The Privilege to Leave

I didn't want to leave Chicago.

I didn't want to leave Chicago because it didn't seem fair.

I didn't want to leave Chicago because it didn't seem fair that I could.

I loved living in the city. I loved the hustle and bustle, the wind, the architecture, the wrought-iron fences. I loved the parking skills I gained, understanding the grid system, the different atmospheres of different neighborhoods. I loved my friends and "family" there, the sense of belonging I developed, the confidence I'd gained.
I loved the people, the richness of the culture, the joy found in good food and graduations, deep bass music and quick-footed dancing. I loved hearing friends call out to each other. I loved yelling across the street myself.

And yet, Chicago crushed me.

It broke me.

Till each breath, each heartbeat was a struggle, full of tension and despair.

Chicago is full of darkness.

Because, you see, when I lived in Chicago, I didn't live in the world of glittering lights and new handbags and smooth jazz and farmer's markets - though I loved visiting that world.

I lived in the city, under-privileged and under-resourced. Drive-bys, school fights, gang signs cluttering up the stop signs. Angry voices, hardened faces. Desperate moms asking for help, needing food to put on the table. Neglected teens with no money for bus fare to get to school.

"Some days I can't even get out of bed," confesses one woman to me.

"My son was murdered last week. Please pray for us," texts another.

"Do you know where my sister is? She never came home last night."

"Can I stay with you? My mom kicked me out."

Violent scars glare at me from one girl's arms, her defiant attitude screaming, "My pain is my own and I am not ashamed of it."

I grew overwhelmed by the pain and the helplessness and the anger and the fear, the vanity and the pride, the delight taken in lewdness and violence.

But I left.

I left to live a quiet middle class life, where all my needs are met and I don't even have to work.

Instead of gunshots I hear wild turkeys.
The lake across the street will never be dragged for bodies.
The only person I know who died recently passed from old age after a long and beautiful life.

I left. My soul is slowly re-anchoring itself, remembering what calm feels like.

But Janine couldn't. Nor Kathy, Maria, Amelia.
So many are stuck just trying to hold themselves together, their families splintering, stuck in a world with harsh rules, constant demands, and no peace.

I can leave, step in and out at will. I have a new husband with multiple degrees working a productive job, I have friends and family that gave us generous wedding gifts (I have an espresso maker! What says middle class extravagance more than that?).

My privilege weighs heavy on me. Why am I so blessed when others are not? Why do I get to step away but others do not?
How can I step away when the world still cries out for love and understanding, for someone to listen and care and give a helping hand? How can I leave when so many others stay?

I don't know.

I just know that I did. I left because I had to, because it was tearing me apart, piece by piece. I shouldered burdens that were not mine to carry, fought anger that was not mine to feel. And I found a man who was kind and gentle, brave and steady, a man who cared about me, not what I did or what others needed, but me. And he pulled me to a quiet place so I could find healing. So I could breathe and feel my heart beat.

But still my heart waits with all those trapped in the darkness.