I stayed with my mother's cousin's family in Chicago for some time and established somewhat of a routine. In the mornings I would minimize the burden of my presence by doing household tasks in their small apartment. I did not enjoy this activity and always looked forward to my mid-day walk around their neighborhood as a relief from monotony.
My relatives lived in a neighborhood that used to be composed mostly of Swedish immigrants, but it was fairly nondescript in 1951. One aspect of the neighborhood's history had persisted: only white-looking people lived there. I probably wouldn't have taken any notice of this fact at the time (coming from a shockingly homogenous town in the first place) except that my daily walks took me past the Twelfth Street Station.
The station was always crowded with black families and their belongings arriving from the South. When I walked past it (and stood, sometimes, and watched) I could see them emerging from the station. At the time I did not consider myself privileged to have the opportunity to observe so many people's first entrance into a city that they would make their homes. In fact, at the time I only had the faintest of understandings of what those people were thinking and feeling. I attributed the looks of confusion, apprehension, and almost wild hope that I could sometimes discern on their faces as a reaction to their first taste of the biting cold of the Chicago winter. I had not traveled much at that point, but I knew it was hotter down South.
Looking back, I realize that even after I did travel extensively, giving into the urge to go that may have motivated some of these travelers, I probably still could not completely grasp the experience of someone who travels out of fear rather than joy.
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