Down in the Port

Last weekend I rode my bike down to Bridgeport for a friend's barbecue.



I haven't spent a lot of time around the Port, except to go to White Sox games. The summer before last I walked from the Red Line to Back of the Yards with my camera, and mostly got dirty looks from everyone all the way to the stockyards. When I was living in Pullman, I heard stories about the Chicago police dropping black guys off down there when they decided they couldn't get anything more out of them. And I've known a few operatives that rented down that way; it seems like there's something about being down there that matters to a fledgling career as a hired gun in Chicago politics. So that's pretty much my impression of the area.

It wasn't until I wrote a piece for Lumpen a few months ago and wound up at the Co-Prosperity Sphere, that I got a good look at the other side of Bridgeport. I've always thought of that neighborhood as this lily white area full of Irish motherfuckers. Which is only partially true. The rest of the neighborhood is Mexicans, Chinese, and what I've heard called "Mutants" - a shockingly true description of who hangs out in the street down there. Oddly enough Chris lives right around the corner, having just recently moved down around 32nd and Morgan. I go visit him sometimes; we mostly sit on his porch and drink beer.

So last week I'm riding down Halsted, and I hook a right on 32nd Street. It's dark out - the sun had gone down a while back, and Chris sent me a text message while I was at Chuck's, and I was headed over for more booze.

As I roll down 32nd, the street narrows, and the houses loom over me in the dark. Kids playing in the street, moms on the porch. I close my eyes, and for a minute, just one small moment, I'm back in Mexico City, sitting on a bench and watching dirty faced kids play soccer.

The name of the city is different, but the feelings are the same, I guess.