My Kind of Town

Chicago is the city of 20,000 leagues under the C (C=construction) and I’ve played soccer in just about all of them.

Women’s leagues. Men’s leagues. Work leagues. Charity leagues. Gay leagues. Indoor leagues. Beach leagues. Let’s drink and have fun leagues. Win or go home extremely angry leagues. Bitch, you ain’t on the roster leagues. Where is the referee? leagues. Even out of my leagues. Name it, and I’m probably a substitute on at least six of them. It’s an awesome way to meet new people, and if you can actually put the ball in the back of the net, you’d be surprised how many hopefuls start asking for your digits. Or in my case, for money, as I’ve yet to pay my membership fees (>.<).

I started my career in intramural stardom back in college, recognized as that one loud chick at soccer meetups who harassed all the debutants and ball-hogs to GTFO. Through my commitment to mediocre pick-up, consistent presence at the local dive bar and having a cute/equally sporty blond roommate, I got to know the soccer community in and around Chicago pretty well. These connections, plus my unemployment status, have made me the perfect candidate to last minute sub for various teams. I’ve stepped onto the field without knowing a single other player but a competitive spirit plus a common love for sport and beer are enough for high fives and invitations to post-game outings. And that’s where I’ve found myself these past 6 weeks, playing games and celebrating from rooftop to rooftop, soaking in summertime Chi.

Ask anyone from, around, or currently in the city: there’s no better place to be than Chicago in the summer. When those first dandelions burst out from under the snow (around mid-may), it’s off with the NorthFace and hello crop tops. Drinks on the roof, on the terrace, along the river, at the festival… every square inch of this spankin’ city is a reason to celebrate. It’s like one giant block party and everyone’s wearing an “I’m proud to be from the Midwest” pin on their cubs t-shirt. It’s the best of both worlds, right? That small-town feel squeezed in between big freakin’ buildings. Go to any party and you’ll meet someone from a nearby suburb, someone from a nearby state, and some rando from New Jersey who you don’t really need to see again. We like our hip-hop, we dig our jazz, and if you’re country folk we got some overpriced cellars just for you and your white friends who own a boat. Happy hours. Whiskey flights. Honky tonk. Watch me whip. Concerts. Cook offs. God Bless Chicago, my home sweet home.


So here’s a little trivia for the beer pong break: in this same city last Labor Day weekend, 9 people were killed and 46 wounded in shootings. Most of the murders occurred in the south and west sides of Chicago, but one just a block away from my old hood, Evanston (which, like Chicago, is geographically segregated: walk a mile north from high crime rates and you’ll arrive to our beautiful ivy-glazed campus and its surrounding high class establishments). Chicago has now seen over 350 homicides in 2015, likely to exceed 500 by the end of the year. This is the same city, right? The one that I call home? (Technically I’m from the suburbs so if you want to dismiss this entire post then FINE. But good luck surviving without our ikea!).

Pride 2014

So is it fair to call Chicago “home” when the city I know only encompasses certain demographics, certain neighborhoods, certain colors? The Chicago I know is college educated, employed, often involved in charity work for great causes like autism, abandoned animals, cancer research. My Chicago hosts movie screenings, gay pride festivals, free trial yoga classes. My Chicago thinks it’s cute that I’m biracial, but basically white, and invites me after being away to come live in Lincoln Park or Wicker or the loop and enjoy all the wonderful things these neighborhoods have to offer.

This is my Chicago, one I am not ashamed of (actually proud of, I could say) but I know it is not HER Chicago, the mother of one of last weekends’ victims. Not HIS Chicago, a Lawndale resident who feels unsafe in his own city of black-on-black crime. Not THEIR Chicago, the gunshot wounded who walked by the wrong place at the wrong time. I don’t know their city, whether summertime feels anything like paradise, but we do call the same city home, and something about that irks me. In Paris the segregation pushes outward, into the suburbs, the crime rates rising the further out you go. Here it’s based on directions, S, W, ones that I’ve never set foot in. But I come across these heartbreaking stories of crime and death buried between concert schedules and pro-sports gossip and I wonder how many eyes in my bubble of the city actually read them. Ignorance is bliss, but it’ll lead to no progress. How can we, I, you, help Chicago? Maybe all lives will matter more if it wasn’t so easy to circle the ‘no go zones’ on a map. I haven’t the answers, any evidence besides what I’ve read, and with two weeks left I haven’t really the time, though perhaps that’s everyone’s excuse. But I love my Chicago, and I want to share it with the entire city. How can we get more people involved in our 20,000 leagues?

I’ve clearly digressed from my original thesis of “why sports leagues should require attractive men to give out their phone numbers” but I felt a bit ignorant for gloating about this city when my experiences only range between 10-15 neighborhoods out of what, 77? (and the more I dig, the more uninformed I feel). I wish I had more time to discover and learn but I'm taking off, so realistically I’ll only make time for discoveries of the tummy and tastebuds. Those are the best kinds of discoveries, after all. Exploring restaurants, bars, fests... might even be a great way for those staying or stopping by, to step out of your neighborhood, your bubble, and visit more of the 77 than I’ve been able to this summer. Just a thought.