The End of Innocence, Another Bitter Pill Life Lesson

Being jarred awake--or aware--is really a gift you know. So much better than not ever waking up or paying attention. I keep telling myself that--and to have gratitude for having a learning curve. I am hoping it makes me feel better. Or at least opens the door to a new normal...soon.

Three weeks ago, my bungalow, my bungalow dream, my home and my safety were violated. My rose colored glasses were pulled off my face so hard that I still feel the scratch marks today. Without my glasses, the glare of the world hurts my eyes and forces me to look deeply into the dark spots, not sure of what I will find.

We live in Cragin, a Chicago neighborhood that is on the Northwest side. Diverse, working-class, suffering from rising foreclosure rates and lots of paranoia from both the rise in anti-immigrant "chatter" as well as the cockroach-like spreading of gangs in the city. It exemplifies what is meant when locals describe the culture, crime and nuance of Chicago as "block by block". One block is neat with a tidy row of homes and the next is trashy with high lawns and roving Latin Kings. It's hard to know where to walk you dog sometimes, let alone where to let your kids ride their bikes.

Three weeks ago I was enjoying my neighbors company, gardening in my front flower bed. The sun was out, it was a warm, early evening. All the kids on the block were racing up and down the sidewalk on their bikes and scooters. The little girls, including mine, watched and made fun of the little boys--on cue. It was perfect.

The Chicago public elementary school at the corner has a playground and soccer field that are almost always in use. Kids, teens, adults and the ice cream man are there daily. I thought it was a nice feature of the area. A school, a safe zone.

That afternoon, I looked up and noticed large groups of kids leaving the playground at once, headed towards us. My eyes saw them, my brain began to tell me something was wrong...but not fast enough.

A teen boy crossed the street--my street--and turned away from all of us neighbors...who were watching him. He pulled out a gun and began firing at a van moving down the street towards the school. Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!

I remember turning to seeing the gangs scatter and disappear...and then looking for my kids. I dropped what I was holding and began running towards them. I was screaming "Get down! Get down!". It was all I could think of. If there was going to be a shoot-out, they needed to get down. Once I reached them, another neighbor and I were dragging them inside our brick homes. No one was hurt, physically.

Today, I can relive it and not cry. Today I write it out for the first time. I've let go of the shame of living somewhere "less than perfect". I am grateful. I have gratitude.

Since that Sunday afternoon, I've spent a LOT of time thinking, reflecting, researching, interviewing and talking. Talking to people, parents, police, community people, neighbors. I have started educating myself on the what and why of gangs, gang life and culture. I have come to understand that I cannot protect my children from everything. I need to educate them. Teach them to have compassion for what leads people to that kind of life BUT teach them how to avoid being a victim.

I mourned. Am mourning. I am mourning because I realize how different the world is than when my sister's and I were children. I mourn my innocence. My naivete. I mourn the constructed, safe, sanitized world I've built my career as a mother on, because it cannot be sustained. I mourn my capacity to see only the good in my surroundings and the people in my sight.

My mourning brings a new vision, a new era in my mothering career. A vision that helps me see why I have to keep talking to my kids, and keep them talking to me. Why they need their dad's in their lives, both their birth and their step dad. Why I have to be more neighborly and cautious--at the same time. I understand that I need to tell my neighbors with kids that if the kids beat their parent's home from school and no one is home, that they are welcome to play in my house or yard until someone can come get them. I understand that my children's childhood experience will be constructed differently than mine, they will have a new normal. I have to figure out how to construct it, as it is nothing like mine. We will all adapt and be as safe as possible. And on the way there, I will mourn the end of innocence.