INTRODUCTION

Worse than that are the civic boosters who, thanks to our second city syndrome, have raised the act of speaking in superlatives to a high art. It was indeed a dark day when the Petronas Towers in Kuala Lampur were topped off as the tallest building in the world, a few feet higher than our Sears Tower. A collective sigh of relief could be heard all around town when someone noticed that the Malaysian behemoth's highest floor was not as high as our's, preserving, for however briefly, our city's most cherished claim to fame.

Today, the term "world class city" has replaced monikers such as "the city that works", and "city of big shoulders". The new term is so commonplace that now people use it in everyday conversation. Movies and TV shows are shot here year round, commercials tout the joys of the city, and the tourist business is one of the fastest growing industries in town, a far cry from the days of The Jungle, Sister Carrie, and Native Son. Even the Democrats returned, holding their convention here in this most politically incorrect of towns in 1996, ending a 28 year boycott.

There was a time when Chicagoans could not have cared less about being "world class". I remember during the 1968 Democratic National Convention, when mobs outside the Conrad Hilton Hotel chanted "The whole world is watching...". The locals were too busy to notice, they were still reeling from the riots after the assassination of Martin Luther King. If the entire world's image of Chicago was formed on that steamy August night so long ago, our own feelings about this ciy had changed forever some five months earlier. Nothing would ever be the same. That year was the beginning of the end of the era of Richard J. Daley, of urban "renewal", and of insular neighborhoods where the term "outsider" could mean someone from across the street as easily as someone from the other side of the world.

Although "world class" wasn't always a part of the vocabulary, Chicago did care what the rest of the world thought. The unbridled braggadocio is nothing new. At one time, this city had the gall to call itself a rival of the great metropolis to the east. Not for nothing did this city rise out of the primordial muck that nature created, and later the ashes of 1871 to become, by the turn of the twentieth century, a major player on the American scene.

But in my eyes, like a hoodlum calling himself respectable, any city that finds it necessary to declare itself world class, isn't. The brochures go on and on about our great cultural institutions, our theater, our restaurants, etc. Well frankly, New York's are better. It took me a long time to accept the fact that Chicago isn't New York, Paris or London.

So be it.

After living my whole life in this city, there is still something about it that thrills me. Despite the routine of everyday life, I can walk through the Loop and discover new things. Of course my view of Chicago is not objective. The passing of time has had a profound impact on me, sometimes blinding me to the present. Like many, I often fall into the trap of looking favorably on the past, with contempt of change.

Although it is not outrageous to state that in many ways, Chicago was a better place forty years ago, it is also unwise not to recognize what is still here. The last forty years have been hard on this city, as they have in other cities in this country. Much of what we should have treasured in the past is gone. Much of what we should treasure today, will one day also be gone. The following is a short list some of my treasures in this city, in no particular order:

• Summer evenings along the lakefront, when the heat of the day gives way to a cool lake breeze, the sweet, slightly fishy smell in the air, the deep greens and blues of the lake, the silhouettes of sailboats set against the reds and oranges and azures of the dusk sky.
• The unbroken view of the early 20th Century buildings of South Michigan Avenue against an evening sky while sitting in Grant Park listening to Beethoven as stunt planes work on their routines over the lake for the next day's air show.
• The explosion of color during the second and third weeks of October along Jens Jensen's Prairie River in Humboldt Park.
• The El.
• Mike Royko.
• The memory of Walter Payton.
• The Boulevards.
• The industrial guts of the city, as seen from the Stevenson Expressway and the Skyway.
• The State Street Skyline as seen from the skating rink at Christmastime.
• The view while standing on the Michigan Avenue Bridge at night, enjoying one of the finest urban experiences any city could possibly provide.

The essays that follow are unedited accounts of different views of Chicago. Originally I intended them to be stories about growing up in the neighborhoods. But as the stories came in, the writers saw more potential in their own ideas than in my original plan. Some of the stories come from fresh eyes, others from cynical ones. Although I may shy away from venomous Chicagophobes as well as exhuberant Chicagophiles, I absolutely encourage diversity in opinion. Unfortunately, there is no possible way that this forum will ever become a complete picture of a city, hard as I may try.

In that vein I invite anyone who reads this, to contribute his or her own little piece of Chicago history.