Look Deeper into the Well
Peeking behind the curtain reveals a black and white scenario of Chicago, quite literally. An African american woman named Tonika Johnson created a project called Folded Map; a massive map of Chicago. This was her action to give people insight on how people can have the same exact address but either live on the North side or the South side. It is apparent that resources distributed to Chicagoans are unequal, as the neighborhoods are more intact on the North side than the South side. Those people of opposite addresses were brought together to expose our city of its segregation.
I have a painting that depicts one of the turning points in my life. Each house I have lived in represents a different stage of my mind and my personal growth. This place was the first one I moved into after my parent's separation. It was unique, since the house was pink. Gazing into the full moon or heavy clouds during winter mornings was my solitude:
The author Carl Sandburg once wrote a poem personifying a our city as a young man with a lot of potential. I wrote an adaption about my own experience in Chicago, inspired by the structure of his words:
Logan Square and Beyond
'Tis the Latino Ridden Region
Redbox peliculas, Shiny haired beauties, Hot Cheeto Breath
The holder of Landerias and the Tongue of Mexican Spanish,
Bachata bass booming, Graceful hips grooving,
Reigner of Nocturnal Celebrations:
I know the kinship behind quinceaneras with the damas and caballeros,
Our passionate hearts beating together past midnight.
I know the nostalgic jingle of the paleterias during hot summer hours,
Fresca or Coconut ice cream dripping down my chin.
I know the cramped apartments and religious essence,
The Guadalupe jewellery adorning necks since kindergarten.
To be a slave, or to not be a slave.
We are reminded of this by the marijuana smoke and That graduated student who got Killed by That gang This many days ago.
We are reminded by the brief unsettlement felt when we hear, was that what I thought it was, Fireworks? I hope so.
Reminded when that whistle, that predatory gaze from across the street was meant for your female body.
Reminded by the dollar sign, a symbol that keeps us all strapped down and tamed.
Yet in spirit we are no slaves, despite the starless sky between the suns.
Starless because some know this is as good as life will get:
Freedom to roam the tinted city sidewalks, spitting into the grass, fingertips greasy from
Fries, Tamarindo. Salty, Sweet; satisfaction.
Scuffed vans, converse, jordans thumping on the park mud, on the basketball court.
Parties parties parties. Minorities minorities minorities.
We work with what we got:
Puerto-Rican paint on half naked bodies,
Blasted R&B playlists leaving echos at night,
Goofing,
Dancing,
Cursing,
Kissing,
Under the sun, heat in our mouths, singing with nonsense hoping it makes sense
Under the weight of the future, crushing our young shoulders,
Top Murder Capital in the Country.
Who’s next?
Still we go, pride filled spirits screaming out of the roofs of cars, still we go,
Tongues of Spanish billowing with stories, still we go, spice and dirt underneath our nails, still we go,
Bachata Bass booming, Graceful Hips grooving,
Musky air Fuming,
Abuelita’s hand Soothing.
I have a painting that depicts one of the turning points in my life. Each house I have lived in represents a different stage of my mind and my personal growth. This place was the first one I moved into after my parent's separation. It was unique, since the house was pink. Gazing into the full moon or heavy clouds during winter mornings was my solitude:
The author Carl Sandburg once wrote a poem personifying a our city as a young man with a lot of potential. I wrote an adaption about my own experience in Chicago, inspired by the structure of his words:
Logan Square and Beyond
'Tis the Latino Ridden Region
Redbox peliculas, Shiny haired beauties, Hot Cheeto Breath
The holder of Landerias and the Tongue of Mexican Spanish,
Bachata bass booming, Graceful hips grooving,
Reigner of Nocturnal Celebrations:
I know the kinship behind quinceaneras with the damas and caballeros,
Our passionate hearts beating together past midnight.
I know the nostalgic jingle of the paleterias during hot summer hours,
Fresca or Coconut ice cream dripping down my chin.
I know the cramped apartments and religious essence,
The Guadalupe jewellery adorning necks since kindergarten.
To be a slave, or to not be a slave.
We are reminded of this by the marijuana smoke and That graduated student who got Killed by That gang This many days ago.
We are reminded by the brief unsettlement felt when we hear, was that what I thought it was, Fireworks? I hope so.
Reminded when that whistle, that predatory gaze from across the street was meant for your female body.
Reminded by the dollar sign, a symbol that keeps us all strapped down and tamed.
Yet in spirit we are no slaves, despite the starless sky between the suns.
Starless because some know this is as good as life will get:
Freedom to roam the tinted city sidewalks, spitting into the grass, fingertips greasy from
Fries, Tamarindo. Salty, Sweet; satisfaction.
Scuffed vans, converse, jordans thumping on the park mud, on the basketball court.
Parties parties parties. Minorities minorities minorities.
We work with what we got:
Puerto-Rican paint on half naked bodies,
Blasted R&B playlists leaving echos at night,
Goofing,
Dancing,
Cursing,
Kissing,
Under the sun, heat in our mouths, singing with nonsense hoping it makes sense
Under the weight of the future, crushing our young shoulders,
Top Murder Capital in the Country.
Who’s next?
Still we go, pride filled spirits screaming out of the roofs of cars, still we go,
Tongues of Spanish billowing with stories, still we go, spice and dirt underneath our nails, still we go,
Bachata Bass booming, Graceful Hips grooving,
Musky air Fuming,
Abuelita’s hand Soothing.
I gained a deeper perspective of the conflict within our city, and gained more detail on how one can fix it from the inside. Now when I travel within Chicago, this exhibit will always be in my subconscious.
Sandburg, Carl. “Chicago by Carl Sandburg.” Poetry Foundation, Poetry Foundation, www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/12840/chicago.
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