at “here you are, the next generation of Native Americans. And we are so bountiful as to grant you space to continue to live as you were.”
Where “as you were” is really “as we want you” which in this case is out of sight and out of mind, perpetuating an extrinsically imposed stereotype.
Manifest Destiny is still only for the wealthy.
I felt the space in my periphery. I didn’t need to venture a glance to see past the fences to the solid doors or the barred windows used functionally as a drying rack. I was on a mission to get back to my makeshift bed and belongings to recuperate before the evening’s dancing-my purpose for the visit quickly fading behind the wonder of the people and the events of a city teeming with life and eager to share.
Past this brick hive, a hive where there is no queen just the hint that there should be.
The inhabitants wait…
she will come and…
Time passes.
With it the certainty of a queen emerging to aid her hive to its purpose fades.
What is left is a decision.
A decision between hard work and subsidy to now fill the void, where promise has left its lie as a child.
Out of this building walked Cliff.
I felt him.
I could feel his presence.
The building, up and imposing its self on my right, spit out a human.
For the first time in recent memory I was producing endorphins, mentally flipping the fight or flight coin. I chose flight which decorum suggests is merely a quickening of ones steps, so as not to expose weakness as well as to not offend your would-be attacker. Strange world we live in.
His voice: “…not gun shots.”
One block of a quickened pace and I was stopped by reports and movement through the trees. My heightened senses and frightened mind jumped to the worst possible scenario. As I was looking to the right my fear came on the left and made sure that I was not afraid. Made sure that I knew that his neighborhood was not inwardly what it presented its self as outwardly.
No longer as sure of which side was up, I asked him if he knew the direction to the Blue line. He mumbled assent and pointed in the direction he was going and said that he would be passing it.
He was a pure personification of energy. His muscles showed through his clothes, his height was proportional to his figure, and his amber eyes preceded his black skin and stunned his prey. I could point in his direction with my eyes closed, so strong was his projection of emotion. His hands only once left his pockets, at the perfunctory hand shake during the exchange of names 4 more block down the road.
His palms were sweaty.
For no reason, two people from different vectors converge for 6 blocks and their lives become linked.
His life had just turned on him.
His wife had just kicked him out of the house. The energy that he was producing was his emotions battling in himself.
He is a poet, a street poet.
He informed me that there was no money in street poetry, only rap songs, but he remained strong to his art. Doing my best to be worthy of his confessions I made conversation.
“Do you have any children?”
“9”
“…”
“Two before my wife with a different woman, my wife had five when I married her, and we have two together.”
He offered me a poem in exchange for money. I had none. He gave me the poem anyway. A series of rhyming couplets. Couplets that described children. Innocent until proven trapped, trapped by situation.
He told me never to marry a woman with children. Not because that was the problem with their relationship but because:
“They become your children. And there is nothing that you won’t do for them.” Trapped to a woman and in a time and situation because there is nothing that you won’t do for your children.
Cliff the street poet had miles to walk that evening. Miles to his sister’s house where he would regroup and the life of a father would continue and the life of a husband may die.
At the subterranean entrance to the public transit I clasped his shoulder in an act of solidarity and said words that come so easily to every one, yet I meant them. Good luck. He walked away heavy hands in his pockets with out raising his head from the gum stained side walk.
