In the Shadows of Giants

This is where I live, in the middle of the middle west. It’s flat, and that’s an understatement. You can see for miles, except near the small towns that pop up here and there and disrupt the planar vista. I grew up around these empty winter corn fields and have lived with them all my life—except for a three year stint in the state of Washington. It wasn’t until I left that I realized how much you can miss this vast emptiness. It becomes a presence in a way. A presence highlighted by the smell of dirt, grated up by steel rakes like dinosaurs’ claws. I missed the smell of dirt in the fall, mixed with the smell of dying leaves. It’s how I know when autumn has begun and when summer has ended. Pretty soon the ground will be covered with snow. It will whip across the plains with nothing to stop it. This too is part of my Chicago, something that is beyond the city but also an attitude that is in some way part of it. For what would Chicago be without a merciless winter? How different would its people be?

When I lived in Washington, I made a business trip back to the Midwest with some colleagues from Seattle. I took one of them on a tour through Iowa cornfields just like these, down the gravel roads that square off the miles of fields in the middle of the middle of nowhere. All she could say, as we drove along was, “You can see forever! There’s nothing to stop your view.” And you can see forever. It’s what makes the sunrises here so magnificent. In Washington the sun would rise over the mountains, but by the time it cleared the peaks, it was nothing more than a pale yellow ball, strobing through the dusty haze that hung over the high desert. Here, the first rays of all hues—striations of rich red, pale orange, faint yellow, and dusty lavender—proceed the sun, with nothing to stop them, except the clouds. No photograph can quite capture the floral brilliance that I see each day as I make my way to the train station in Elburn and begin the long commute into Chicago.

I’m sitting on the train. It’s raining. Cold. Water streams down across the window at maybe a 45 degree angle. It’s peaceful here, quiet in a way, loud in another. No one talks, but the car has its ambient noise: shuffled feet, a cough; sniffles, the rattle of a turned newspaper page. A computerized voice announces that the next stop will be Ogilvie Transportation Center. And then of course there’s the sound of the train itself, as it rolls toward downtown; you know, the familiar clack-clack of the steel wheels against the rails. The train sways slightly, switching from one track to the next, and here I sit in my accustomed seat, buffered from those around me, taking it all in. I’ve been riding the train into the “player with railroads” for three years, now. The view of the skyline through the window has become so familiar that I hardly pay attention any more. And yet the city is quite beautiful, when you get right down to it. Or maybe sublime is the right word.

On days like these, I’m reminded of a poem that I read as a sophomore in college, one that I absolutely hated:

Now from all Parts the swelling kennels flow, And bear their Trophies with them as they go: Filth of all hues and odours seem to tell What streets they sailed from, by the sight and smell.

When I first read it, I was shocked by the poem’s depiction of rain. To me, rain is beautiful and comforting. I’ve always loved the rain, especially during thunderstorms. But now I see that rain in the city is different from the country rain that I was so used to growing up. The city puts the guts in “gutter.”

Now I see the gritty floor of the train and through the windows, graffiti on the passing freight cars and on the buildings. Someone has sprayed the words “Dirty 30 Train Paintin’ Crew” on a railroad bridge and has followed it up with a gigantic D30 visible on a nearby building. The D30 was painted over Obama’s 2008 campaign symbol, a symbol that came to stand for hope for a small time.

I remember the day after the election, seeing people as they walked past, making their way through the city. Some seemed almost to glow with excitement and happiness. Across the street from Columbia College, where I work, Obama held his post-election rally in Grant Park, a historical celebration with historical implications. How much things have changed since then, a change for each of Obama’s new grey hairs, a change for each wrinkle at the corners of his smile that isn’t quite as easy as it used to be. His impish wit, now sharp with cynicism from a four-year tooth-and-nail battle and two wars and an economy mired in debt.

