Two Snakes

I walked to the bus while the usual and the uncanny coiled together. I wore a heavy jacket and a light scarf. The jacket from Brownsville, the scarf from my sister. November. Sun casting a pale honey over purpled apartments and Albany Park families headed to school.

Because the walk is eight minutes long, and because the bus wasn’t scheduled for another fourteen, I let myself stop to investigate a plant I didn’t recognize. It lived in the gap between a neighbor’s lawn and a red street curb. Big leaves like water warped pages. My phone took a photo and told me, Burdock. Invasive to Chicago. Mildly poisonous leaves and stems. Indicator of high soil nitrates.

I seem to keep scanning poisonous things – bittersweet nightshade, lily of the valley. I’m learning what I can and can’t eat of the stuff that comes easily from this urban patch. I have dreams of spending winter collecting seeds. Of little sprouting things on the radiator, plants that eventually become strong enough to feed others like they’ve been fed. Lemon balm. Garlic. Bergamot. Hyssop. Potatoes. Carrots. Radishes. Zucchini. Onions. Beets. Dill. Cucumbers. Pumpkins. Melons. Magic words that mean, “full”. “Exchange”. “A circle you can step inside of”.

On the bus I wear headphones with mixed feelings. We grow apart, all of us, in our seats or holding on. Used to have no choice but to hear each other. Still, the music feels good on my sleeping brain, adds cheer to the view that scrolls by: Horner park under orange leaves, the inky river, many dogs out for their walks or riding in those dog strollers that seem to be everywhere now. Inevitably a gasping french bulldog inside, and the toddlers walking, and me angry that some dogs eat better than many people, trying this morning not to think about the podcast ads for dog food that needs to be refrigerated.

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SNAP is on an indefinite pause as of four days ago. I went to a food bank for the first time last week. Arrived, received a number on a flexible plastic tag, “2”, which really meant “102” because they’d handed out a full cycle of numbers already. Waited in a Fabuloso-scented room with white tile and yellow walls and a friendly man at a plastic table. Posters – “We Keep Each Other Safe”, “Please be considerate and wear a mask”. Rows of folding chairs. The faces in them, both what I pictured and not. People smiled at people with children, interacted with the babies, kept them entertained or put up with their full volume ipads. Italian brainrot and sad AI generated cat videos in Spanish. I read and worried I wouldn’t get what I needed, I hadn’t brought my ID or reusable bags, I’d never done this before. I eavesdropped on the check in process – many people like me, first timers driven by collapsed EBT.

After three hours, I hobbled to the bus stop with seven heavy bags. Greens. Radishes. Potatoes. Onions. Apples. Five cans of diced tomatoes. Canned spinach. Canned soup. Two loaves of dark rye bread. Peanut butter. $53 frozen beef chuck roast from Jewel Osco. Styrofoam flat of boneless chicken thighs. Kroger beer brats. Four cans of black beans. Two tins of tuna. Enriched white rice. Baby carrots. Flour. Quick cook oatmeal. Unsweetened applesauce. Raisins. Prunes. Rice krispie cereal. Shredded wheat. Corn tortillas. Yogurt coated rice cakes. Costco double chocolate muffins. Deodorant. Hot chocolate powder. The volunteer walked with me and a shopping cart, told me how much I could take from each shelf, always more than I expected.

Relief at the “good” brand names. Anger, too. Clearly there’s enough. Clearly Kroger and Costco have enough to give people what they need.

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Today, at work, my coworkers and I have locked the front doors. I sit at a little circular table in the echoey vestibule, letting people in and answering what questions I can. “Yeah, I know the door’s locked, yeah, the store’s open. ICE has been in the neighborhood. We’re being cautious. Have a good day. Take care.”

I heard ICE earlier today. Or rather, I heard the people tailing them. A message from Delaney on Slack at 9:20 am while I was stacking chairs: “Caravan of 3 ice vehicles circling around Lincoln square/ravenswood right now. Black Denali, white Denalie(Florida plates), & black Chevy Tahoe (__p8392). From the neighborhood bike patrol chat.”

I pushed the message to the front desk chat. Took my sweater off, for some reason. Caught the elevator downstairs and put it back on, backwards. Noted a white man from administration standing out front. Noted no one standing out back. Stood out back. Ran into a woman from maintenance and warned her about the trucks in the area, “ten cuidado”, stood like a meerkat at the edge of the gate and tried to see more than I could. Thought of the workers I’d passed this morning, tidying the baseball fields in Welles park. Scuttled that way. Heard whistles. Heard horns. Behind me, mostly. Hurried. Empty landscaping vans parked haphazardly on the grass. Hoping they were empty for the right reasons. Holding my whistle in my hands, attached to my keys. Hurrying back to work. More white administrators by the door, watching as I’d been. The half-silly realization that I could’ve disappeared on that little walk to the park and it would take these people a while to realize what had happened. Wondering if they see me as a potential victim. Wondering if I should see me as a potential victim, or if that’s self-aggrandizing. Light-skinned, north side. Putting the thoughts out of my head. Going inside. Comparing notes with my two coworkers in the office. Another stream of whistles from outside the window. Down Lincoln. Three trucks – black, white, black, shiny – tailed by ten cyclists and two cars. Laying on their horns, shrill continuous whistle blasts, pedalling furiously. The thrill of fear that went through me. The thrill of pride.

I sit at my table. I get up and let people in. I sit down and explain. I get up and let people in.

I’m frightened, I’m heartened. I look at the simple tools in my clumsy hands. I find a way to use them.