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February 17, 2004

Peter Cetera, Eat Your Heart Out

I've been missing something lately, and I think it is the city of Chicago. I walked into class yesterday wearing my 1984 thrift store highwater Jordache jeans (sure they give me the 1980s long butt, but who cares! they're highwaters!), red high heels, a boy's v-neck sweater, and a jaunty scarf. Cute, right? So I walk into class and my students start making fun of my outfit. They ask me "Where d'ya get yer clothes Mrs. B.? You always are wearin' sumthin' funny."

Please, let me clarify the situation here. In this group of students are at least two boys who are wearing sweatsuits. As in matching sweat pants and sweat shirt. Three girls in pajama bottoms, and the rest wearing nearly identical "novelty tees" that say things like "Eat Lunch at Johnny's" on the front in a "vintage" font but have a store logo emblazoned across the back.

But this isn't a swipe at my students—well I guess it is, but it's a productive swipe, akin to when I called them "shitheads" for not doing ANY of the assigned reading for class. I'm no culture snob; I love to rock the American Eagle, I really do, and I'll tell it to you straight: Special Ed and I went to the Olive Garden for V-Day. And LOVED it.

What this is, though, is a dirge for the days when I could walk outside with a hat handcrafted of potato latkes and have some strung-out freak stop me in the street and compliment me on it. It's my way of paying tribute to the girl in a black turtleneck and cat-eye glasses and the boy in extra-small black trousers with white belt I used to see on every corner. It's my loving remembrance of those ludicrous Art Institute kids that crash every single twenty-something party on Chicago's northside.

It's a shout-out to Thai food on every corner, and taquerias in between. It's my way of tipping my hat to the four-o'clock crush at Marie's Riptide Lounge. A little love letter to the #66 bus line on Chicago Avenue, and the hard luck crowd that rides it. A tender chuckle over those weird hippies that practice Capoeira in Wicker Park, who are so very bad at it. I'm blowing a virtual kiss to the lovably violent gang bangers that inexplicably ruled the block I used to live on, giving the proverbial finger to the rapidly gentrifying rest of the neighborhood. I'm crying out to the cocaine-snorting yuppie chicks and dudes that took all the parking on my street every Friday and Saturday night as they jammed themselves into Bar Thirteen—I'm saying to them, "I'm sorry I took a superior cultural stance toward you! Look at what I've been reduced to! Taking a superior stance toward small town college students. It doesn't get lamer than that!"

So give me back those puddles of urine in the alley, the rats in the dumpster, annoying art rockers, and that feeling of panic on a winter morning when you look down expecting to see you've forgotten to put pants on because the wind is cutting to the bone. I'll take it all back, every single thing I've ever complained about. 'Cause my potato latke hat is starting to stink up my closet.

Postscript: I'll be traveling to Chicago tomorrow and staying for a week. I'll let you know how it goes when I return.

February 17, 2004 |

Comments

Zoot

My brother - having departed Chicago 4 years ago - experiences sadness over missing the city as a whole periodically.

Although, it usually not a result of getting his kicky heels and jaunty scarf questioned...

Posted by: Zoot | February 19, 2004 at 12:49 PM

Andrea

My friend just sent me a link your blog...I (platonically and not at all in a crazy way) think I love you. How well you articulate the woes of quotedian life, or whatever. I live in a small Northern town in British Columbia, and having come from (the beautiful, sushi-full, music-ridden, chapati flippin', skateboard friendly, low ridin', happy addict coalition forming...city of) Vancouver, the adjustment has been tough. I thought I wanted the wildneress experience as well as the opportunity to teach at the unniversity level. Those kids! If I had me as a prof I'd be way happier about it... (One time, a 21 year-old girl wearing platform shoes in 4 foot snow weather and a tank top said my vintage beaded cardigan made me look like a librarian.) I only found out they all thought I was a lesbian when they expressed shock at my fall marriage, to a man. They thought dyk-y-ness just went hand in hand with cardigans and a passion for grammar.

Thanks for your insight.

Cheers.

Posted by: Andrea | February 20, 2004 at 12:57 PM

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