Quiet City
On Sunday, September 18th at approximately 2:27 p.m., I stood outside of DePaul University’s Student Center with a looming determination and dread — it was nearly 80 degrees outside, and I was about to embark on a long walk with a backpack full of three-folder notebooks, a laptop, and various objects such as a half-eaten pack of peanuts and a pair of sunglasses that were too big for my face. It was an unnecessary weight for a simple walk, but I digress. I headed towards the corner of sheffield and fullerton, and proceeded to head in the one direction I had never been before, the direction I had been convinced was north until I noticed the sunset: west.
I walked for a long time, past the “edge” of DePaul’s campus (the city is our campus, right?) and was surprised to see how quickly the roads changed from neatly paved to crumbling concrete. Abandoned shops littered the strip malls; fitness places that lacked members or cafe’s that lacked revenue because of the Starbucks now behind me. I had walked a considerable distance from the Student Center in that blazing heat — a text from my friends told me it was 2:51. I passed something that looked like a vintage movie theater, playing a movie that said “STILL COWBOYS AND KLOWNS” in box letters. It smelled faintly of sewer and mildew.
3:07. I find myself at a strange crossroads: the crumbly sidewalks have given way to wide berths and more traffic lanes; to my left the road curves into a bridge, and before me the lanes expand from two into four over another bridge as well. I decide to cross the road and head right, towards trees and more importantly, shade. There’s a man waiting on the corner and I hesitate, but only briefly. It bothers me that I should feel any sort of fear when I pass a man on the street simply because I am alone and a young woman, but I shove the feeling aside and move swiftly past him.
3:26. A little ways down this neighborhood-friendly street — past a car repair shop with a bright yellow sign and an apartment building that resembles a hospital — I find myself at a wrought-iron fence, where beyond its black bars sits a dozen or so little trees, a small baseball field, and even farther back, basketball courts and a playground. I decide to round the corner, noticing a sign that says “Circus in the Park” and another that reads “Wrightwood Park”. I turn into the opening in the fence, walking towards a long red bench that lines a building, shading me from the sun. I drop my bags and myself onto the seat, and begin to look around.
3:34. The park is relatively empty, or at least more empty than I had anticipated for a Sunday afternoon in Chicago. Off to my left, in a shady patch of trees, lies a man who I assume is asleep. He’s the first thing I notice, a pile of layered dark jackets against the base of a tree. He has his silver bike beside him, the wheels twisted. A plastic bag sits a few feet away, its contents dark but obscured.
I look around the park, taking in more sights and sounds. Just outside the fence I see a man who looks like he probably just graduated college. He’s wearing a blue Cubs shirt and his hair is cut close to his, almost buzzed. He’s holding a small black cell phone, but that isn’t what has his attention. He’s struggling to pull his dog into a range he can control, muttering to himself or the dog in a grumbling tone. The dog, who looks like some sort of setter, is plodding along happily with its long legs and flopping pink tongue. I listen to the man mutter some more, his words muffled by the breeze (See Map; Sound #1).
3:41. Off to my right, a basketball court is filling with about seven guys, all college age. They’re all black, with black tank-tops and t-shirts and long dreds. I listen to them bounce the basketball, talking and laughing in a wide, scattered group. I can’t make out what they’re saying, but they’re conversation is continuously interrupted by bouts of laughter from around the group. One of them is dribbling the ball and loses control. It slips from his hand and rolls across the smooth concrete, just about fifteen feet away from me. I debate grabbing it for them, but he runs to it. He sees me, smiles, and returns to his friends. (See Sound #2).
A few moments later I hear a small girl’s voice rise out indignantly, a proud tone. I see that she’s over at the volleyball net in the far, shaded corner of the park. She’s chasing the ball across the cool sand, her feet bare and pigtails barely bouncing on her small shoulders. On the other side of the net a man waits for her to throw it back his t-shirt dark blue or black. I can’t hear any more of their conversation, but I watch as she attempts to throw it over the net and it grazes the bottom and hits the sand once more. (Sound #3).
3:48. A siren cuts through the calm of the park, shrill and unnerving in such a tranquil setting. I jump at its call, craning my neck far to the left to see if I can find anything, but its somewhere beyond where I am sitting. I’m still not used to the frequent alarms and sirens; around me, no one else looks. (Sound #4). I hear bright laughter that quickly draws my mind away rom the siren. Directly ahead of me, beyond a fence and to the small playground equipment, is a young couple. The woman has dark hair pulled back into a ponytail; the man is somewhere behind the equipment and I can’t see his face. He’s talking to a little boy with wildly curl hair, who shrieks and laughs as he slides down the slide towards the dark-haired woman. (Sound #5).
3:54. I hear a group of people talking enthusiastically, a strange whirring noise a light undertone. It’s somewhere beyond the park, and for a moment that’s all I can hear. Then, slowly but surely, I see the familiar blue bikes that everyone rents and a small family rolls down the sidewalk in helmets and a blurred conversation that no one else could understand except for them. They go by slowly, and I can see two older women, a little boy, and another man. (Sound #6).
4:02. As I get up to leave, my shoulders aching from the unnecessary weight of my unnecessary backpack, I see another young couple to my right. The woman wears a pink and white striped tanktop and big glasses that obscure most of her face. Her hair is a light brown; her husband’s is roughly the same color. He wears a white polo shirt and dark shorts, and he holds a little boy with wispy blonde hair. They’re all laughing and exclaiming in that faintly false excited tone that parents use with young children. The little boy is holding a little red plane that looks to be made of styrofoam, and I watch as the parents watch him throw it onto the ground with a wide grin (Sound #7).
4:07. I leave Wrightwood Park and wander for a bit more. I pass through a side street where a bar has there wide windows open and young people sit inside eating lunch and watching some game. I walk back across Fullerton, but instead of making my way back the way I originally came, I continue straight. I pass a small park being renovated, a man teaching a little girl how to ride a bicycle, and a group of young people leaving another bar. It’s shady back here, and i’m not quite sure where I am until I reach a street corner with yet another sports bar, and, a little ways down. The St. Vincent DePaul Cathedral. I make my way there, sweat soaking my shirt, and collapse greatfully on the steps. People pass me by, some in Cubs gear, others just families and friends out for a walk. I pull out the half-eaten bag of peanuts and let the wind cool me off. It’s a beautiful day for a walk.
Written Response to Solnit’s “Walking At Midnight”:
After reading Solnit’s “Walking After Midnight”, I have a strange sense of understanding for things I did not previously see clearly. As I stated in my walking journal, I passed a man on the street and felt myself get defensive. The history behind women in walking is dark and disgusting; a deep injustice to women simply on the basis of their gender. The history of women walking in the city is one that has always relayed the idea that women are sexual objects, and that their only reason for existence is to appeal sexually to men. Women have been sexualized based simply on the way they walk, and even Solnit addresses the fact that there are far more words about walking that, when used in context with women, it instantly becomes sexual, such as the word “Tramp”. As a woman, it is interesting that I should feel unsafe walking a street alone simply because I am woman, and out fear of assault I feel more safe walking in a group. It is a great injustice to women who, like myself, wish only for the sense of adventure of going places you have never been before and seeing things you have never seen. Though some might say that prostitution has ruined the perception for women, I say that it is the overall idea that women are sexual that has ruined this for women. Women are people, just like men, and they should be treated in all situations, above all else, as human.
