A Reason to Believe Read Online Free

from a second-floor porch at my head. It hit its mark, opening a wound that sent blood gushing and leaving a scar that I carry to this day. He was a part of the same gang that stole my bike from me—while I was riding it. I had a few buddies with whom I played stickball or capture the flag or chased lightning bugs in the summer. But I was mostly a loner and spent countless hours by myself under the back steps, playing in the dirt with my little toy soldiers, creating imaginary battles, riding to the rescue, and vanquishing enemies. Later, I would huddle for hours with the real estate section of the Sunday newspaper, studying the floor plans of model homes and imagining myself and my life in them. I never missed an episode of
Roy Rogers
.
    For much of the 1960s, the South Side felt rather insulated. Except for our occasional family trips or the annual journey to Sears for school clothes, we lived, worked, wentto school, played, and shopped on the South Side. We didn’t think of it as segregation, just the neighborhood. We were trying to live middle-class lives in hopes of making it into the middle class ourselves one day, and we spent precious little time resenting wealth or white people. We had a vision for where we wanted to go, if no real path on which to get there. The focus in our home seemed to be inordinately on table manners, respectfulness, and homework—not poverty, deprivation, or social justice.
    But by the late 1960s, the barriers against the outside world had begun to come down. The civil rights movement had grown from nonviolent protests to increasing militancy. Opposition to the Vietnam War had escalated, and riots had afflicted urban areas from California to New Jersey. In 1968, after the assassinations of Martin Luther King Jr. and Robert F. Kennedy, the riots finally swept through our neighborhood. Stores were looted. Gangs organized and attacked innocent bystanders. Gunshots became regular background noise. In only a couple of years, our transplanted southern enclave, with its indigenous economy, neighbors who watched over the children, and institutions that craved order, turned into a wasteland of charred buildings and restlessness.
    Things were most dangerous during the hot summers, so my mother decided that Rhonda and I should be away as much as possible. When I was twelve, she decided that we would attend Bible camp in Michigan. We would be away for two weeks, sleeping in a bunk with kids from other churches around Chicago.
    My sister and I were horrified. We were regular but reluctant churchgoers on orders from our grandmother, but religious camp was going too far. No one else from the neighborhood was going, and we would be out of step with the other kids when we got home. And it was to be our first sustained experience with white people. To us they sounded odd. They were mostly harmless, even amusing, as long as they kept their distance, but they could be dangerous if they got too close. These truths we learned from television, which showed Lucille Ball’s endearing hi-jinks but also Bull Connor’s high-powered fire hoses used against defenseless blacks.
    When the day came to leave for Camp Beechpoint, we boarded the bus with all the other kids and set off. We tried not to reveal our apprehension, but we failed. We were hopelessly conscious of being out of place, and it showed. For instance, most of the white kids had duffel bags and backpacks suitable for the rugged outdoors, but we showed up with plastic, hard-sided luggage and steamer trunks, as if we were about to embark on the Grand Tour of Europe. The bus was quiet much of the way, and the ride seemed to take hours. I suspect most of the new campers were nervous as well, but at the time we were sure it was only us. One thing was for certain: There would be no bickering between Rhonda and me. We had to look out for each other.
    When we arrived, we met the counselors and were shown to our cabins. They were simple wooden boxes onstone