Chicago Underground

"Hope" is the thing with feathers—
That perches in the soul—
And sings the tune without the words—
And never stops—at all—
—Emily Dickinson


On an urban letterboxing quest, we descend to the netherworld of Lower Wacker Drive. As Pico, D and I pass the burnt shelters, cordoned off by police tape and impassively guarded by a watcher clad in an unlikely sunshine yellow, I wonder what brought the residents to form such a community in a public walkway. I wonder about the man who stores his much-used, well-loved bible in the pillar supporting the world above. Towns spring up and are continually rebuilt on flood plains or in tornado alleys. The sense of place must exert a powerful shaping influence on our souls. Places I have lived haunt my dreams, making up the mysterious architecture of my subconsciousness. Do those who lived in these flimsy boxes, now lying in ashes, dream of the community they so bravely built?

If history is any guide, under the feet of tourists and workers they will build again. Since the 1930s, the homeless have exerted their resourcefulness and resilience—despite fires, despite floods, despite police actions to remove them—and built shelters on Lower Wacker Drive. Chicagoans are tenacious, industriously squatting, or building or rebuilding in the same spots.

On this day we not only see the remains of a squatter's village, we journey to Chicago's far south side, through the modest neighborhoods lining South Shore Drive. I smile at the pink and white Rose of Sharon blossoms; the copious flowers cheer a bleak area. Some far-seeing gardeners have planted these bushes, knowing the flowers will gladden the hearts of their neighbors and visitors to their community.

Heading north again, we see the renaissance of Chicago's Prairie District. The last time I was here, rubble was its dominant feature. Now the neighborhood is vibrant. Children, smelling of sunscreen, chase bunnies through a park bedecked with whimsical birdhouses. The breeze caresses us as we refresh ourselves at the outdoor cafe beside the Glessner and the Clarke Houses that have been restored to remind us of our history. New homes have been built. Industrial factories and warehouses have been reclaimed as elegant hardwood floored, brick walled and wooden beamed apartments.

What causes us to rehabilitate our homes, to redefine our old buildings or public spaces, to remake a wasteland into a beautiful park where we can meet our neighbors? What force fosters our attachment, despite repeated decimation, to a place we have learned to call ours? Why do we plant gardens in the face of a gritty city? Why do we tuck away a bible in a place of squalor?