FORTNIGHT JOURNAL :: Documenting the Promise of the Millennial Generation

THE COTTAGE BUS

TRAJECTORIES CROSS ON CHICAGO STREETS. BRIANA'S STORY MARKS A HARD PASSAGE FROM HOME TO CLASSROOM.

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Based on a true story.

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The Cottage bus is late again. Man, I can’t believe this.

When I can drive, this bus won’t be hasslin’ me no more. I am so tired of waiting.

Old bus. Smells like old ladies, gasoline. Driver always lookin’ at me sideways. You know; that corner of his eye thing, just barely turning his head. Like, what’d I do? I pay like everyone else, I gotta travel on this damn thing like everyone else. So why you starin’ at me funny?

Hot out here again today. Chicago summers are killer. I swear: 70 yesterday, and then today, I got sweat rolling down by back, my arms—shit, even my kneecaps are sweating.

Can’t complain, though; last summer was worse. Sewers fuming like something out of this world. I read in the Trib that the whole damn city is falling apart, that our streets is smelling because the city is collapsing from under us, little by little. Just crumbling apart. Pretty soon, sewage is gonna

creep into the basements, hanging out down there like it belongs. And this old damn bus keeps rumbling along like ain’t nothing to worry about.

Lady wandered up behind me. She has the face on, that stalled face, I can tell she is lookin’ for the opening to start talking to me. Older lady, probably lonely, has a walker, and those big grayish brown shoes, you know; the ones with that lift in the heel, nursing home shoes or something like that. All the older ladies ‘round here wear them. I don’t know what happens, do you hit sixty one day and they just show up on your doorstep?

Here, lady, you are now officially old. Enjoy your new shoes. Don’t go crazy with ‘em, these don’t grow on trees. I guess the next delivery is those creased polyester pants or something. The brown ones, to go with the band-aid colored geriatric heels, and of course, the walker.

There is this one dude whose has one of those walkers with a chair on it, you know: Walk three steps, sit down, take a breather, have a smoke, walk three steps. But you see, this guy, man, this guy put some thought into his walker. He’s got some serious decorating going on. That shit is out of Good Housekeeping or something!

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One of my teachers assigned us this art project where you have to cut crap out of a magazine and glue it down to make a bigger picture. Well, he done magazined his entire walker. Attached an old school radio to it, too; duct tape. Reception so bad, I don’t even know why he bothers.

Lady looks at me, giving me those old person sad eyes. I swear, I know her mind is spinning in there, now what can I talk to this young brother about, that is what she’s thinking. Scrutinizing my outfit, trying to find her “in.”

“Young man…”

Oh lord. See? I knew it. You know, they always be wantin’ to talk, and I get it. I mean, many of these old folk, they are looking around and it is like a different world. They don’t have no control no more.

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All the dreams they talked about, it is like that dream deferred thing, but their dreams just festered into oblivion.

They thought they made progress, right? I hear that from the old guys kickin’ it on the corner all the time. All this talk about brother Hampton,

the riots, Dr. King, self-respect, what did they fight for, where did it go? On and on, I get it. What must it be like for it all to go up in smoke. Or it is not even smoke really? Because smoke is something; smoke is a product of fire.

There ain’t even a fire ‘round here, people just too busy makin’ their ends meet to care about startin’ somethin’ real, or finishing what was already started. This old momma, she is probably a great-great grandma by now, just watching the generations spiral.

“Ahem, young man…”

See, here is my piece with all this. These old folk, they look at me like they can’t decide if I am the savior, or destruction itself. For real. They don’t even know what they want from us young people anymore. I pass by the corner and half the guys be comin’ up to me, missing teeth, smelling like piss and alcohol trying to tell me what my peers and I ain’t doin’ how we the future but we let them down.

And I’m standin’ there just thinking to myself, yea, sure, but look at you, smellin’ like piss and missing teeth. Not like you did such great things for your own self. I don’t say that of course, ‘cause my momma ever hear me talking like that and she

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would whoop so hard my head would spin, but it’s up there.

They spend half the time tellin’ me how terrible I am, and the other half talking about my supreme intelligence and how I’m “the hope.” Please. I ain’t their hope. I might be my own, but I definitely ain’t theirs. ‘Cause when they done talking to me, they go join the rest of the men on that corner, half only a few years my senior, already relegated to their spots, glued onto wheel chairs.

They forgot that, when the bullets don’t kill you, you're still alive. Middle of the damn day, everyday, and they is sitting there.

Unemployment for a black man on the south side of Chicago, something between 45 and 70 percent, depending on who you count, and who’s counting. Incarceration rate? 25 percent. So, what’s that leave?

You see, she talking to me because I look right. Got my uniform on, khaki’s, belt, shirt tucked in and all. Otherwise, she’d be pretending I ain’t here.

“Yes ma’am, the bus does stop there.” See, I speak right with her. Give her a little hope. Make her feel warm inside about that nice young man she met at the bus. I am, you know. A nice young man, despite that bus driver eyeing me and all.

