I could see the sparkle of the water long before I pedaled up to the concrete underpass with the confirming inscription. The interlocking steel barriers were gone, but still, I glanced around to be sure I wasn't imagining it, that the beautiful shoreline I had fallen in love with 36 summers ago was again open for business.
These days, I head south, a choice that might have seemed unthinkable to me years ago, when I first settled into life as a north-sider, and then migrated to the northern suburbs. As progressive a city as Chicago is, there is an invisible but overt north south segregation.
Yes, the city is diverse, and the streets, to the north anyway, are a mosaic of color and foreign tongues. But on the south side, just south of where Soldier Field and football bring Cubs fans and Sox fans together for a brief season of unity, the whites are few and far between, tucked away in insulated pockets amidst large neighborhoods where many of Chicago's black lives are lived.
Even in non-pandemic times, the south lakefront has little in common with its northern counterpart. It is largely unvisited by tourists, and its running and bike paths are relatively uncongested. There are spectacular views of the city, but little sense of its bustle or its commerce or its tourism. Instead, there is a pristine shoreline and broad swaths of prairie grass. At least I assume it's prairie grass, knowing as little as I do about gardening and botany. What I do know is it is beautiful in its wildness, its irregularity, its splotches of random color. But still, as I said, it's where the black lives are lived, too close for comfort, to many of us.
I confess to my ignorance. I had seen "Juneteenth" on my Google calendar for years, but I never wondered for more than a fleeting instant what it was. I don't remember anybody mentioning it, and I never bothered to ask. I never knew Fort Bragg was named for a Confederate general, I never knew the Mississippi flag included the Confederate battle flag, I never knew that slaves in Texas remained enslaved for two years after emancipation. I knew Aunt Jemima had racist connotations, but I never spent much time wondering why the syrup still bore the offensive picture.
Since I moved back downtown last spring, I have biked all over my second city, the city I fell in love with so many years ago. It is progressive and smart, my adopted hometown. Almost everybody is wearing a mask, or at least has one close at hand. We smile at each other -- as best as we can -- with our eyes as we give each other wide berth on the sidewalks. The rules are enforced with signs that are both gentle and firm, and we comply without much complaint. We have collectively applauded the protests, we have collectively mourned the devastation done by the looters, and we watch, with hope, as the plywood boards covering so many of the storefronts are painted with colorful messages of peace, love, and understanding. Still, we shy away from the parts of the city where black lives are lived, where Covid-19 has selected so many victims, which makes me wonder how much those lives can really matter, even to those of us who like to think we have always done the right thing.
I am reluctant to share the secret of the southern lakefront, uncrowded, peaceful, unspoiled by curiosity seekers. But, against my own self interest, might I recommend a spin through the prairie grasses, maybe even a detour into the majestic patchwork of neighborhoods south of our imaginary but insidious dividing line. We already share a lake; it's time to share the experience.
