After 21 years, 6 NBA championships, 1 Super Bowl Appearance, 1 Blown World Series appearance I am officially back in the city that provided the comfortable space for my immigrant mom and pop to pump me out.
The Windy City, the City of Broad Shoulders, the city of Al Capone, city of junk food, where Ferris Bueller had his day off.
I have known this city primarily through my neurotic addiction for their professional sports teams and what I’ve learned from pop culture, but I love em like they were my hometown team — eff sports teams from the Los Angeles area except the Bruins of UC-Los Angeles. I wrote my 8th grade autobiography about how Chicago was still “home” because of my attachment to those sports teams.
My first re-impression of being in the physical space that is defined as Chicago again: the demographics of LA, mashed up with the mushiness and business of SF, with the style of the East coast.
I don’t remember too many first-hand episodes in the space, in the category of Chicago. Except for random snippets of visiting my first dentist, giving my lil sister my blanket when she first came home, and being refused a sled.
Chicago for me, today, August 28, 2009, represents the culmination of the “journey” or “statement” we’ve made across America. A statement meaning like the final slamming hammer to a nail.
What is that statement? We brown kings of orient are, bearing gifts can traverse so far, the networks, public works, and infrastructure with a Toyota Yaris just like you can. Just like Americans can.