Marjorie Phillips woke at precisely the same time every morning: 6:00 am. It wasn’t her choice to wake up early but rather the L-train’s. Always on time, the dingy string of cars packed full of face-less suits, caused her whole apartment to shake as it sped towards the financial district. When she first moved into the apartment, this wake-up call annoyed her, but as time passed she appreciated that she would never have to buy an alarm clock.
Many people would despise living in the outer reaches of Chicago but Marjorie managed to look past the empty shelves at the grocery store, the boarded up houses on her street, and that one crack dealer (she thought he introduced himself as Dr. G, but she wasn’t quite sure due to his lisp) who always whistled as she walked by. It was the little things that mattered. The way the sunlight showed through the oak trees and dappled the sidewalk, the giggle of the twins next door she could hear through her thin apartment walls. Little things.
She was young and beautiful, with a flowing mane of curly black hair, and an impeccable sense of style. On her days off from work at Target she would take the north-bound L-train to go shopping at Macy’s and Bloomingdale’s. Her favorite item of clothing was a long sleeved black velvet cocktail dress. She found it in the sale rack and bought with her first paycheck. It was expensive but she figured that she needed something other than red shirts and khakis to wear (she thought that their colors clashed horribly with her hazel eyes) when had time off. Besides, even though she couldn’t afford art school, she felt it was important to keep up with the latest trends.
Sometimes, on late weekend nights she would climb out to the fire escape landing outside of her window and watch the street below her. She saw the beauty in the sleek black crows that nested in the tree just out of reach. The way Dr. G’s cigarette glowed in a pool of darkness left by a broken street lamp, a hovering light that reminded her of the fireflies she used to catch when she was younger. And the trembling of the train tracks that to her, sounded like the heartbeat of the city.
A couple of years ago I went on a volunteer trip to Chicago in order to learn about and help out people dealing with the food desert crisis. In this city there are large areas where fresh fruits and vegetables are virtually unavailable. I was shocked by this because I have never in my life seen a grocery store with empty produce shelves. When I read the prompt I was reminded of this moment. I didn’t understand how people could live without such basic things in such awful neighborhoods and still be happy. I met so many amazing people in Chicago who were making the best out of what they had that I decided to base my character off of them. Marjorie is so different in me in that she has less opportunities and somehow is able to look at the bright side of things, which to be honest can be hard for me to do even though I’m so blessed to go to college and simply live in such a safe place. It was hard to write this story knowing I have a large amount of privilege. In some ways I felt guilty for writing about something I had not experienced because I felt as if in order to write about poverty well one has to live it. I also worried that I was romanticizing poverty.
