It wasn’t always this way

It wasn’t always this way. Remember? Remember when we used to sit on the porch beneath star lights in the middle of the hood with the fellas, laughing and talking way past midnight — and nobody got shot?

And streets were filled at daytime with the cold white spray of the fire hydrant and children’s laughter when summers turned real hot?

There was no such thing as drive-bys back then. We piled into a car with a big brown bag of buttered popcorn to share, and drove down Cicero to the drive-in theater called the Bel-Air.

And on long summer days, we licked on Kool-Aid icy cups. Even when we fought, we used our hands. And nobody got shot. And the “pop-pop-pop” on the Fourth of July was firecrackers, not gunshots.

Remember?

Remember when you could accidentally step on a brother’s shoes and not have to fight?

When we had respect for our neighbors even when our parents weren’t in sight?

You averted stepping on someone else’s grass. And old folks and women got to pass without hearing young men curse. Mostly every kid went to Sunday School and memorized at least one Bible verse.

The block club party was the climax of summer. We danced in the streets like we had no problems. And even though our poverty ran thick, it never ran us over. ‘Cause we still had Black pride, we at least had each other.

And we called each other “brother” or “man” or “my-boy.” And we called girls and women by their names instead of “b----,” “THOT” or “whore.”

I remember so much more. … How Sundays were God’s days. And summer days were like sweet glaze. And the sun shone on the ghetto like it shined on the meadow. And neither poverty nor systemic racism could ever dictate how high we held our heads, nor consign us to a life of dread.

And whatever we lacked, we still had each other’s back.

“My mama said, ‘Can she borrow some flour?’ ” Sometimes a loaf of bread.

Whatever betided, the Lord kept us fed. And at least we were alive, not dead.

No bullets flying. No children dying. Not like today when there is no pause for a child in the way of an assassin. No caution for the innocent who might be passing.

And in the air, music from radio stations blaring, “Act Up”

It blares, “Headlocc”:

“Big four-five, I’m focused, I’ll bust a n---- head open, Killers on side, they scopin’, And I’ll put the play in motion…”

It forms a toxic potion: Poverty and hyper-segregation, the demise of community and the righteousness that once exalted a nation. The absence of brotherly love and knowledge that the Black man is God’s original creation. But instead now having become lead actors in our oppressors’ plan to steal, kill and destroy the Black man.

Damn, man.

So we slay each other — our babies, sons and mothers — innocence extinguished like candles in the wind. Turn our neighborhoods into killing fields, our streets into murderous playpens.

Meanwhile, we chant: “Black lives matter!” I’m trying hard to reconcile this mantra amid so much blood splatter and this mounting toll that eats away at this city’s soul.

Where lasting racial segregation allows the other Chicago to look the other way. So long as we kill each other, so long as it doesn’t disturb their day. So long as it’s on the other side that hittas prey and spray.

But it doesn’t have to be this way.

I remember when the sun rose and fell, and nobody got shot. I remember when we understood that we’re all we’ve got.

Email:Author@johnwfountain.com