As I travel in, things get progressively more urban. Fewer fields, then fewer trees until it’s all concrete and aluminum, brick and mortar. And there in the distance you can see the skyline as it emerges against the horizon. Tall against the stark flatness that surrounds it. There is the Sears Tower and its little brother the Hancock Building. And the rest—a jagged parabola that coalesces in downtown, a literal Bell’s curve for human activity. From this angle, the city looks so tall. The buildings look intimidating. But here I am on the train, looking out at the approaching city. Now the United Center is on my right. Halsted Packing House on my left. And the buildings begin to block out the sky.

At the station, I smell, as I do most days, the sickly-sweet chocolate from Blommer’s Chocolate factory. Its rich scent is overpowering, and just after breakfast, not that appetizing. It mingles with the funk of sewer gas and diesel exhaust and clings to your nostrils. Last year the Chicago Tribune did a study at Ogilvie and came to the conclusion that passengers on the trains and entering the station were exposed to high levels of diesel soot. You can see it thickly billowing out of the engines in black sinking puffs, and I can almost taste it as I make my way to the exit amidst the crowded herd, queuing up to pass through the sets of revolving doors into the station. And then you’re in Ogilvie, walking past Garrett’s. Popcorn is popping. And it’s an entirely different smell. This is the beginning of my day. The city has inhaled me and will spew me back out at 5:00, spent a little, as it does with all of my fellow commuters.

Come and show me another city with lifted head singing so proud to be alive and coarse and strong and cunning. Flinging magnetic curses amid the toil of piling job on job, here is a tall bold slugger set vivid against the little soft cities —Carl Sandburg

The city throbs as it takes us all in, packed together on our walk to work, crammed into busses, stuffed into subway cars. Here we all are trudging through the city, breathing life into it and renewing it a little. Down at street level, I’m walking in the shadows of giants. The buildings loom over me, blocking out the light. When I think of Chicago compared to the other cities I’ve been to, this is the big difference. The buildings are so close together and so tall. Other downtowns don’t quite block the light in the same way. St. Louis and Portland—Dallas/Ft. Worth, even—are sprawling cities—with tall buildings, certainly—but buildings that are spread out, allowing light to filter down to the street. For this reason the streets in Chicago can feel closed in, claustrophobic at times, until you get out by the lake and the park, where the morning sunlight kisses your cheek.

There’s a spot on Wells and, say, Adams, where you’re walking under the El, and the street opens up into a small plaza. It feels like a secret garden. You have the trellis of the El going over and trees on one side—green in the summer but gray and skeletal now. The plaza has benches of granite where people can sit, with some small fountains in between. I like this spot because it’s open. It’s a place where nature has kept the encroachment of the city at bay, a citadel against rust and rubble. Here, Chicago feels less claustrophobic, and a weight seems to lift as I walk through on my way to work. The corner is beautiful, I think, in a way that is classically artistic, with brief vistas and contemporary ruins. Here, the city and nature converge: an AT&T store across the street; skinny elms and hostas through a winding path; a Dunkin Doughnuts too, I think; then finally the El overhead on one side and open above the trees. Green against a taupe and stone-white building. This was one of my favorite places, when I first started working downtown, and I would go out of my way to walk through that little block whenever the chance allowed.

Most mornings, despite the close buildings that block out the sun, I see people with sunglasses, walking through the shadows. I’ve tried it, but I find myself stumbling along in the dark. It’s then that I realized that these aren’t sunglasses, which are meant to shade the eyes from harmful UV Rays. Instead they’re people glasses, designed to shade the eyes from the unwanted intrusion of a casual glance. I know this because I know how comforting it is be behind my own, a pair of mirrored aviator shades. I know this because I have physically seen people flinch, when I meet their gaze on the street. As big as life, there it is, when I’d look directly at someone—an extended blink, a change in the angle of the head. And so people wear people glasses, a different type of shade, one of their own choosing.

