Exploring the Nearby: Barhopping in West Chicago

When David and I married, he was on the staff of Youth For Christ. Their international headquarters were located in Wheaton, IL. One of the good words of advice that was passed along to us from a fellow director was this: “Put your roots down deep in one place. Over time all those connections begin to pay off in your ministry. Then, roam out from there as far and wide as you need to do so.”

So, we did exactly that. All our married life, the Chicago area has been our home. Specifically, for the last 47 years or so, we have lived by choice in West Chicago—a far suburb on the edge of this greater metropolitan area.

We deliberately chose to live in West Chicago because of its high Hispanic demographic; some 52% or so of our population is non-white, mostly Latino. I did not want our kids to grow up in a world that persuaded them it was predominately white, middle-class, and Protestant.

This decision has more than paid off: Our four children have been exposed to other cultures. They’ve heard Spanish spoken regularly in their schools or in the shops and stores around us. More than that, they have sensed that faith-expressions take different forms and use a variety of practices of worship, yet all work to seek the common good.

As far as roaming wide, I know at the last count, I have visited, explored or worked as a journalist in some 55 countries. I am aware that the “American way” is not always the best of ways for international settings, that there is much that is beautiful and true and stunningly mind-stretching in the habits and beliefs, in the morays and the cultures of other countries. Very frequently, the indigenous church led by indigenous leaders in other places is more devout, more robust and more evangelistic than the churches of these 50 United States (some of them are sending missionaries to evangelize us).

This traveling out has all been good. However, in the moving so much across the world, there have been some ill effects of it on my life.

A trite lingering effect of all this coming and going is that I don’t care if I ever pack another suitcase again, drive to park somewhere at O’Hare or Midway, or go through what I term the “cattle-herding syndrome of modern flight travel.”

A more important area of neglect is that we have not had (or taken) the time to get to know our immediate living environs. West Chicago, for instance, is ostensibly an unremarkable little town with a 27,000-some population. It has a non-distinct downtown (to the outsider’s eye). There is not much here where we live that would draw people from other states or communities in Illinois for any kind of visit.

Our homes are mostly middle- or lower-middle-class homes. And very frequently, you can readily identify some of the Hispanic dwellings. These houses have at least four cars in the driveway and a couple of pickup trucks beside. As one of my Latino friends explained, “In my country, in Mexico, you need to sleep, you come. We have roof. We have shelter. We have place to stay. You sleep on floor.” Often, I assumed that he meant “you-sleep-with-the-other-car-and-pickup-truck owners.” All claiming a spot, I imagine, on the living-room rug.

West Chicago has few (well, none actually) little boutique shops. We do have a couple good resale stores, however. Do those count?

So, not only do I shop locally as much as possible, and hire workers from our community, I am now exploring, in earnest, the little town where I have lived for 47 years.

Joel Mains, our son, got laid off from his television job (he’s won 5 Emmys) and some months later, more of his former coworkers were released. After working for 17 years with deadline after deadline, he decided to sell his house, which was only on the market for two days and for which the sellers paid more than the asking price, and not hunt for another media position. We said, “Just move in with us. No rent, no down payment. No hurry as far as having to decide what you want to do.” He wanted to finish a novel. Perfect. Live with Mom and Dad with time enough each day to do good writing.

Nevertheless, it is Joel, who was also raised and went to school in West Chicago, who has inspired the thought that we visit all the places in our town we’ve never explored in 47 years of living here.

So. He and I, one Sunday afternoon when the husband and father was involved in something else, began exploring our little town with whatever was open since most everything downtown was closed. What was open was the bar, that would be Bunkers Bar and Grill, which I have never stepped foot inside before.

That was the beginning a hilarious, if not glorious, couple of hours. The bar was crowded, full of convivial people, and my son ordered me a mixed drink, a Bloody Mary, which I also have never had before. We started chatting with the friendly folk beside us, and I, not given much (well, at all) to barhopping, began to see the reasons why these establishments are so popular. They are a meeting and greeting place, and how we need meeting and greeting places in this world.

