The Old Neighborhood

The Chicago Tribune reports:

“Federal authorities today announced charges against 22 people in what they described as a massive fraudulent ID ring run out of a Little Village shopping plaza.”
Why does this not surprise me?
The “Little Village” is what they now call my old Chicago neighborhood. Back when I was young all Chicago neighborhoods had names and they probably still do today.

The Tribune article goes on to say:
“In announcing the charges, U.S. Atty. Patrick Fitzgerald said the ring's alleged leader also ordered the murder of a rival and was conspiring to commit more violent acts.”

This surprises me even less.

When my mom remarried in 1953, I was magically transported from the North side of Chicago to the southwest side of Chicago. At that time my new neighborhood was called Pilsen. This was probably due to the fact that the Yusay Pilsen Brewery (and Pilsen Park) was in the middle of the neighborhood.

It was a very diverse neighborhood. Although it was predominately Polish and Bohemian we also had Italians, Irish and many people of eastern European origin living in this neighborhood. However we didn’t have, as my Dad would say, any “People of Color”. According to Dad, this is why we had very little crime in our neighborhood.

Sometime in the early to mid 1960’s the name of our neighborhood was changed from Pilsen to the “Little Village”. The Yusay Pilsen Brewery had closed and the influxes of the new residents to the neighborhood were predominantly from Mexico. As to who made the decision to rename the neighborhood, I have no idea. My guess was that it was our 22nd Ward Alderman.

Unknowingly, I bid a final farewell to living in my old neighborhood when I was coerced into joining the Army in 1966. When I returned from overseas duty, to visit my family in the fall of 1968, I noticed some changes in the old neighborhood. There were many more Spanish speaking people living in my old neighborhood. At this time I also visited my old High School. In 1963, our student body of 3200 was about 10% Hispanic; now, five years later, it was closer to 40%.

My Dad said that the change was not a bad thing. The Mexican’s maintained their property; they all had nice lawns. He said that they were good Catholics that attended church every Sunday and that none of them were on welfare. I nodded my head in approval but didn’t really buy into his assessment.

The next time I returned to the old neighborhood was in June 1974. It was for a funeral. My cousin Bobby had been murdered by the neighborhood Mexicans. He was a decorated Chicago Police Officer as well as a highly decorated US Marine Corp Vet; he had served and survived two tours in Viet Nam in the 1960’s. He was a good friend that treated me like a younger brother and I had admired and looked up to him. He died in the line of duty and the City of Chicago has named a Chicago Police Boat in his honor.

Mom and Dad moved out of the neighborhood to the western suburbs of Chicago shortly after that time. On my fiftieth birthday my daughters accompanied me to Chicago to celebrate this event with my family and friends. After sailing on Lake Michigan all day, my eldest cousin “The Admiral” drove us through our old neighborhood to show my daughters where we lived as youths. He said “Keep the windows closed and the doors locked, this is the “Little Village”.

The Beach Bum