*****

The lady at Starbucks who takes my order every day recognizes me. Orders my drink when I get there in the morning, and it strikes me that there are probably others out there who recognize me that I don’t recognize. People I walk past daily whose faces blur together with the crowd. There are a few people who I recognize, but that I have no idea if they would recognize me: Mr. Leather Jacket from the train, Tall guy and his wife, etc. I see them daily, recognize them but have no idea who they are.

It’s raining again today on my walk to work, a quiet, constant drip that pops against my green umbrella. I’m huddled under it, eyes searching for puddles, navigating toward awnings and vestibules as I pick my route. Despite my efforts, water still soaks up through my shoes, and I’m drenched below the knees. Even though I have an umbrella, I’m still getting the occasional drop that runs down my neck. And yet, it’s pleasant somehow to be walking in the rain. Things seem muted. The streets are less crowded, and really all that worries me is being drenched at work. The rain is a bit of a baptism for the city, I think, a fresh beginning, a cleansing. It makes things more human somehow. A man in front of me drops his lunch. An orange rolls past his foot. I consider helping him pick it up, but he’s got it before I reach him. My Chicago consists of these little moments—the almost interactions with others that make up so much of my day. Public anonymity. I think that’s the best way to think about it. Here’s a place where we spend so much time around other people. How much time do we really spend interacting, though? And why do we avoid it? Well, I avoid it because it’s so difficult to choose who you want to interact with. So best avoid everyone. Because the people you wouldn’t mind saying hi to and striking up a conversation with aren’t the same people who actually do try to strike up a conversation with you.

I see Flirty McGreenPeace again, for instance. She’s standing at the street corner in a bright green construction vest, with reflective strips on it. She’s flipping her hair and flashing a smile at some random guy who she hopes will sign up to donate money. This is one of those people whose interaction I want to avoid because she wants something from whomever she engages. A flashy smile and a gimmicky line—a pickup line almost—to get you to spend some time listening to what’s essentially a sales pitch. She’s hitting on the guy so hard that it’s like watching a slow-motion pee-pee dance. First one leg goes up then the other. Head tilted this way then that. This I don’t need. So eyes down, glance averted. Cross the street, maybe. Avoid that corner in the future, just so I don’t have to put up with it day in and day out. But this type of contact is the most common on my walk to and from work. Like the guy who stops you with some story about how he’s stuck in Chicago and needs bus fare (or train fare depending on where he stops you) to get back to Milwaukee. After the second time he asked me, I don’t even look up any more when he tries to get my attention. And then there’s the police report I saw where some Columbia College student fell for a con. Some couple gave him a check for $500 in exchange for $100 because, “We really need the money and we don’t have a bank account and we’re in a hurry so we’ll just trade you.” The check was a forgery, of course. Thus the ubiquitous fuck off looks and the people shades on the jaded commuters, because if you don’t know the person already, then there’s a chance that they want something from you. Despite all of this, the need to connect with others still draws on you. This too is Chicago.

The lady at Starbucks is named Sandra, I’ve learned. And she now knows my name too. The other day, we ran into each other on the street. We just said hi, but I think with a casual acquaintance like this, it’s a big deal to even acknowledge one another in such a city. It was by the Sears Tower, the cold wind shear beating against me on my walk back to the train station. Snow was just beginning to fall in pinpoint-sized flakes, appearing seemingly for the first time only 10 feet above me. Beyond that, the black building jutted up into the gray sky—rending the clouds, anchoring the firmament, literally towering over me. Head bowed, I got that feeling you get when someone is looking at you. I looked up to see a smile—a rare sight, to be sure—and a face I recognized. A smile of recognition and a quick hello was enough to cement our friendship, I think.

Now we talk a bit, when I see her at Starbucks. Smalltalk stuff, mostly. Daily pleasantries about weekends and holiday plans. But it’s enough to leave me with a smile that lasts through the revolving door out onto State Street. From there, the twinkling holiday lights and the Christmas Carols are enough to keep my mood cheery for the last four blocks to work.