The Last Village by the Lake

Lying in my bed late into the night, if I hold my body still and concentrate, I can hear the waves of Lake Michigan. I wait for the El to pass, listen to the rumbling wheels give way to the echo of the surf, its sigh and heave, bouncing up into my window from the alley below, sounding like someone asleep beside me. On those nights when I can’t sleep, the waves remind me that within a stone’s throw from my back porch there is a body of water one can see from the moon.

The beach that abuts the fence at the end of my alley is perhaps the only truly urban beach on Lake Michigan. From Milwaukee to Muskegon, there’s no neighborhood beach quite like those in Rogers Park. Unlike the rest of the city, no six-lane highway, no park made from rubbish, no concrete wall separates my neighbors from the great waters of the Ojibwa, Michigami.

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