problem was our base, which-in the city, at least-had never been large: eight Catholic parishes flung across several
neighborhoods, all with black congregations but all led by white priests. They were isolated men, these priests, mostly
of Polish or Irish descent, men who had entered the seminary in the sixties intending to serve the poor and heal racial
wounds but who lacked the zeal of their missionary forefathers; kinder men, perhaps better men, but also softer for
their modernity. They had seen their sermons of brotherhood and goodwill trampled under the stampede of white flight,
their efforts at recruiting new members met with suspicion by the dark faces-mostly Baptist, Methodist, Pentecostal-
now surrounding their churches. Marty had convinced them that organizing would break this isolation, that it would not
only stop the neighborhoods’ decline but also reenergize their own parishes and rekindle their spirits. That hope had
been fragile, though, and by the time I met with them they had already resigned themselves to their disappointments.
“The truth is,” one of the priests told me, “most of us out here are looking to get a transfer. The only reason I’m still
around is that nobody’s willing to replace me.”
Morale was even worse among the laity, black folks like Angela, Shirley, and Mona, the three women I’d met at the
rally. They were spirited, good-humored women, those three, women who-without husbands to help-somehow
managed to raise sons and daughters, juggle an assortment of part-time jobs and small business schemes, and organize
Girl Scout troops, fashion shows, and summer camps for the parade of children that wandered through the church every
day. Since none of the three actually lived in Altgeld-they all owned small houses just west of the project-I had asked
them once what motivated them to do what they did. Before I could finish the question, they had all rolled their eyes as
if on cue.
“Watch out, girl,” Angela told Shirley, causing Mona to chuckle merrily. “Barack’s about to interview you. He’s got
that look.”
And Shirley said, “We’re just a bunch of bored middle-aged women, Barack, with nothing better to do with our time.
But”-and here Shirley threw a hand onto her bony hip and raised her cigarette to her lips like a movie star-“if Mr. Right
comes along, then watch out! It’s good-bye Altgeld, hello Monte Carlo!”
I hadn’t heard any jokes from them lately, though. All I’d heard were complaints. The women complained that Marty
didn’t care about Altgeld. They complained that Marty was arrogant and didn’t listen to their suggestions.
Most of all, they complained about the new job bank that we had announced with such fanfare the night of the rally,
but that had turned out to be a bust. As Marty had planned it, a state university out in the suburbs had been assigned to
run the program-it was a matter of efficiency, he explained, since the university had the computers already in place.
Unfortunately, two months after it was supposed to have started, no one had found work through the program. The
computers didn’t work right; the data entry was plagued with errors; people were sent to interview for jobs that didn’t
exist. Marty was livid, and at least once a week he would have to drive out to the university, cursing under his breath as
he tried to pry answers out of officials who seemed more concerned with next year’s funding cycle. But the women
from Altgeld weren’t interested in Marty’s frustrations. All they knew was that $500,000 had gone somewhere, and it
wasn’t in their neighborhood. For them, the job bank became yet more evidence that Marty had used them to push a
secret agenda, that somehow whites in the suburbs were getting the jobs they’d been promised.
“Marty’s just looking out for his own,” they grumbled.
barré
(Barré)
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