This is part one of a series of Flaneur images and impressions I collected living in Chicago:
I am sitting in Chava A cafe in Uptown. Strange to think this was my home just a few months ago. It feels very far away now. However, images, questions and other thoughts remain. I am so grateful for my experience. It transformed the way I see, look and understand my environment. Today I am visiting my old neighborhood, enjoying a strong cup of coffee at my favorite spot. How do I describe the intersection of Leland and Clark were this cafe rests? To begin with, it is a cafe more resembling a yogurt shop with bright orange stripes streaked down the walls. The cafe sits across from El Rancho mexican grill and a few shops north of Thai Uptown. A wholesale fashion store with bars on the windows can be seen from my view. The 22 Clark bus, two links long, drives by when my eyes wander to the window. I begin to be flooded with the images and impressions of my semester in Chicago. Each story I possessed as a flaneur, moving through Chicago as an observer, reflecting on the nature of the city and her people.
My first steps on this block was the last day of Wheaton in Chicago orientation. We were instructed to embark on a solo experience. It is funny and odd to me now that it was called a “solo”. In truth when we embarked on our excursion in the neighborhood we were with other people. We were surrounded by the city. I ask myself was I really alone? In a way yes. I was not with any other Wheaton in chicago students. I embarked on this journey with out any one I knew. I walked in the neighborhood as an observer, apart and distinct, with no goal as to were I should go only to open myself up to this new world.
I remember deciding to go east on Wilson, a direction I had never been before. I felt very out of place and uncomfortable; not knowing where I would end up or whom I would encounter. I eventually made my way to a dinner, ordered a very bad cup of coffee, and sat for two hours. I watched from a dirty booth as each customer came through the door. There was a mixed-race couple who sat across from each other smiling as they each stretched out a hand to hold the others. There was a man in a wheel chair who waited patiently for the waiter to come open the door for him. There was an elderly woman with wrinkled eyes and mouth, whose brimmed straw hat tilted over her face with each spoonful of soup. Behind me sat a man who recounted how he was hit by a car early that month. The waiter seemed to have a relationship with this broken man; asking him questions and listening to his stories.
I left my solo experience heavy and weighted with each encounter. I wrote in my journal the following: “Dear God, what does it mean for me to be a neighbor to my neighbors? Lord, may you give me your heart in small measures, only what I am able to bear? I’m afraid to care to much. How can I start with the small stuff?” My experience had left me shaken. As I began to be confronted with the harsh realities of urban life, I asked God not to harden my heart; to keep me open and receptive. The solo exercise set me in a flaneur posture. This became a model for me through out the semester. An open posture to observe and take in my environment, including the architecture and the people that fill it.
Another flaneur moment occurred mid-way through the semester on the redline. This story captivated me because it revealed the very human-side of the city. It displayed her relationships, communities, how we identify and relate to one another.
I walked into the L and sat on the bench. I noticed a young, attractive caucasian male through the window. He entered into the train car and bumped into another woman. Rudely, he gestured with his thumb for her to go ahead of him. I remarked to myself that this young man who I thought was so beautiful, was actually rather ugly in his nature. Why did he not at least acknowledge his mistake and utter a “Sorry, after you.” He came and sat down on the bench perpendicular to mine. He fidgeted, as he’s head turned to scan the train. As he looked over he’s shoulder towards two o’clock he must have found whom he was looking for. He began violently wavering his right hand. My eye finally caught on to whom he was trying to connect with, a young African American man with short bouncing dreads. When the African American man recognized him, he responded by gesturing his hands. The Caucasian man gestured back. And the tension in my jar released when I realized that this dance of gestures was a conversation. I felt remorse when I thought of how harshly I had judged this young man for not speaking to the women he had bumped into. I could not be consumed with guilt for long, because soon I was captured by the beauty of the silent conversation that occurred before me. Their faces lit up with excitement when their point was made. Their brows wrinkled with frustration at the other’s comeback. A hard guttural laughter filled out of one of the young man’s mouth. Just then the conversation expanded to include a young Latina girl seating next to the African American man. Her sarcasm was present on the smirk on her face as she waved her hand to get the boys’ attention. Mocking them she played with there affections as her hands danced through the motions of her story.
I could not take my eyes of this unlikely threesome, and yet felt bashful for how I stared. They were beautiful, confident, and expressive. I remember the wholeness feeling swelling in me. As if a little voice saying, yes this is how it should be. Each young person had very different ethnic backgrounds, however they were united through the art of an unspoken language.
Weeks later as I walked down Belmont on a rainy evening after work, I looked into the window of a Starbucks. Sitted across from each other on a small square table were the two young men from the ‘L’. One listened with his eyes as the other gestured to him. I was surprised to see them again, for it was rare and precious when characters in the city appeared twice to me.
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