I took a long time to clean the condo by the lake; it had been good to me. I realized only too late that I had made a key to the door behind which the memory lay: rearranging the bottles on the tile that surrounded the bath, I moved one whose scent reminded me. I had, quite unwittingly, conditioned myself. I stared at the bed, and the shower, and the kitchen island, and the sofa, and the little black bookshelf, and the poster from La Scala. I stood in the threshold too long. And then I closed the door.

I had to park a long way away last night: I parked south of Lawrence; I parked south of Weiss Memorial. I walked down to get the Honda. I walked past dozens of homeless people camping in the park. I drove back, and stopped in the loading zone; I made quick work of my books and clothing. LSD was crowded, and a haze lay over the skyline. I was sad.

Tomorrow, as the next chapter begins, I will leave Chicago. I am going down. And I am not lily-White: south of the Ohio River, I get nervous. The dark, Yankee stranger: that's me. I have lived in Chicago - save for Wisconsin summers on my uncle's farm - my entire life. The only other place in our Union that I have spent a significant amount of time is - strangely enough - Kentucky.

They produce coal, tobacco, and bourbon in Kentucky.
They raise horses in Kentucky.
They have beautiful women in Kentucky.
They handle snakes in Kentucky.
They made Hunter S. Thompson in Kentucky; they made Abraham Lincoln there too.
Emmylou Harris sang about Kentucky - but she was born in Alabama.
Loretta Lynn and Crystal Gayle really are sisters; and they really are from Kentucky.

As a child I explored Kentucky's Mammoth Cave; it was well named. And as a teen I worked in the Appalachia Service Project in southeastern Kentucky. The members of my team slept on a dirt floor, in the basement of a school. The little boy who lived in the home next door had ringworm. It was during that summer's work in the ASP that I had an encounter with a group of the local men. They drank homemade from an old, clear glass jar of some kind. They watched me work. They decided that I was - in their words - "Jewish looking." After forming a circle around me, they told me so. I feared the worst, and my face flushed with blood: I turned bright red. That involuntary response convinced them that I was White. Yes: a stereotype was fulfilled. In Appalachia there are insiders and outsiders, members of the community and strangers. But, that experience was really no different than the one that might be had in certain neighborhoods in Chicago. The message is the same in either case: "You don't belong here." Some cities display their hatred openly; others maintain a veneer of civility.

There is a difference between rural poverty and urban poverty. Here, in Chicago, leisure and decay are roughly juxtaposed: the contrasts between rich and poor are heightened. There, in Appalachia, rolling green hills dirty the feet of the barefoot children. But, the experience of wanting is the same. Most things seem to be that way: under the surface they really don't vary too much from place to place.

My friend is getting married. I'm going down to attend. We've spent the past two years in grad school together; we're the ones who bastardize Nietzsche. My friend is one chain-smoking son of a bitch; and he's a vegetarian. It's ironic. We talk about cities a lot; we also talk about the many and the few. We believe Plato's Socrates offers an ironic teaching about cities - it's in that same book in which he suggests that it's preferable not to look at things directly. Having been raised with my mother's Christian faith, I entered into a program of study that I learned to be pagan - and isn't that an ironic word? There is so much irony: I am taking a trip for the sole purpose of participating in a religious ceremony for a person with no real faith, to a place where I previously traveled to perform Christian works - only to be menaced because I was not perceived to be a White Christian.

I am leaving my city.

And tomorrow I am going to drink bourbon.

all material copyright paul e. germanos
contact: paulgermanos(at)msn.com
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