best patronage jobs that the Machine had to offer in the days before patronage became a dirty word. In his eagerness to
do battle with the downtown power brokers, the investment bankers in their fancy suits, Marty wanted to wish such
differences away as part of an unfortunate past. But for someone like Angela, the past was the present; it determined
her world with a force infinitely more real than any notions of class solidarity. It explained why more blacks hadn’t
been able to move out into the suburbs while the going was still good, why more blacks hadn’t climbed up the ladder
into the American dream. It explained why the unemployment in black neighborhoods was more widespread and
longstanding, more desperate; and why Angela had no patience with those who wanted to treat black people and white
people exactly the same.
It explained Altgeld.
I looked at my watch: ten past two. Time to face the music. I got out of my car and rang the church doorbell. Angela
answered, and led me into a room where the other leaders were waiting: Shirley, Mona, Will, and Mary, a quiet, dark-
haired white woman who taught elementary school at St. Catherine’s. I apologized for being late and poured myself
some coffee.
“So,” I said, taking a seat on the windowsill. “Why all the long faces?”
“We’re quitting,” Angela said.
“Who’s quitting?”
Angela shrugged. “Well...I am, I guess. I can’t speak for everybody else.”
I looked around the room. The other leaders averted their eyes, like a jury that’s delivered an unfavorable verdict.
“I’m sorry, Barack,” Angela continued. “It has nothing to do with you. The truth is, we’re just tired. We’ve all been at
this for two years, and we’ve got nothing to show for it.”
“I understand you’re frustrated, Angela. We’re all a little frustrated. But you need to give it more time. We-”
“We don’t have more time,” Shirley broke in. “We can’t keep on making promises to our people, and then have
nothing happen. We need something now.”
I fidgeted with my coffee cup, trying to think of something else to say. Words jumbled up in my head, and for a
moment I was gripped with panic. Then the panic gave way to anger. Anger at Marty for talking me into coming to
Chicago. Anger at the leaders for being short-sighted. Anger at myself for believing I could have ever bridged the gap
between them. I suddenly remembered what Frank had told me that night back in Hawaii, after I had heard that Toot
was scared of a black man.
That’s the way it is, he had said. You might as well get used to it.
In this peevish mood, I looked out the window and saw a group of young boys gathered across the street. They were
tossing stones at the boarded-up window of a vacant apartment, their hoods pulled over their heads like miniature
monks. One of the boys reached up and started yanking at a loose piece of plywood nailed across the apartment door,
then stumbled and fell, causing the others to laugh. A part of me suddenly felt like joining them, tearing apart the whole
dying landscape, piece by piece. Instead, I turned back toward Angela.
“Let me ask you something,” I said, pointing out the window. “What do you suppose is going to happen to those boys
out there?”