2001-06-23 - 2:41 p.m.

It�s a slippery slope from your new self back to your old self, and I�ve been struggling to keep one step ahead. I fear that the new self is just a creature of my joblessness, and now that I�m working again all the old problems will come back. I try to keep my goals in mind, but they�re unclear and intangible. I�m not sure if I should quit this job or what.

The work is maddeningly dull at times. I am plodding through page after page after page of calculus questions. After every few minutes I find myself staring at the window across the room or just into space. I doodle zig-zags into spare pages, then when I realize what I�m doing, I feel like a schizophrenic. I color my fingernails with ink.

The people, however, are good. They are friendly, young and interesting. Several are just a couple years out of college, English majors who found this job in the classifieds. They don�t like working any more than I do; like many people, they tolerate it. But they are generally happy.

But when the work day ends, I am manic. The meaning of my life is no longer wrapped up in my job; it is waiting to be created in the few precious hours off the job. I must make every moment out of work count, fight every battle I can think of.

---

Saturday morning, everyone�s gathered in the office for the COURAJ meeting. Everyone and me. We�re huddling for the next battle, only I�m not sure which side I�m on. But the next course of action is being laid out.

They assess the situation. The rich are trying to take over the city, build condominiums in place of low-income housing, raise the property values and force the poor to move out. Land is being bought up by developers right and left. They horde the land until the poor have been driven out, just waiting for the tide to turn enough before they build, then run it for a few years until they sell it again with a profit of millions. One developer has built a condominium right in between the rich and poor, a woman says � on the rich side, a decorative iron fence with a nice view of the newly prosperous neighborhood beyond. On the poor side, a wooden fence blocking the view of the unseemly property beyond. �If you want to see apartheid in Chicago, I mean, just look at this,� she says.

The goal is to resist � resist what feels like an irresistible force, with the city forging ahead despite the opposition, gentrifying the city, reducing poverty and crime by moving the �undesirables� elsewhere.

Questions linger � should COURAJ come out against the efforts to lure new development into Uptown? The plan seems inevitable, so they decide to instead emphasize saving existing low-cost housing and restoring what�s been lost.

COURAJ will try to stop the dam from bursting in any way possible. They will speak out against plans to expand the area�s entertainment district in community development meetings. They will take direct action, using protests and nonviolent resistance to make life hard for developers building condominiums and upscale housing. They stand by COURAJ�s four-point platform: affordable housing, police accountability, improvement of schools, and the need for communication with other groups throughout the country who are seeking the same things.

While they are fighting first and foremost for Uptown, members of COURAJ are trying hard to keep an eye on the big picture. The problems of Uptown, one woman argues, are part of a nationwide and city-wide problem, and small groups like this one must be able to work together and pool their resources. There�s a citywide rally for affordable housing Wednesday, and a march against police violence and racism next Saturday, and to fight for these causes the forces must band together, not just fight their own little isolated battles.

But when you�re in the trenches, it can be hard to see the big picture. One woman here, a longtime Uptown resident who speaks in a thick accent and has invested her whole life in this neighborhood, thinks COURAJ should concentrate on its own battles right here, not fighting other people�s battles by focusing on citywide rallies.

�People cannot connect themselves to citywide projects,� she says of the upcoming rally.

The group is quick to respond, arguing that the battle must be fought on all fronts, that COURAJ must show its support for the war at large, not just their solitary battle over several blocks on the north side. The discussion gets heated, but everyone is soon in agreement. COURAJ must simply go all out, get out in the community wherever it can in both local and citywide projects, marshal all its forces and search for reinforcements. They will go door to door in search of more pledges, see if some of those 2,000 or so residents willing to sign petitions are willing to take it a step further, joining the battle through rallies and direct actions, or donate some money to keep the momentum going. Before this group disbands, everyone agrees to take a block or two and go door to door, mustering what support it can for the cause. As for me, I�m still sitting on the fence.

---

My homeless shelter is having a party. Carrie has invited me over to a birthday party for Charity, another resident. The place is already rocking by the time I get there. Dozens of people are here from all sorts of backgrounds, some living here until they can get on their feet, others living and working here, others just friends of the house. As I come in, they�re all lined up to get their food � everybody seems to have brought a dish but me. Carrie is in line, she tells me to get some food, and I fall in place.

