I was standing on my front porch a few days ago watering a plant that hardly gets any rain, when a man, a woman and a baby in a stroller stopped in front of my house.
“Food! Food!” The woman shouted, rubbing her stomach.
No one has ever asked me for just food in this city. Money for food, yes, all the time. But I have never been asked just for food.
Were they migrants? The thought crossed my mind. Were they staying at the police station a few blocks from my house?
What could I give them? A green pepper? I had a beautiful one I just bought that was sitting on the kitchen table. That led me to think about a gorgeous red onion next to the green pepper. As well as other things half eaten in the refrigerator. Half a loaf of bread. A half-eaten jar of peanut butter. And half boxes of the following: grape tomatoes, blueberries, cherries and sliced Baby Bella mushrooms.
I told her in broken Spanish to go west a block or so, thinking Nando’s Peri-Peri Chicken might be just the spot to help a small family in need. They are always so nice.
After they left, I realized I could have given them a box of cookies to tide them over. Fearing a shortage of Walkers Shortbread (my favorite cookie), I’m always stocked up. But I was so surprised, and even a little wary, I didn’t think of doing that.
I was still second-guessing myself when my mail came. And in it was an omen. A big envelope from The Greater Chicago Food Depository, asking for money. And inside was a poster-size heavy-paper map of the places where the organization distributes food. I put it in my tote bag and hoped I would run into that little family somewhere so I could give it to them.
When I finished reading the mail, I looked up and saw them through the window going east—I hoped they scored sandwiches—but they were too quick, and I too slow to get out there and give them the map.
A few minutes later, I walked down to the bus stop, and another woman with a stroller came up to me and asked me for food. I asked if she had just walked over from the police station. Was she staying there? Was she a migrant?
Again, more broken Spanish and more broken English. And yes, to all.
I was surprised that they had no food at the station for the migrants. Or so she said. She told me she was from Venezuela. And had been here for only one day. I gave her the food dispensary map. And she seemed very pleased. And said she’d put it up at the station.
She and the other woman who came to my door, both with their strollers reminded me of life 40 years ago when my baby daughter and I were in play groups with other mothers—who looked like both of them. And our strollers were like theirs, too.
That night I called the the 1st District and asked why the migrants staying there were out hunting for food. Doesn’t the City provide food? At least the basics?
“We don’t provide food,” said the officer. “They are on their own. Sometimes people provide donations. We have 125 people sleeping inside and outside and that is all we provide.”
I’m not sure if he meant that there are 125 in total sleeping at the station, in and out, or 250 all together–125 inside and 125 outside.
There are mattresses and tents and blankets and clothes and tables and open cans of food and utensils and towels and garbage strewn all over the lawn and the sidewalk in front of the station. It looks like an eviction on steroids. And it’s hard to believe what I see when I pass by. When will it end? And where does everyone go? And where will they end up?
A friend of mine who is a cop in another district sent me a video of the sleeping arrangement on the floor inside—everyone, all ages, side by side like sardines spooning, whether related or not.
If I were writing a novel about all this, instead of just a post, I’d call it “The Crowd Inside the Sanctuary City.”
ADDENDUM, DECEMBER 31, 2023
As the migrant population expands in the City, at this point to about 30,00-plus, with more and more coming every day, the newcomer population has been transferred out of police stations and into Downtown luxury hotels.
And I want to tell one more story on this last day of 2023.
Several weeks ago, I came home one afternoon and found 10 migrants on the little path next to my house, next to my fence. They were all looking up. At my apple tree. So I looked up, too.
In my yard, apples were coming out of the tree a mile a minute and landing on the grass.
I usually have a lot of apples on the under the tree, but never so many and never falling at such a pace.
Finally, a young man emerged from the tree, picked up the apples, a few at a time and handed them to the others through the fence. Then he re-climbed the tree and went over the fence and joined the others on the little public path next to my house, on the other side of my fence.
They began carrying the apples away. To eat as is? To make pies (the police station not exactly the place for that). Or???
I didn’t mind them taking and using the apples. I was glad to see that. But I did tell them I didn’t like anyone climbing my fence and climbing my tree when I wasn’t there. I like being in charge of my yard and my tree.
In broken Spanish a “conversation” ensued. I told them I would be happy to give them as many apples as they wanted from the tree, as long as they rang the bell and asked. I said climbing my fence and my tree to get onto my property was perilous. What if the young man fell and broke his leg or his back? How would they be able to help him if I wasn’t home? How would they get him out of my locked/fenced property to get to a hospital?
They looked at me blankly and walked away with my apples. They didn’t agree to ask next time. Maybe they didn’t understand my high school Spanish. And they didn’t say thanks for the apples either. They just took them. Looking at me blankly as they did.
I was glad they had the apples and I hoped they enjoyed them, and I was glad that the apples were on the tree for them.
But…. Not respecting private property and not saying “thank you” was disconcerting. And not the way to go in their new city. I don’t think they were bad people and I don’t think they were thieves. I think they just had a taste for apples. But something seemed disconnected, worrisome and not quite right.
Bonnie, you touch my heart and mind with this vivid story. Surely there must be ways to control the border -- and to get word to Venezuela and other places people are leaving that life is not going to be easier here for a long time.
Hi Bonnie, nice to meet you. I work for Telemundo Chicago and I’d like to contact you. Can you send me a message or your number, please? My number is 7866208574, thank you!