My drink was delivered with an extraordinary adornment—not just a fancy paper coil, but a whole grilled-cheese sandwich pronged to the side of my beer glass. Joel and I howled. When I couldn’t finish the drink and asked for a carryout, the serving gal looked at me with crossed eyes, “Wha?” OK, OK. One doesn’t generally go home from local bars with a half-drunk alcoholic beverage in a carryout container—not to mention a half-eaten sandwich. Something to do with driving with an alcoholic beverage open in the car. But I wasn’t driving, and I don’t like to waste money on uneaten food (or Bloody Marys, even if they are the first drink—or perhaps because they are the first drink of its kind.)

I’m learning. I’m learning.

Another possibility popped into my mind: Why not bar evangelism?

So, Joel and I took David on our next round of nearby exploration, but we thought he should at least start with Bunkers. The shuffleboard on the floor in the nearby room (that we had promised as a gaming challenge to my husband) had disappeared, but an electronic dart game was hung on the wall between the barred windows.

Not caring about darts, or winning, I haphazardly tossed mine (with the red-flagged ends) while striking up a conversation with the woman who was cleaning the room. “You are doing such a good job here,” I mentioned, thinking it was a decent opening gambit.

“Oh, I love cleaning. I love putting things in order. I love making a room shine for the people who use it.” Well, she and I were then off to an intriguing conversational arc with interruptions from son and husband: “Karen, it’s your turn.” The lady was a Christian, loved the fact that her housekeeping skills were “a blessing” to others. I was enchanted with her, and to my surprise, even tied for first place in the dart toss with my husband. Without even trying.

All this to say: You never know what you are going to discover when you explore the neglected places that are nearby.

Like all the thirty miles of walking trails your brother-in-law, Douglas Mains, an orthopedic surgeon with an ecological passion, who died some seven years ago, helped to establish through his participation in conservation movements. They surround the area where David and I live. Thank you, Doug.

Like the paleta ice-cream store in the corner of a small downtown shopping strip. If you don’t know, paletas are a Mexican frozen dessert made from fresh natural fruits such as strawberry or mango; some have a creamy milk base. We generally choose about twenty or so bars—with a grandchild in tow. The saleswoman writes the name of each paleta on their stick. I take twenty or so with me when asked to bring some treat to a dinner or a meeting. (Actually, this is worth a trip to our little town.)

So, I am spending these months exploring my home territory. The public library is opening again. I had planned on being an English-speaking participant in a dialogue/discussion group for Hispanics learning this language, but COVID closed down that effort. Hopefully, it will start up again soon. AND what about a group for local writers? AND how about books from those writers donated to the library? And…

You get the idea. The nearby is, actually, nearby.

Karen Mains

Reminder!

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Karen Mains

BOOK CORNER

The End of White Christian America
by Robert P. Jones

I’m recommending one of the many books I’ve read during this COVID hiatus.

Robert P. Jones is the CEO of the Public Religion Research Institute. The back-cover copy explains well the focus of this writing: “For most of the country’s history, White Christian America—a cultural and political identity built primarily by white Protestant Christian—set the tone for our national policy and shaped American ideals. But in recent decades this has changed. Drawing on findings from one of the largest troves of survey data on contemporary politics and religion, Robert Jones shows how today’s most heated political controversies can be fully understood only in the context of the anxieties that white Christians feel as the racial, religious, and cultural landscape has changed around them.

“Looking ahead, Jones forecasts the ways that white Christians might adults to their new reality—and the consequences for the country if they don’t.”

I think this book, published in 2016, should be read by anyone attempting to understand the cultural shifts that are occurring in our nation. It would be a good book for reading groups or discussion forums. Certainly, it should be read by any not-for-profit leaders seeking to serve special-interest groups in our nation.