It's one of my favorite summertime memories.
We — the husband, three daughters and I — were attempting to cruise north on Lincoln Memorial Drive, near Bradford Beach. I say "attempting" because the Lake Michigan boulevard resembled a parking lot: All four lanes of the roadway were jam packed with folks attempting to cruise by the beach on this smoldering hot, humid day. We crawled to a dead stop so often that the hubby put the car in park every few feet, waiting for the cars ahead of us to inch forward.
Typically, such heavy stop-and-go traffic would annoy the hubby. He's a go-and-go sort of guy. But the city was entertaining on this particular day — everywhere were classic cars, convertibles, expensive SUVs, hot rods, motorcycles and, of course, swimsuit-clad hard bodies.
One pimped-out ride, a Cadillac convertible, caught my eye as we approached it, parked on my side of the road. I'll be honest: It caught my eye because it was totally stereotypical. The metallic paint job was accented by flashy rims and a leather interior — very nice. Exactly what you would expect a pimp or drug dealer in a Hollywood movie to drive.
And seated inside the car were — no surprise, if you believe the stereotype — four black teenage boys. Four black teenage boys sporting gang colors.
In the interest of full disclosure, I can't remember exactly how the teens were dressed. I do remember at least one red baseball cap, cocked atop its owner's head ... but little else. After living in Milwaukee a while, though, I can assure you it's easy to spot gang members when they're dressed the part; it's a certain look you just know. As the four piled out of the car, I just knew.
While I watched, the boy in the red cap jumped from the passenger seat and turned toward the driver of the car. He held a really big gun that he quickly pointed at the driver, and then — in broad daylight, in the midst of a crowd of people — he pulled the trigger. And he hit his target.
The driver was suddenly soaking wet ... drenched in water from his buddy's squirt gun.
Boys will be boys
Again in the interest of full disclosure, I knew I wasn't witnessing an actual shooting. The hubby and I weren't the least bit nervous watching those boys exit their car.
You see, after being parents for more than a decade and a half, my husband and I could spot happy teenagers a mile away.
Happy teenagers are rarely spotted by adults, any parent of a teenager will tell you. They tend to run in packs, away from their parents and other authority figures. And it's not always obvious from facial expressions when you do spot happy teens, but we parents just know.
And, on this day at the lake, we just knew we were catching a rare glimpse of four happy teenagers at play outside.
The sight was made that much more special — touching, in fact — because we saw four gangbangers defy the stereotype. They reminded us that, whatever their sins, they were still children.
For the afternoon, at least, they were simply boys being boys.
Random acts of humanity
I live for moments like that water-gun fight — moments when people pleasantly surprise others by defying stereotypes, betraying their looks, going the extra mile, turning the other cheek, being the bigger person.
A few more of such moments ...
Dinner and dancing: Last night, we picked up dinner at Speed Queen BBQ. Located at 1130 W Walnut St., it's considered the city's best by many barbecue lovers. The neighborhood is rough, however, and patrons regularly get hit up by the homeless. (This isn't a problem for us; I'm just establishing the setting.)
As we were driving away, my husband told me to look in the side mirror. I did so, and I got to watch a grown man dance his way across the street behind us on roller skates. The show was impressive, and we didn't pay a dime.
Spidey nonsense: We were downtown late one Friday night, stopped in our car at a traffic light, when — out of the blue — Spiderman crossed the street in the crosswalk in front of us. When he got to the sidewalk, he ungracefully tumbled to the ground, then quickly bounced to his feet and looked around to see if anyone noticed. Hmmm ...
No, it wasn't Halloween; it was the middle of December, and sidewalk ice kicked Spidey's butt. Spiderman, we guessed, was on his way to the Ladybug Club, 618 North Water St. (hiding in the building with the huge ladybugs adorning the facade), a dance club offering theme nights that opens its doors to those younger than 21 once a week. Not a bad idea; Spidey apparently needed help with his footwork.
Hometown hero: No, I'm not referring to Spiderman. One of my hometown heroes is a Walgreen's security guard working at the store at North Avenue and Martin Luther King Drive (which has since been moved a few blocks south).
The guard saw me withdrawing cash from the ATM inside the store one afternoon. I finished my business — I thought — and was leaving when he stopped me to tell me that I should wait a few minutes. Apparently, that ATM took just shy of forever to ask "Do you want to complete another transaction?" Had I left, someone could have accessed my bank account because I was still logged in.
He knew it had happened to other customers, so he was keeping an eye on the machine. Not his job, but ...
Chivalry isn't dead: Stopped at a ridiculously long red light at the intersection of Wisconsin Avenue and 27th Street one day, I found myself staring at the folks at the bus stop for entertainment.
A tiny, frail, elderly woman with a walking cane and huge handbag approached the packed bus shelter. An ornery-looking teenage boy — think Ice Cube in, well, any of his movies — saw her coming and, without her saying a word, vacated his seat on the bench and helped her sit down. She was all smiles. So was I :)
Brotherly love: I was filling my car with gas one morning when I realized I was surrounded by a crew of taxi cab drivers getting their cars ready for their shifts. One of those drivers locked his keys in his cab while pumping gas — not a good start to his day.
The driver, obviously Middle Eastern, asked a fellow driver, a black man he clearly didn't know well, to open his door in broken English: "Brother, please help a brother out!" (I wasn't aware of this, but apparently more than one driver has the key for each cab ... or maybe there's a master key?)
Observers naturally laughed; his rescuer did not, choosing instead to unlock the door and reassure the cabbie that it happens to everyone. Brother to brother.
If folks keep it up, I'm going to be tempted to believe that we all can just get along =)
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