Never a City So Real - Alex Kotlowitz [5]
Have all been remembered with bronze memorials . . .
Then maybe I will stand here
And look easy at this general of the army holding a flag in the air . . .
CARL SANDBURG
(from “Ready to Kill,” Chicago Poems)
Fourteen miles southeast of the Loop, at the base of Lake Michigan, the city’s easternmost corner, one finds a fistful of neighborhoods with hearty names like Irondale, Hegewisch, The Bush, and Slag Valley. This is South Chicago. Apart from Altgeld Gardens—a vast public housing complex virtually hidden from the rest of the world by towering mountains of garbage and often referred to as Chicago’s Soweto—South Chicago is the city’s most isolated community, its most removed. The labor lawyer and author Tom Geoghegan has called it “a secret city.” The vast majority of Chicagoans have never set foot here, and as if to ensure such detachment, above the compact redbrick bungalows with postage-stamp-size yards looms the Chicago Skyway, a highway on stilts, which takes the prosperous to their cottages along the Indiana and Michigan shorelines. The neighborhoods below are modest in appearance, a collection of small homes and small taverns and diners with simple names like Steve’s, Pete’s Hideaway, Who Cares?, Small World Inn, and Maria’s Den. There’s nothing fanciful about this area. As one observer wrote: “Streets named Commercial and Exchange offer testimony that people came here to make a buck, not admire the scenery.”
And yet the scenery, so to speak, is awe-inspiring, the man-made equivalent of the Rockies. Dark, low-to-the-ground muscular structures, some three times the size of a football field, sprawl across the landscape, sprouting chimneys so tall that they’re equipped with blinking lights to alert wayward aircraft. These chimneys shoot full-bodied flames thirty feet into the sky; at night they appear almost magical, like giant torches heating the moon. Billows of smoke linger in the air like phantom dirges. It used to be, when the steel mills were going strong, that these smokestacks spat out particles of graphite that would dust the streets and cars and rooftops like snow, catching the sun and setting the neighborhood aglitter. Suspended conveyor belts, pipes, and railroad overpasses weave in, out, and over the behemoth buildings. The noise is crushing, the stench of sulfur so powerful that not even a closed car window can keep it at bay. Had Rube Goldberg lost his sense of humor, this is, I imagine, what he would have produced.
This is the heart of American industrial might, or what’s left of it. The first of the mills was built in the 1850s, and within a hundred years more steel was produced in this stretch of land than anywhere else in the world. The freighters delivered iron ore from Minnesota’s Mesabi Range, and the mills turned the mineral into steel, shipping it west by rail and eventually east by the St. Lawrence Seaway. By the 1960s, the mills employed eighty thousand men and women; they cascaded in from Poland, from Yugoslavia, from Mexico, and from the American South. Steel mills and refineries lined up along the dredged Calumet River and along the Lake Michigan shoreline, extending twenty-two miles from South Chicago to Gary, Indiana. This stretch of boiling steel was the equivalent of an industrial mountain stream, the source for can openers and knives, refrigerators and cars, bridges and skyscrapers. It fed this country’s insatiable hunger for consumption and comfort. It was, in short, the nation’s lifeblood.
The local population is still so dependent on the mills that the daily newspaper in Hammond, Indiana, which is just over the Chicago border, runs a box score every Wednesday of the region’s steel tonnage and capacity. Nonetheless, there are only fifteen thousand working in the mills now; the owners grew complacent, so accustomed to their oligopoly that they forgot how to compete. Between the mills that still roll steel, there are hundreds of acres of vacant land littered with abandoned factory buildings stripped of