Sno on tha Bluff
Back in 2017, I was living in Chicago for the summer. I actually have a lot of untold stories from my Chicago experiences sitting in my pen, waiting to be spilled. Much of the work I participated in while there was restorative. Like, community engagement; building gardens in Englewood; participating in city-wide prayers in Austin. Exploring some of the more eluded or shunned areas of the city.
Austin, the West-side, Englewood, South Side, Hermosa, Little Village. My feet trod the pavement in all of these places. I think being able to see these areas of the city did me better than seeing the more touristy, well-put-together parts. I strangely felt settled in the spaces that didn’t guarantee my safety. I felt like I knew the city intimately. It’s almost like seeing something bare and exposed.
I was greeted by the areas of Chicago abandoned by the system and people who had the power to revive it, they’d just rather watch as it fought against life slowly leaving its infrastructure. But these are the parts I fell in love with.
No matter how many graffiti-painted walls and neighborhoods with churches and liquor stores on every corner, or dilapidated buildings and abandoned property. This was the city for me. A lot of these places also nourished the best food and most knowledgeable people. Uncle Remus or Harold’s Chicken was never a decision I liked having to make. Any time I returned a jibarito was one of many experiences I needed.
Being that I was there for community work, the group I was with took a trip to put up protest signs around the South Side. That week, an innocent black man was shot down by a police officer. It bothers me that I can’t remember his name.
In my heart, I now feel that “Say his name” wasn’t enough. To me, “finish his story” has more longevity. It’s about immortalizing the lives that earth didn’t spend enough time with. A lot of it’s rhetoric though. We can be emotionally clumsy. We forget stories and bodies. Names get lost in protests. When bodies pile up, those on the bottom eventually become bygones.
As selfish as it sounds, I sometimes fear dying because I believe too many people die for my death to be remembered. I just hope I leave this earth in a way that people won’t forget.
It’s strange because I’ve always been good with names. “Say his/her name” is the bombast you’d hear at protests and rallies. It’s emotionally arousing for the moment but has no hang time. The Glock on a police officer’s belt has more bodies on it than I can remember to be honest, and I usually remember the name of the victim’s killer before the victim. I wish I knew more. I wish I remembered more and could mail hand-written letters to families. I understand J Cole now. Sometimes, I too feel faker than Sno on Tha Bluff.
Told By: Kwon
