“Your English is really good,” said the umpteenth Uber driver. Ja, well, I was born here.
Being in Chicago always results in a lot of flashes for me. Memories of my grandparents’ house on the south side, geraniums on the front porch, the bay windows with leaded glass panes, the clematis vines over the archway to the garage. All the street names have specific associations, whether Oak Street or Wabash or Ridgeway or Milwaukee or Michigan Ave or Lawndale or Pulaski or Kedzie. I remember neighborhoods and stories, some of them mine and some of them heard about so often that they could be mine.
While wandering along the river in the unseasonably warm sun, my husband asked me, “Do you feel at home here?” Ah, the question. The one I can never answer.
After spending more than half our lives together, I think he knows me more than anyone else does– so why on earth does he ask this question? And why now? I sighed.
I don’t know. There is a lot about Chicago that is familiar to me on a subconscious level. I understand the shapes of things, the people, how everything fits together here. But I could say this about a lot of places that have just settled into my bloodstream over the years. Some understandings are born of experience, some are just there.
This is hardly our first visit to Chicago together. The first post-Covid, which means the last one is quite a while ago. But we’ve been making pilgrimages here for the past 30 years: When my grandmother was still alive, the mere suggestion of a wish was enough for us to get on a plane and join the clan for a birthday or Christmas gathering.
“I was thinking of the first time we were here together, and how you showed me places and told me stories. It was like you were proud to share these with me,” he said.
A few days later, I am still thinking about his words. Pride? Never thought about it that way. My Chicago memories have always felt borrowed. We moved away when I was 7. My memories are of the Art Institute, Frango mint ice cream with my grandmother, the Lincoln Park Zoo, the Christmas windows at Field’s and Carson’s, concerts in Grant Park, lunch with my grandfather at Berghoff’s. Children’s experiences. Not those of an adult, or even a student. How can I even compare with all my Chicago friends and relatives, who have really lived here?