Where the Neighborhood Ends
High School: Grades 9–12
Story
Page: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9
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Lane slowly emptied his glass before he replied. "I'm sorry, Daddy. I can't agree with you for two reasons. First, some poor black people see public housing as a tactic to keep them fenced in, away from wealthy white folks, where the city can keep an eye on them."
His father looked thoughtful, then nodded. "I can understand that viewpoint."
Lane went on, selecting his words carefully. "The second reason I disagree with you is those plans for urban renewal sound to me like plans for Negro removal. Our neighbors claim they're merely clearing out the slums. Although they'll never admit it, they're clearing out blacks. Racism rules in Hyde Park. Our neighbors don't truly accept us."
"Our neighbors do accept us," Lydia Jane insisted. "We're respectable! That's why I worry about inviting poor blacks to Hyde Park. Yes, they deserve a decent place to live, but they represent the Negro stereotype we're trying to break."
"Mama, can't you see?" Lane spoke bitterly, remembering again the scene with Robert and Alice on the school steps. "Proper English, stylish clothes, good manners—they don't mean a thing. In our neighbors' eyes, we're just Negroes." Lane turned back to his father. "And I bet they're preparing to throw us out of their high-class, white neighborhood." Lane laid his napkin on the table. "Excuse me, I have homework."
On Saturday night, Lane said goodbye to Cobie and Esau outside the movie theater and started for home alone. A chill wind rattled along the buster-blighted street. Lane shivered; his slouchy hat and khaki pants weren't heavy enough for this weather. He walked faster until he reached the block where, the previous day, he had passed the group of teenagers and the man installing a "For Sale" sign. He remembered the glares of white residents on this street. Negroes clearly weren't welcome here.
Suddenly, from one of houses, someone yelled: "There's the prowler! Get him!"
Lane looked around, wondering where the prowler was, until a glass bottle shattered on the sidewalk only three feet away. Then he understood—someone was calling him the prowler!
"Come on! Get him!" a cry rang out.
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Lane broke into a sprint. News photos of the Cicero Race Riot with the National Guard holding back a mob of homeowners protesting the arrival of blacks flashed through his mind as he ran. The sound of pounding feet and shouting pursued him.
"Black boy! Go home!"
His pursuers were gaining on him, but now Lane was only two blocks from his own backyard. He accelerated. At last he saw the light in the kitchen window. In another two hundred yards, he would reach the gate and be home free.
Too late, he remembered that the gate was gone—there was only a solid fence. As he swerved toward the street again, his feet rolled over fallen walnuts, and he crashed to the ground.
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