by JET Carney

Created on: July 28, 2009   Last Updated: July 30, 2009

Realizations

CHICAGO

HOG Butcher for the World,
Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat,
Player with Railroads and the Nation's Freight Handler;
Stormy, husky, brawling,
City of the Big Shoulders:

They tell me you are wicked and I believe them, for I
have seen your painted women under the gas lamps
luring the farm boys.
And they tell me you are crooked and I answer: Yes, it
is true I have seen the gunman kill and go free to

kill again.
And they tell me you are brutal and my reply is: On the
faces of women and children I have seen the marks
of wanton hunger.
And having answered so I turn once more to those who
sneer at this my city, and I give them back the sneer
and say to them:
Come and show me another city with lifted head singing
so proud to be alive and coarse and strong and cunning.
Flinging magnetic curses amid the toil of piling job on
job, here is a tall bold slugger set vivid
against the little soft cities;

Fierce as a dog with tongue lapping for action, cunning
as a savage pitted against the wilderness,
Bareheaded,
Shoveling,
Wrecking,
Planning,
Building, breaking, rebuilding,
Under the smoke, dust all over his mouth, laughing with
white teeth,
Under the terrible burden of destiny laughing as a young man laughs,
Laughing even as an ignorant fighter laughs who has never lost a battle,
Bragging and laughing that under his wrist is the pulse.
and under his ribs the heart of the people,
Laughing!
Laughing the stormy, husky, brawling laughter of
Youth, half-naked, sweating, proud to be
Hog Butcher, Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat, Player with Railroads and Freight Handler to the Nation.
-Carl Sandburg 1


The evening was dark and a brisk wind whistled off of Lake Michigan whisking down the canyon of Michigan Avenue's Miracle Mile, the Champs Elyses Chicago style. Fleeting, multi-colored neon and street lights danced on shiny, black limousines plying their way with men dressed in tuxedos and women in shimmering evening gowns to an evening of theater, opera, and social gatherings around the City of Big Shoulders. Earlier that day, three-piece, chalk-striped suits or maxis with long scarves and fashion boots passed under Pablo Picasso's strange horse sculpture.

Cold, jarring shocks traveled up both legs as boot heels struck the unyielding concrete reminding me of the chill in the air that curled around finger tips stuffed deep in pockets. Those people in the limousines had a place. A destination of friendship, gaiety, and warmth. None of those qualities would be mine this night. For now, I was a youth of the

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