A VIEW FROM THE CHEAP SEATS
By Rich Trzupek
South Side Diary
Railroad tracks teach you patience. There�s no way to get in or out of Hegewisch�save a helicopter�without crossing a set. Inevitably, a tired freight train will inch by at the very moment that you desperately need to enter or exit. So you learn patience. Either that, or your head explodes.
The mills teach you gratitude. Most everyone works there, transforming rock into metal with the dubious aid of hellfire. You see the workers return, day after day, dusty, sweaty and tired. You tread lightly at home, never knowing what shift dad may have pulled the previous day, knowing he needs his sleep. And whatever you have, you feel lucky to have it, for you�re not there�not yet�laboring in the inferno to feed your family.
The streets teach you to be skeptical. the streets are full of posers, wanna-be�s and puffed-up never weres. At some point you realize that the streets are small and that commanding a corner doesn�t measure up against impacting a life. At some point you conclude that the people who attach the most to their position are the least important of all.
The cops? The cops are a dose of reality�both unwelcome and appreciated by the thieves and rougues of your youth. The cops deal with the real bad-asses�dangerous, psychopathic and blood-thirsty. They snicker at the punks and, if you happen to be a punk, that�s terribly deflating. But it�s eventually sobering, in a good way. Once you realize that you�re not really good at being bad, you can get on with the rest of your life.
The bars are life. They�re on the corners, run by women named Wanda with beehive hair-dos and guys named Joe who shuffle through forgetful lives after their stint in the Marines, but can still spout a gem of incomparable wisdom. They�re smokey, loud and the jukebox is a battleground. Sinatra is a staple. REO Speedwagon is loved and hated. Head-bangers and rappers fight for control, and sometimes they win.
Patrons may be forlorn, defeated� biding their time till their livers thankfully surrender for the inevitable. They might be celebrating another thread in life�s tapestry, having woven in a day of work, love, friends and family before they stop by to add an exclamation point. They may be looking for answers or opportunities. They may despair of ever finding either. The corner bar is a rallying point, for all of our ills and all of our triumphs. And they teach you that both matter.
You learn that race and creed matters for everything and that it doesn�t make any difference at all.
Everyone talks about it. No matter how politically incorrect, nobody can make enough jokes about how different we are. Whomever �they� happen to be, they are terribly funny.
Which leads you to the obvious conclusion: �they� are everybody. Dividing up the world doesn�t matter much when every division has the same objective: to make fun of, or step over, whomever the opposition is deemed to be. Neither jerks nor heroes, you realize, belong to a club. Every picture is unique and all attempts to create a group portrait is pointless, if amusing.
The streets are not paved with gold. They�re paved with the bodies and souls of everyone that has proceeded you. They�re built on a foundation that is generations deep, from the first immigrants who carved a new life out of this land, through the parents who reached just a little farther, through the latest generation who shoot for the stars. Walking down those streets, you realize, you�re walking on hallowed ground.
It�s built upon the dust of the mills, the dreams of immigrants and the sweat of the parents. None of them planned it. No one realized what the result would be. But here you are, in the middle of history, with the most precious and quiet gifts that history could design.
That�s the south side. But it�s probably north side too, and the west side and the �burbs and the farms. It�s life. And, as you reflect on the journey and the gifts you have been given, you feel blessed to have been so fortunate.
