A Flaneur; an observer, a stroller, an urban explorer Part Two

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.’ 

A Flaneur; an observer, a stroller, an urban explorer

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.