When I moved to the north side in 1993, my south side friends asked only one question: Where will you park? Well, that and they asked me about my sexual persuasion, assuming anyone north of Cermak was “funny.”
When I told my north side friends and acquaintances where I was from, one offered this joke: What’s the difference between yogurt and the south side? Yogurt has active cultures.
When I moved to Rogers Park, the far north side of Chicago, one Lincoln Park buddy referred to my area as “the suburbs.” Another pal residing in Lakeview asked if he’d need a passport to visit me.
This week, one pal made a good-natured joke about the south side not having Wi-Fi. This from a guy who lives in Evanston and likely thinks it’s Chicago.
I have not told another friend about my move because I dread the comments. When I told yet another friend that I was moving closer to where they live, they asked, “Why?” Same question from family members and friends whose lexicons apparently lack the word congratulations.
My brother told me, within one minute of hearing my new address, where to find good pizza. Love that.
Reading a short story from a Sox fan friend, they put in a dig at the Cubs that would be adorable if I gave a fuck. The rivalry remains, I guess, but I’ve been a north sider long enough to know that Cubs fans never think of the team that plays on whatever they call that ballpark on 35th these days. Cubs fans can’t get it up to care enough about the Sox to talk shit.
I’m not stunned by any of this. If anything, the division is largely a product of harmless ribbing between parts of the city. But behind these seemingly begin sentiments one finds a history of segregation, uneven economic investment, and grudges born of this bitter fruit.
Laugh because otherwise you’d cry.
