Train of Thought

The grandson of Chicago residents, I assumed there were few surprises awaiting me in today's segment of the Discover Chicago course. Fortunately, as life often goes, I was incredibly wrong.

Today began with the announcement that we would be taking the L train to Oak Park. I instantly regretted not packing germ-x. Don't get me wrong; I'm not an in-your-face clean freak, but calculating the amount of hands that touch a given surface in the train per day is daunting. Still, I gave into my adventurous instincts and boarded anyway, making sure to touch as little as possible. Now, the initial group passengers were what I've come to expect in downtown: a young nurse, three clean cut businessmen, a couple of casual commuters, and a handful of disheveled midnight scholars. The majority of these train-folk sported Ipods and expensive haircuts. Hah! This train thing isn't so scary after all. 

Fast forward half an hour, and all of those commuters had abandoned me for their homes. As I peered out the window, the familiar city skyline faded and gave way to older buildings, abandoned factories, and gravel lots long forgotten. Trees and grass sprang into view, accompanied by communities swaddled with houses and small businesses. Our train made a couple stops throughout this area, and I quickly noted that it was a predominantly African-American neighborhood. This type of environment was where all my previous Chicago experiences had been regrettably skimpy. Race has never been, and never will a problem for me in terms of my judgement. Unfortunately, I discovered today an ignorance I've carried subconsciously my whole life; social class discrimination. I moved seats, avoided eye contact and conversation with almost everyone on that train until our group got to Oak Park. Despite the trips to Earnest Hemingway's home, a museum, and even Frank Lloyd Wright's swankiest creations, the thought that I, a seemingly well developed citizen, would discriminate by any means gnawed at me. I remember making an ultimatum, as Herb our tour guide gave us the rundown on Hemingway's grandpa, that I would embrace every culture and stretch out to all that is foreign to me, or die trying. Dramatic? Of course. Necessary? Yes. I was sweating when we left the comfortable Oak Park neighborhood. The sight of the well worn train tracks crept into view once again. Here I was: the moment of truth.

Fast forward half an hour, and I was just finishing up a conversation of my days as a clothing store employee with my newest seat buddy. She found it absurd that we weren't allowed stop shop lifters, and said she'd bust anyone robbing from her store. We both laughed loud enough to drown out the L's moaning as it began to slow for the next stop. She stood up to leave, and we exchanged our goodbyes. I put my face against the cool metal wall of the train and cracked a grin. Small victories are still victories.