Wicker Park Place

“Bong, Bong. Doors closing.”

I heard these four sounds every 15 minutes for 7 months. It was the signal that my 10’ x 10’ apartment would rattle aggressively as Chicago’s elevated train roared by my window.

Although each night living in the low-income housing block of Wicker Park Place was an experience, a typical night probably went a little something like this:

I sit on my bed reading George Orwell’s The Road to Wigan Pier, and listening to my favorite band at the time, the Decemberists, when the power goes out.

This is hardly surprising: this happens at least every other day and I know what is coming next. Like clockwork, Marvin, a disabled Vietnam veteran with whom I shared a bathroom, comes over to accuse me of running too many appliances.

“Man, you running that microwave again? You know to shut all that other shit off first right?” said Marvin in his always aggressive tone.

After reassuring him it wasn’t my fault, we call the main office and get ready to wait until the next morning when the building supervisor would turn back on the power.

Not content sitting by candle-light again, I head down to our building’s common area to read. The room is filled with an impressive library of romance novels, old phonebooks, and features a revolving cast of characters: Claire, the old woman down the hall from me who insisted on calling me “Bill” and would enlist me as her personal handyman, George, another Vietnam vet who seemed to forget who I was every three weeks, and Steve, the African-American ex-boxer/religious fanatic who caught me on one of my bi-monthly trips to Church and thought of me as an ally for his war on secularism.

This particular night, Steve is arguing with a resident named Nathan who, as it turns out, was an atheist.

After a quick chat with Steve, I head back up to my dark abyss of a room. As I walk down the hall, I see the family of Mexican immigrants that somehow fit into the room across the hall from me.

The mother, father, son, and daughter always seem nervous. I think it is because they were worried I might report them for all living in the same room, but I don’t know for sure. I get a tense smile from the parents as both their children cling tightly to them. I still don’t know how any person could have the audacity to call them “illegal.”

A few months later, a representative from the Renaissance Companies (who managed Wicker Park Place) quietly slipped notes under our doors informing us they had received a federal grant to refurbish the building and we had two months to get out. Assistance would only be given to those that qualify.

Fear spread throughout the building. Some residents were given a place to live at other affordable living homes around Chicago, but others, like Steve, were told they were out of luck; He was told he had a “cockroach problem” and they didn’t want him taking it wherever he was relocated to.

The underbelly of the American dream was no longer something I just watched TV: It was real, and these people weren’t just bodies; they were real people, with names, families, stories to tell, and some of them were about to be thrown out on the street.

I grew up in the all-white Detroit suburb of St. Clair Shores, Michigan. I didn’t know any immigrants, the only veterans I met were grizzled old men from WWII, hardly ever met any African-Americans, and had to listen to the racist rants of people for years.

After suffering with an awful case of English mono, I learned what being American without health insurance meant: within three months of doctor’s visits I was nearly penniless. I scraped together enough money to get to Chicago and felt the pain of being dirt poor in an unforgiving urban jungle.

Stories about Wicker Park Place's renovation, like the one featured in The Chicago-Sun Times, focused on the historical significance of the building but didn't mention anything about the displacement of dozens of people.

I stopped by Wicker Park Place, nine months after I left, a few weeks before I left Chicago. Construction hadn't even started.