Kenosha Quest, The Midwestern

(Word Count: 2000 in Microsoft Word)
"Well, what do we have here?" I said as I got up that morning. "This is going to be fun. Breakfast."
I was seriously looking forward to having breakfast that day, but before that, the 5 AM Club. Every morning, I would get up at 5 AM (hence the term 5AM Club) and I would enjoy some taxing, difficult personal development. First, I would like to say that the 5 AM Club wasn't my idea. I'd come across it when watching a few videos by Robin Sharma, the world-renowned personal development expert.
This morning, I had gotten up at just the right time. I'd remembered to set the alarm the previous night. My trusty alarm clock had seen me through thick and thin. For over eight years, it had set the tone for each day, ensuring that I was up early enough to tackle all my ambitions. Waking up early was an act of empowerment, and I chose to take full advantage.
The first step was to drink a cup of water. Always an excellent choice. Then, I went outside for a walk. It was always so calm this early in the morning. This was before the lockdowns, Before the destruction of a thousand suns came to rest upon the eaves and sit staring me in the face. The walk was enjoyable. When I got back home, I decided to document the previous day in my journals. I’d kept meticulous journals over the years.
I recorded the previous night’s dream and any “First and Fastest” accomplishments that I may have not recorded the previous day, that I was just now remembering. Then came the good part. I would answer the “Big 10”. These were the ten questions that set the stage for how my day would go, how I would live my life on that day. After that was done, I would read for twenty minutes. Each book I read had its own time slot and its own purpose.
After that, I’d brush my teeth, use mouthwash, and skip the shower. I didn’t shower every single day. Hoping nobody noticed, I got dressed and headed to the kitchen. What was for breakfast today? Eggs and blueberries. I ate with confidence, knowing that I could cook. I was overcome by how easy life was in the Midwest. Texas had every type of adversity one could imagine, followed by Arizona. They had Hurricanes in Florida, floods in Oregon, Earthquakes in California, and winter storms in New York.
In the Midwest, we had the Bears and the Bulls, and the Cubs. Those loveable rascals who couldn’t seem to get to the Final Four, or eight. The amazing thing was that nobody who knew me as a child ever would have guessed that I’d be standing in my own kitchen, eating food that I’d cooked with my own two hands. They all said I’d die in prison, even my family gave up on me. But here I was.
But wait a minute. I didn’t eat breakfast at home that day. No. You see, the first Metra train to Kenosha came that day at 6:51 am. All I had the chance to do was do a little extra reading and then head to the Metra station a little north of my home location. Across Clark Street, there was a raised platform which housed the train station. I almost couldn’t find the entrance to the platform. Luckily, I’d left early enough to “unlosteded” myself in due time. An essential skill that has helped me innumerable times.
The biggest confusion came with figuring out which side of the track to stand on. You see, on the CTA, the left side of the track went toward downtown, while the right side of the track went to the extremity. But on the Metra, of course, the sides are reversed. It’s important to get this correct. Because if you miss one train, it could take anywhere from three to six hours for the next train to come.
“Maybe this wasn’t the best idea,” I said to myself as I thought about the implications.
I had to do something. I had to explore. In almost 35 years of life, I hadn’t ever left the state on my own. Yes, I had be out of state, but always with a chaperone. This would be my time, my chance to strike out on my own.
As I stood at the platform, the right platform this time, I noticed the other people trickling in. These were people who’d worked their entire lives. At this point, I’d worked less than two years total in my entire life! But here these people were. Many of them not only held down multiple full-time jobs, but they were also parents. Many with multiple kids, potentially children of wildly differing ages, interest, aptitudes, and proclivities. I honestly had no idea how easy I had it in life. Everything I wanted seemed to be delivered right to my door.
First, the “practice” train came. Then another practice train. There were no guardrails or raised platforms. I thought to myself: “If you really wanted to end it, all you would have to do is take two steps forward, close your eyes, and let it carry you away.” These trains were giant, heavy, and powerful. When one of these big Metras came by, it felt like the world was ending, like there was a war somewhere.
With aplomb, my train finally came. It was a giant hulk of a vehicle, which looked quality, though it was probably upwards of 15 years old. I waited for my chance. This was my chance to be a man. My family told me that I would never amount to anything. But here I was, going on my own adventure. Going out and making my mark on history.