The place is papered with literature of all sorts, arguing to save the rainforests, stop the biotech companies from creating genetic drift. I don�t even know what genetic drift is. Everybody is a believer � they want to make the world better, they care about it, think things could be turned around if we all got together and pushed. They are living outside the machine and fighting to gum up its works.

Some of these people have been around, served their time and returned with battle scars. One man goes on and on about how he can lead a troop of resistance fighters through the wilds of Nicaragua, which he has done, but he can�t organize a meeting. He tells me he is a big thinker, though these days has narrowed his scope to one war-sized battle � fighting for safe drinking water for the world in whatever way he can. He lets other people get bogged down in the details, while his overall breadth helps to connect people who didn�t even know they were fighting for the same cause.

I listen to these tales, from people who have more tales to tell than ears that will listen. I try to be an attentive listener, the wet-behind-the-ears youngster who could benefit from their wisdom. Meanwhile, I�m trying to keep one eye on the crowd, wondering what has happened to Carrie, who pokes her head in here and there but has generally disappeared. I tear myself from my eager storytellers, wash a few dishes to earn my keep, and wander through the house.

There�s plenty to see. Outside, the grown-ups are goofing around with the two young kids in the bunch. The kids run around tagging the adults and telling them they�re it. People chat in the kitchen, the dining room, the basement, the living room. In one room, people have gathered up musical instruments, a drum kit, a piano, two saxophones, and just start banging and playing away.

I sit in a rocking chair and listen. It�s not great music; just a random assortment of noises by people who may or may not know how to play their instruments. They don�t seem to care. They�re just enjoying each other�s company. No need for alcohol or drugs; they bond the old-fashioned way. They have struggled and fought. They have earned their pleasure, and now they can enjoy it without inhibition.

I grab the tambourine I brought � Carrie told me this might be happening. Might as well join in the ruckus before I take off. I shake it, tap it, bang it up against my leg, trying to keep time with the drummer, but knowing that nobody�s worried much either way.

---

And then weekend is over. We have huddled, planned our attack, celebrated our past victories. Now we must hit the trenches again.

The weekly routine begins again. I fill my bag with a lunch, notebook, book to read, CD player. The I walk out into the fresh morning toward the elevated train a block away.

I love riding this train. These minutes as I sit at the platform with nothing to worry about, just waiting simply for my destiny. I sit on the ground, lean back against a pole and stare out on my neighborhood. I stare down Lawrence Avenue, past the Aragon, past my apartment, down the long line of cars that shrink and disappear behind the trees, where the lake remains unseen in the distance. The neighborhood is shaking the sleep from its eyes once again, facing its future, anxious, expectant. The mornings are always filled with hope. No need to worry about past failures; this day is still unblemished.

The train comes and takes me away from this town, rolling north through the upper end of the city, past building after building of neighbors yawning to greet the day, shopkeepers setting up shop. And here we are, some of us reading newspapers, some staring out the window and watching the world go by, each awaiting our private destinies.

We all get off the train at Howard, where we switch from the red to purple line to complete our journey north. Others are already waiting, reading the paper, chatting, staring blankly into space. I watch them, looking to see whether they�re happy or irritated, keeping an eye out for any cute girls.

One catches my eye. She�s a brown-haired, innocent-looking but elegant girl in a white coat, a bit younger than me, probably headed to her college class. I move to stand across from her; we exchange glances. When the train comes we pile on; I stand, then, as people begin to leave, I take a seat across the aisle. I write in my notebook:

O girl sitting across from me,

You look so good.

I want to hold your hand; I want to kiss you

But mostly I just want to say hello.

Upturned nose, flush cheeks,

In the Maytime of your life

What can I say to you? How can I broach this subway hall?

You glanced at me, I glanced at you.

But when I got off at Central, you passed on.

I stand a moment in Central station in Evanston, watching the girl roll by through the window. I think how exhilarating just to write something random, a poem to somebody, even if you can�t write a poem, just write some random words. You don�t have to be a poet to write a poem any more than you have to be a musician to play an instrument; you can just fool around if you want. As I walk down the street toward my job, I think how exciting it would be to write poems to girls in the train and give them to them as I get off, just to see what happens. Because, and I must now remind myself of this constantly, I � can � do � anything!

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