I was about to cut our losses and go ahead with Ms. Broadnax when a murmur rose from the back of the gym and the
director walked through the door surrounded by a number of aides. He was a dapper black man of medium build, in his
early forties. Straightening his tie, he grimly made his way to the front of the room.
“Welcome,” Sadie said into the mike. “We’ve got a whole bunch of people who want to talk to you.”
The crowd applauded; we heard a few catcalls. The TV lights switched on.
“We’re here tonight,” Sadie said, “to talk about a problem that threatens the health of our children. But before we talk
about asbestos, we need to deal with problems we live with every day. Linda?”
Sadie handed the microphone to Linda, who turned to the director and pointed to the stack of complaint forms.
“Mr. Director. All of us in Altgeld don’t expect miracles. But we do expect basic services. That’s all, just the basics.
Now these people here have gone out of their way to fill out, real neat-like, all the things they keep asking the CHA to
fix but don’t never get fixed. So our question is, will you agree here tonight, in front of all these residents, to work with
us to make these repairs?”
The next moments are blurry in my memory. As I remember it, Linda leaned over to get the director’s response, but
when he reached for the microphone, Linda pulled it back.
“A yes-or-no answer, please,” Linda said. The director said something about responding in his own fashion and again
reached for the mike. Again, Linda pulled it back, only this time there was the slightest hint of mockery in the gesture,
the movement of a child who’s goading a sibling with an ice-cream cone. I tried to wave at Linda to forget what I’d
said before and give up the microphone, but I was standing too far in the rear for her to see me. Meanwhile, the director
had gotten his hand on the cord, and for a moment a struggle ensued between the distinguished official and the
pregnant young woman in stretch pants and blouse. Behind them, Sadie stood motionless, her face shining, her eyes
wide. The crowd, not clear on what was happening, began shouting, some at the director, others at Linda.
Then...pandemonium. The director released his grip and headed for the exit. Like some single-celled creature, people
near the door lurched after him, and he broke into a near trot. I ran myself, and by the time I had fought my way
outside, the director had secured himself in his limousine while a swell of people surrounded the car, some pressing
their faces against the tinted glass, others laughing, still others cursing, most just standing about in confusion. Slowly
the limo lurched forward, an inch at a time, until a path onto the road opened up and the car sped away, lumping over
the cratered street, running over a curb, vanishing from sight.
I walked back toward the gymnasium in a daze, against the current of people now going home. Near the door, a small
circle was gathered around a young man in a brown leather jacket whom I recognized as an aide to the alderman.
“The whole thing was put together by Vrdolyak, see,” he was telling the group. “You saw that white man egging the
folks on. They just trying to make Harold look bad.”
A few feet away, I spotted Mrs. Reece and several of her lieutenants. “See what you done!” she snapped at me. “This
is what happens when you try and get these young folks involved. Embarrassed the whole Gardens, on TV and
everything. White folks seeing us act like a bunch of niggers! Just like they expect.”
Inside, only a few of the parents remained. Linda stood alone in one corner, sobbing. I came up and put my arm
around her shoulder.
“You okay?”
barré
(Barré)
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