8-20-2024

 

 

Let’s see, I was born in 1953 and that would have made me 15 y/o in 1968. During the summers before 8^th grade and my freshman year at St. George High School I cut grass at Rosehill Cemetery. Being frugal, I saved enough cash to buy the equivalent of a Husky 10 speed bicycle. Granted it was not as sophisticated as my friend’s Schwinn and European racing bikes but it was a workhouse and in the end proved to be expendable.

 

It was obvious, even to me, that in 1968 the world was in upheaval. In Chicago there were lock downs and a dusk to dawn curfew after the MLK assassination. My family lived on the second floor of a northside two-flat not far from where I live now. Being on the Northside I did not see or experience any of the carnage until a year later when at 16 I borrowed dad’s Pontiac Tempest, and drove to the south and west sides to survey the damage. Probably not the smartest thing I could have done on my first forays driving in the city. 

 

As I mentioned in a previous posting, I often road my bike downtown. As the time of the DNC neared I noticed that I did not have Lincoln and Grant Parks to myself any longer. An exceedingly odd group of revealers began to populate the parks. It is common now to see tents in the park but then this was unique. I found it curious that the police tolerated the intrusion. 

 

I began to forsake my ride north and daily ventured south into the mix. Back then the motorcycle cop’s rode pan-head Harley trikes. I distinctly remember them riding through the protestors where an unspoken truce prevailed. Both the foreign invaders and the police could not quite comprehend their roles in what was to play out. 

 

My daily ride went on for a couple of weeks. The tempo in the park picked up as did the population count. The uncensored goings on were quite a sight for this sheltered north side kid. I don’t remember there being any discussion of this in catechism class. 

 

It all came to an abrupt end after the riot in front of the Michigan Avenue Hilton Hotel. I had enough sense not to venture south for some time. Summer drew to a close and my bike rides were curtailed by football, track and schoolwork, though I do not remember doing much of that. 

 

Chicago has never lived down the 1968 debacle. It tarnished the city, the Daley’s and lead to police crack downs and show trials like the Chicago Seven.

 

My ten speed was stolen two years later in Grant Park at the Sly and The Family Stone concert riot. It was my first taste of tear gas and hiding in hedges to avoid the roving bands of hoodlums who took advantage of the chaos. There is much to be said for growing up in interesting times . . . even if my bike got stolen!