My husband’s cousins came over to get some Italian Beef meat we brought back from Chicago. We had frozen it for them. They stayed for hours, most of the time comprised of us sitting around the table catching up. Although we have been married for almost 14 years, there are still family members of his I am meeting for the first time.
“So you’re from Chicago too?”
“Yes. I grew up in Robert Taylor…”
His wife, the cousin, tilted her head, her eyes widening, “Really?”
“You know how to fight then huh?” The husband says, shaking up with my husband, “You gotta know how to fight growing up in Robert Taylor!”
I laugh with them, but my spirit settles into uneasiness. I don’t want to talk about me anymore. We changed the subject.
People are baffled to discover I grew up in Robert Taylor, and they don’t know what to say. Even those who try to form words still end up saying something that sounds like “sorry.” They look into my eyes as if they can see what I see. They want to know how someone as educated and “put together” as myself grew up in the place their mothers have warned them to stay away from.
But, we were not aliens living on a different planet. We were people, Black people, and where there are Black people, there is joy to be found somewhere. When the first of the month hit, we took advantage of the glints of light that seeped in to offer a reprieve to our distress.
Women sat on the porch laughing and gossiping as their sheets dried on the gates, and children ran back and forth, bellies full of food and hope.
The men and hustlers brought out tables and chairs they carried downstairs to play spades in front of the building. You couldn’t tell them they weren’t sitting on their own front porch instead of in front of a 16-story government building. They talked smack and poured out liquor for the homies they lost.
As for music, it was our salve and savior.
We left our doors and windows open so that the music from the stereo could scream and echo throughout the building. Nobody protested when someone’s entire door was open, and music was blasting. We sang along to Whitney Houston, Mary J Blige, Tupac, Biggie, Queen Latifah, MC Lyte, and many more, grateful for the opportunity to hear these songs while they were young.
Music transformed our pain into power. It didn’t feel like we lived in the ghetto when cousin Rachel blasted The Fugees from her speakers. It simply felt like home.
Where despair tried to rob us of joy, creativity flourished, and we created our own fun, and I think it’s important to talk about this light, too. It wasn’t all gangs, crack addicts, and shootouts.
Joy lived here too.
The PBS Blog 