Murder Rate in the City

Maybe because I'm my parent's youngest child, my mother constantly fears for my well-being. I suppose its natural, and I would prefer it to the alternative of her simply using me as a small person whose only purpose was to keep her Dr. Pepper supply plenty and the Virginia Slim 120 Menthols coming. Oh wait...

Anyway, since I've made the big move from small town Mississippi to the bustling megalopolis that is Chicago, my mother has made WGN her personal local news. I am grateful that my mom wants to take the time to know what's going on in my city, and am even more grateful that she has figured out that WGN is based out of Chicago. She's not what you'd call 'tech savvy.' Or 'aware.' If it doesn't involve the Home Shopping Network or online Bingo, there's a 99% chance she has no idea what you're talking about. Bless her soul.

For the first few months I lived in Chicago, I yielded almost daily calls from my mother, Dianne, asking me general questions about my new city and neighborhood, about the weather, and her favorite topic: Murder. This is a typical daily exchange:
Dianne: "I guess you heard there was another murder yesterday."
Me: "Well, I hadn't heard. I just assumed there was."
Dianne: "I tell you, I just worry about you day and night living up there with all those murders."
Me: "Well, mom, that's the risk you take, I suppose."
Dianne: "Well, I just couldn't do it."
Me: "Well, good thing you're not."

It's taken me nearly a year to convince her that for the most part, I'm out of harm's way. Still, she continues "I just can't get over the fact that someone is killed every day up there." I mentioned to her that I read her local newspaper most days online, and that there has yet to be a day where there were no obituaries.  I tried rationalizing that Chicago has a larger population than Mississippi, so it was only natural that the crime rate would be higher in a city of 9 million than a city of 75,000.  Finally, it became this exchange:

Di:  "Well, I guess you heard about the double murder yesterday."

Me:  "Mother, did they say where this murder took place?"

Di:  "On the South Side, I believe."

Me:  "Yes, ma'am.  95% of all these murders you tell me about everyday occur on the South Side.  Now, where do I live?"

Di:  "On the far north side?"

Me:  "Right.  Now most of these violent crimes occur at least 100 blocks from where I live.  We're talking at least 10 miles most of the time."

Di:  "But what if they decided to come up to your part of town?"

Which got me thinking.  What if these gang bangers from the South and Southwest side decided to journey up to Ravenswood, my 'hood.  So, I started picturing all of them meeting in the South Loop.  All dolled up in their best gang attire, right at the edge of the Financial District.  I'm picturing them trying to blend in, exchanging their straight-billed White Sox caps, Roca Wear, and black baggy denim for navy suits and oxblood shoes.  The boom boxes on their shoulders (I always assume they still carry these, because my only notion of true gang bangers comes from late 80's Will Smith videos) have now been switched from rap to a collection of Journey's greatest hits (since all the Financial District workers were frat boys 2 years ago).

Now, they make their way up Michigan Avenue and the Magnificent Mile.  The girl-gang-bangers are now accesorized fully in Coach (wait...wouldn't they be anyway??), and the guys have been to J. Crew and are now dressing like Andre 3000.  They move west to Bucktown and Wicker Park.  They've traded in their Brooks Brother's suits for the tightest women's tapered leg jeans they can find, wearing Converse, tight v-neck tshirts with ironic slogans (no matter the weather) and scarves.  They now have on fake glasses and are sipping on PBR.  The boom boxes are now silent as they argue over which one is the fan of the more obscure band.  They head East.  To Lincoln Park.

Several members of the entourage have sadly been mowed down by soccer moms in their BMW SUVs on their way to Whole Foods.  These women will stop at nothing to purchase over-priced soy products and organic bell peppers.  The gentlemen now sport chinos, sweater vests over blue oxfords, and suede driving mocs.  The women are now wearing Lora Piana cashmere sweater sets and black matchstick pants with Christian Louboutin's.  The boom box is playing the latest Coldplay at a very reasonable level.  Most of the women have Belvedere cosmos, while their counterparts now sip from various overpriced India Pale Ales.  A few holdouts are carrying their Starbucks while the one rogue Yuppie swears by his Dunkin' Donuts coffee.  They move north on Halsted.

Thirty minutes later, the group emerges from Hydrate, with the men now drinking cosmos and flirtinis and the women drinking Budweiser.  The men have traded in their smart preppy wares for thongs, floor-length sequined gowns, and boas.  Two are dressed as Bea Arthur while three of them are screaming "Liza with a 'Z'" at the top of their lungs.  Their glitter-covered bodies are now gyrating to the Lady GaGa pulsating from their new Bose stereos.  The women, now adorned in either carpenter jeans and plaid shirts or men's basketball shorts with rolled up tshirts and soccer sandals are holding hands, since many of them have now entered into long term relationships.  They're discussing what to name their Rescue Kittens and looking for a one bedroom apartment in Andersonville.  Still, they tredge north.

Upon reaching Wrigleyville, the boys are now wearing khaki shorts and long sleeve button ups with their sleeves rolled up over tshirts that say "Fukudome is my Homeboy" or "You Can't Quiet The Riot" with blue Cubs hats, the bills now perfectly rolled.  Our former lady-loving-ladies have washed their hair, straightened the bluntly-cut layers, and now have on multi-colored tube tops and black skirts with shoes they are unable to walk in sober, much less after the 12 lemon drop shots they've tricked the guys into buying for them.  Oddly, in one of the whitest parts of Chicago, they are now listening to rap music.  And Rihanna.  Always Rihanna.

I imagine that they all move north up Clark Street now, to Montrose.  They hang a left and walk a few more blocks to my apartment.  After this journey, I just don't see that they'd be in much of a mood to put a cap in my ass.  Maybe I'm just niave.