It doesn’t pay to be a nice young man down here though. I don’t mean that in the literal way, like it don’t give me money; no, I mean, it just doesn’t work. You see, them old people, they talk about the revolution, the fight, all that, and they want me actin’ a certain way, dressin’ a certain way, and it’s strange. Two reasons why: One, really—they don’t say it, but I’m speakin’ honest here—I’m a nice young man, a presentable young man, when I dress white, talk white. They never gonna say that, but it’s true. These folk can talk their revolution all day, but the only revolution they really want is the one where I start actin’ like the same people who put them in this position to start.

Second, for such revolutionaries, they scared of their own kids. Not jokin’. Other day I see some young brothers playin’ around, rough housin’ you know? And what do these old buggers do? They don’t get up off their seats to teach right from wrong, nope. They call the cops. Straight up call the cops on some ten year olds. They scared. Scared of kids. See what I’m sayin’? Are we the future or some disease, some cancer? ‘Cause I’m confused.

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Bus is finally here, old rickety bus. I let the lady get on first then I sit way far away from her,

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throw my headphones on and zone out. Let the rhythm of the road take over for a bit. I’m not going that far, but this bus stops every other block, I swear. People too lazy to walk these days, so it takes forever to get anywhere. I’m late as it is, but at this point, that ain’t in my control, so ok, I’m just gonna go with it.

From my stop at 63^rdand Cottage, it’s just 5 blocks to school. Past Daley’s, and the gas station where the hoods hang out, a couple empty lots, then the building where I’m educated at. On a diagonal, this huge brick thing with a big old smoke stack.

Pretty sure they aren’t burning kids down there, but I can’t help picture those camps we learned about in history. I’m serious, not even playin’. Place looks like a prison or somethin’. But it ain’t that bad. I actually like learning when the teachers act right.

Plus I can read and play the game, you know? I can’t say the same for all my peers. They be fittin’ to get McDonald’s jobs or somethin’, because half of them can’t even read the simple shit. It’s not really their fault, but for some of them it don’t mean nothin’ anyway ‘cause with everything else going on, school just isn’t a priority.

The teachers get all mad about this, but sometimes they just ain’t realistic in their

expectations. Let’s see, I’m in a three-bedroom place with momma, grandma, and five little brothers and sisters under ten years old... and you somehow think I’m gonna be gettin’ two hours of reading done and doing research for a history project? Right. That’s logical.

Street’s pretty empty this time a day. I’m comin’ late on a cause of my mom going to an appointment, and someone had to take care of my brothers and sisters who aren’t school age just yet. Walking, I notice all the trash laying around. It makes the street almost shiny. I think the neighborhood would almost look empty without it. Like it was missing something. Dude on a bike passes me, rollin’ nice and easy. Maybe that’s my solution to the bus. Get me a bike. Don’t have to talk to nobody, move around at my own pace. ‘Course, in this heat I’d be all nasty before I even got to school.

‘Round the corner, kids from the grade school outside already. They runnin’ off all that extra energy in their little blue and white uniforms. My age, we don’t get recess no more. And I guess we don’t really need it like they do, but I certainly wouldn’t mind. Guy on the bike stopped off near the playground and is conversatin’ with some kids. Must be a daddy or uncle or something.

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You don’t see so many men ‘round here. You always hear that, but it’s true. Like I said before, the men you do see either been in jail, or are headed there. None of the corner guys said in grade school that when they grow up, they wanna be bums sitting on a corner drinking forties out of a paper bag, right? They were like me, must have been. Had hopes, wants, beliefs, what have you.

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As I approach the playground, dude lifts his foot off the ground and starts to pedal again, nice and easy down the walk. I look away for a second, and the kids still laugh and chase each other. I hear it in the background, a soundtrack. I look back and see the guys hand moving. He slows down.

Shit. He’s packing. I can’t fucking believe this. He’s packing. He lifts his hand and I can see it clearly, fucking gun calmly positioned, pointing across the playground into the parking lot…

POP, POP… POP, POP, POP.

The kids shriek, running, crying, screaming. Like water splashing off a table. Uncontrolled. The ones with know-how are laying on the ground, just like their mommas told them to—but the real

babies are running around looking for something to hold on to.

A tree, a fence, a skirt, anything. Dude doesn’t even look back at them, just keeps on biking, like it weren’t nothin’ in the world. ‘Round here, these days, they don’t even bother with the drive-bys. This guy just pulled a bike-by.

Middle of the damn day, across a crowded playground filled with “tomorrow’s leaders.” I hate this fucking city.

Briana Nichols was working as a teacher at an inner-city school in Chicago, Illinois. As a result of her work on Fortnight, Briana was asked to meet with the Chancellor of the DC Public School System and invited to speak on a panel at Roosevelt University in Chicago, Illinois.

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FORTNIGHT IS

A MULTIMEDIA DOCUMENTARY PROJECT ON THE MILLENNIAL GENERATION: THE LAST GENERATION TO REMEMBER A TIME WITHOUT THE INTERNET.