The Metra was almost empty. I had brought along a few things: A French and Italian phrasebook and my State ID, as well as my Free Ride Disabled card that had become quite handy over the years. I went in and quickly found my seat. These trains were all double-deckers. I believe I was on the ground floor, however. At least for the ride out to Kenosha.
My trip to Kenosha came about when I was searching for every Metra stop outside of the state of Illinois. I checked the whole map. I had previously used the Metra South line, but that line didn’t even make it halfway to the south end of the state. After a few minutes of searching, I discovered that, in fact, Kenosha was the only Metra stop outside of the state of Illinois.
The ride took one-and-a-half to two hours. We went through the rigamarole of Chicago norther suburbs. It was a real educational journey. I don’t even remember most of the places we passed. Davis street was an obvious one. Winnetka was a mystery. North Chicago was a mirage. As I sat there on that train, I was filled with a feeling of joy. I was being a man. I was being a “big boy” and traveling on my own.
From what I remember, the ride out to Kenosha was spent looking out the window. I didn’t want to miss a single stop, and I saw them all. Who knew that the north suburbs were such thriving places? It was so much fun to see everything that I could. I got to see things that many black kids coming from the south and west sides of Chicago never get to see.
After a while, I really had to use the bathroom. Not knowing that there was, in fact, a bathroom on the train, I thought would be best if I got off the train at an earlier stop and found a public washroom, or at least an alley. As soon as I had that thought, we got to the Illinois, Wisconsin border. Nothing but barren trees (it was still winter) and lagoons.
I’d seen enough movies as a kid to know that it was dangerous for anybody to be walking around the woods alone in the middle of winter. As soon as you’d hear “Yee-Haw!” Then you’d start running and don’t stop until you’re back home, in bed.
Luckily for me, we were almost there. The train seemed to slow precipitously in approaching the stops before reaching Kenosha. I got there and I couldn’t wait to “use it” and use it I did. After that, I decided to head for the good ol’ library. It seems weird that a man would leave his entire state just to read a bunch of moldy old books, but those moldy old books saved my life! I went to the Simmons library, which was off in the direction of the Wisconsin/Illinois border.
I got there and pushed the door. Nothing happened. I went to the Kenosha tourism office, which was open, and told them that the library was still closed. I felt like a total idiot as they called the library right there and discovered that the library was, in fact, open.
The problem was that the library door opened outward! With no window, that thick, solid door probably had an undefeated knockout record better than Mike Tyson and Floyd Mayweather put together! I sat there for hours, reading from the comic book section. After reading some comics, I took a break to go outside. In front of the library, there was a giant courtyard. These Kenosha people really invested in their libraries. I took the time to draw a picture of the library from the outside. I still have it today – both the drawing itself and the drawing discipline.
Standing out there, I felt so fortunate. It could have been a blizzard. It could have been a hurricane. But it was warm enough that I only needed a jacket and a bookbag. I decided I was hungry, so I decided to go to Wendys. The thing that I noticed standing out in front of Wendy’s, waiting for it to open, was that Kenosha was covered with able-bodied, young, healthy, homeless White men.
In Chicago, if you’re a White male who’s young and able-bodied, you’re getting a job. Period. The other thing I noticed is that in Kenosha, there’s a million homes. Very few apartments. Just homes. But there are no grocery stores! How do you have a million homeowners in a three-mile radius with no discernible grocery stores? Were all these people driving two hours into Chicago just to go to Jewel Osco? What a way to live!
Around the Metra station, there were many museums and art installations. But it was around 11:00 am and none of them were open. How do these people survive when most of their businesses stay closed all day?
I went back to the train station early, after walking a few blocks down the street in Kenosha. Just looking around and seeing how the other side is living. This was my first time even leaving the state by myself, as I’ve said before. It wasn’t as easy as it looked to convince myself to do this. Overall, I was very impressed. Even despite all the less desirable aspects of the location - the homelessness and lack of food – I was happy to have experienced this new place. You see, I was born in Milwaukee, way back in the year 1985.
My parents were running across the country, state to state, homeless shelter to homeless shelter then. Out of curiosity, I asked my mother through email one day: What were you guys running from? Was there some kind of persecution going on? Was dad a Black Panther? A secret agent? Was he wanted for murder? Why were you running like mad from state to state?
My mother deflected the question, simply saying that my dad was just an “asshole” and that I had inherited the gene from him. On the way back home, I read those French and Italian phrasebooks joyfully.