This Flaneur chapter is a narrative expansion on an early blog post poem tittled "Living in the Questions" :
Observing interactions, images, and impressions of the city often lead me to personal reflection. The more aware I became about my surroundings the more aware I became about myself. Aware of my privilege, my strengths, my weaknesses, my feeling of not belonging, and my ignorant-contentment. I have always been a quote on quote “people watcher”. In my home culture it is not considered rude to stare. However, my experiences in the city expanded my people watching skills into a posture of openness and curiosity. Curiosity that lead me to ask questions.
One of the first essay’s we read for class last semester was Flyvbjerg. His questions soon became my close companions, helping me frame how I saw, felt and understood the city. His questions of where are we going, who wins and who looses by what mechanisms of power, is this desirable, what should be done; helped me break up complex urban issues that I was observing in the city. These questions did not always lead me to concrete answers. More often then not they lead me to more questions. As I walked the streets of Chicago I could no longer do it in ignorance of the systems or infrastructure of the city. I was confronted by how my own personal narrative fit with the narrative of Chicago.
I remember the moment, when I was hit with the truth that I was a gentrifier. I had just returned from my morning volunteering at an Elementary School in Uptown. I skimmed my reading for class that day from “There Goes the Hood”. I was appalled by the process, the slow squeezing out of the poor, as a neighborhood became more “developed”. But for who? These words tasted sour in my mouth. The gentry is often characterized as brining social capital into a neighborhood. That was me. I brought capital with my middle-class income having the ability to spend and encourage rising housing market values. However, I also brought the capital of my own skills that served the neighborhood by volunteering at Stockton Elementary.
Before I arrived at Stockton for the first time, I spent the morning at a workshop at the Goodman Theatre with the Golden Apple teachers. The teachers had been voted by their students as the best Chicago Public School teachers. The Goodman staff taught them how to incorporate more creative practices in their class rooms. The last activity for the day included improving a school board meeting whose agenda was to create the perfect school. The teachers were each assigned a perspective to act; either a parent, teacher, student or administrator. The improved play revealed many of the education controversies and issues I had covered the week before in class including; monitory resources, union’s rights, bilingualism, and parent involvement. Leaving the workshop I felt inspired by the power these teachers possessed to enter into a complex system and do good.
After the workshop, I took the Clark bus to the Elementary school to check in with the principal because my application to volunteer had been approved. My sentiment and feeling I expereinced after the workshop drastically changed as I entered into the reality of urban public education. I swung open the door to be greeted with the sounds of screaming children, laughter, teachers yelling, tennis shoes scuffing the hallway, doors slamming, and papers shuffling. My body felt pressed in on all sides. I began to feel claustrophobic at the weight of each child's story that filled the halls. I walked into the school office. A long reception desk dived the room in half, behind it lay four desks. A larger, women with a kind, tired face sat at a desk in the middle of the room. I stood still not wanting to obstruct or be in the way. Teachers and students filed in and out, signing, posting, and handing in things. Then the kind women caught my wondering, confused eyes and asked how she could help me. I explained my situation and asked if the principal was available for me to meet. She replied simply that she was the principal, and how grateful she was that I would be volunteering. I was surprised by how accessible she allowed her self to be. We were not able to get through all the particulars of the volunteering process, before a teacher interrupted us holding the shoulder of a little Latino boy who did not look up as he kicked the floor. The principal’s attention was ripped from me as she began discussing the situation with the teacher and the boy. I stood still questioning why I was still there. I felt like running away however, the room’s heavy atmosphere had a grip on me. My gaze wandered around the office as I tried desperately not to over hear the conversation between the teacher and the principal. I saw the mock election poster on the wall, with Obama having over 95% of the students’ votes. I smiled. Then sneaking a peak back at the principal realizing I would not have her attention again, I slithered out of the building. Once I reached the familiar side walk, I breathed in deeply but not too deeply afraid I might cry.
Being an observer, a flaneur, had it’s consequences. By having an open posture to my environment, I was not able to edit or censor what impression or images I saw. Stories like the ones I have already shared continue to fill me. However, not always leaving me with a “full” feeling. The story of the three deaf, young people on the ‘L’, left me with a sense of wonder. Other stories that I experienced at the Elementary school left my stomach turning. Sometimes I could avert my eyes, but never could I fully cover my heart. Empathy can be an ally and a hinderance for a flaneur. It can lead to curiosity and question asking. However, empathy can also lead to pain when you are faced with the darker sides of urban life; hardships that are the result of poverty and/or racisms. As I observed these harsh urban realities Flyvberj’s question of who wins and who looses by what mechanisms of power revealed the gaps in society. The one kindergardener who is showered, dressed, and checked for lice by the school nurse each morning. She looses. A man gives up his seat for a pregnant women on the bus. She wins. I say “I’m sorry” to the woman with her whole life in a grocery kart, “I don’t have any change.” She looses. I could go on and on. The city, her stories are endless. The ones I collected are just a snap shot of the perspectives and view points that fill her architecture.
Flyvbjerg’s third and fourth questions ask is this desirable and what can be done? These questions force me to move out of a flaneur posture were I am only an observer and to enter into the action of the city. I observe where the city is going, who is loosing and winning, and I respond that poverty, displacement, and isolation are not desired. But what can I do? I find myself returning to my first flaneur “solo” experience; seeing for the first time the weight and density of the human experience in the city. The city reveals the complexities of this world; the joy and the brokenness of our society and culture. How do I live in this tension? The pull between Christ’s new earth coming and yet - not yet here. How do I find hope? These are the questions that I continue to wrestle with as I sit at Chava A Cafe processing my flaneur experiences. I write another prayer in my journal: ‘ “And the Spirit and the bride say, Come. And let him that is a thirst come ... Even so, come, Lord Jesus” (Revelations 22:17-20). But I your bride do not wait in vain. I will not cease to cry and to laugh. To do Your will. To bring Your shalom here in the city. Let me be as if Your right hand. Use me, use us, Your body as You make all things new. Keep me open to your will and in an open posture to Your city.’
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