The Not-so-Secret Playground

It was a time when my friend, Sally, and I literally crossed a line that we didn’t know existed. It was one of those things that adults knew about but kids did not. Calumet Park is a small suburb, a little over a square mile, surrounded by Chicago on three sides – north, south, and east, with Blue Island on the west.

Sally and I lived on the northeast side of the village where most of the daily activity was west of us – schools, playgrounds, a recreation center, village hall, church, and stores. There was a public pool east of us. You had to buy a membership bond or something and that also allowed access to the recreation center. Neither of our families had a membership at the time. We used to hang out close to the house, however, once you knew how to ride a bike without training wheels, a whole new world opened up.

One summer day Sally and I ventured north on our bikes. Although just a few blocks away, it was uncharted territory for us. We came upon a playground and it was like we struck gold except there was a lot of silver. There was a swing-set with big poles for the frame, and long, thick, silver chains supporting the seat where you sat. It was glorious as Sally and I rode the swings, and there wasn’t another person in sight. It was like our own secret discovery.

As Sally and I peddled home, we couldn’t believe our good fortune. I was very proud of this discovery, as I thought I was really expanding my horizons. It wasn’t soon after that somehow, I foolishly hinted to my brother about the secret playground. I should have known better but I was too young to know about following gut instincts.

My brother was four years older and knew everything. He yelled something like, “If you went where I think you went, that was White school and you can’t go there! I better not find out you went there again!” It figured. I was often berated for my actions or choices of friends, etc. I don’t know why I thought this would be different. My heart sunk and my head hung low.

I don’t think I was the only one who let the cat out of the bag. Knowing our shared elation, Sally had sisters and they shared everything. Sally likely was also forbidden to return to the playground because neither one of us ever spoke of it again. We crossed the line. 123^rd St. divided Calumet Park and Chicago. We were not yet versed on the unspoken racial divide.

I had never heard of (Edward H.) White School before and in an ironic twist, I found out that White School was for black children. Perhaps if Sally and I had seen black children playing there, we may have known we were out of our territory. But it’s not like I’d never been to Chicago before. My grandmother and friends of my parents lived in Roseland. However, parents were always there.

There used to be a department store, Goodman’s, at 119^th and Halsted Street (west side). My mom didn’t drive, so she, my brother, and I would walk over there. I remember hot summers walking down Peoria and Green St., going northward and crossing railroad tracks. There was a lot of tall grass nearly the same height as me, with sounds of locusts buzzing and grasshoppers jumping by. The tall grass was on parkways between the sidewalk and streets of old abandoned factories. International Harvester had a large operation within a few blocks.

On a map this area is listed as West Pullman, which is usually affiliated with east of Halsted Street. The area had a lot of black people and it was the only time I saw them. There were no black children at Calumet Park schools then and there wasn’t much of an opportunity where we would mix with them. We lived so close to each other but in separate worlds. I wondered about them.  

Sometimes when my mom, brother, and I were on the way home from Goodman’s, I saw black children sitting on their porches. I wondered what were they like? What kinds of things did they do? What did they think of us walking by? But something else got my attention back then that has stayed with me. I saw an old white man sitting on a front porch with a couple of black men drinking beer. My dad drank beer so I was familiar with the brown bottles. I was impressed with this friendliness because I had never seen it before.

By the time I reached junior high, there were three black girls in my class. It wasn’t until high school that I learned about Martin Luther King and read his “I Have a Dream” speech. A review of the speech at Marshall.edu cites a favorite line “…little black boys and little black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls as sisters and brothers…” I eventually learned that blacks left the south and came north for better opportunities, however, I wasn’t really seeing that. The Great White Flight of Calumet Park was in full swing.

Fast forward, I recently watched a (History network) documentary on Frederick Douglass. He lived on a plantation as a child until he was relocated and ASSIGNED a white mistress to serve. However, she taught him how to read and they practiced reading the Bible together. Unbeknownst to adults, white children were sharing homework and books with black children back then. It was an a-ha moment. The kids were after the same goal – learn to read. There was nothing wrong with that and should have been commended. But no. Once the adults found out, that was the end of it.  

Black and white kids wanted to learn to read and they both wanted to ride swings. Perhaps blacks found more opportunities for work in northern states, however, there was still segregation. As an adult, it is no secret that many feel the racial balance is shifting in another direction. There was, however, a recent sighting that I think would have made Martin Luther King happy. I was sitting at a stop light on Vermont & Western Avenue in Blue Island heading westbound. Two little girls, black and white, were holding hands, smiling and skipping down the sidewalk. I also smiled at their not-so-secret friendship.