Good Friday. And it WAS good.
Yesterday, driving through Humboldt Park on North Avenue, traffic was at a stand-still and there were all sorts of roadblocks: unmarked police cars parked diagonally across entire lanes, flashing lights, bike cops and mostly, people. Moms and dads and little kids, girlfriends and boyfriends holding hands, grammas and grandpas and everybody walking. “It’s not Puerto Rican Independence yet, is it?” Christopher asked. We’ve lived in Humboldt for years and, all I’ve got to say is, DAMN what a party. The neighborhood is alive with music, fireworks, carnivals in the park, barbeques, singing, cruising bumper-to-bumper with giant flags hanging out the window. The only celebration that can even come close is Gay Pride. One of my favorite things about both those parties is how everybody is welcome at both. Doesn’t matter if I’m gay or straight, Caucasian or Latina or whatever, somebody’s gonna hand me a Fruity Booty (FYI: two or more of those drinks in the Chicago heat can make a mess out of a girl) or some mardi gras beads and we’re all gonna have ourselves some FUN! Today is not that day, though; Puerto Rican Independence is not ‘til June, and while the crowds passing our cars are smiling, calm and chatty and waving, there’s a solemnity here that you just don’t see during a party. I immediately assumed it was a protest march of immigration policy (if you’ve been living in a barn the past few weeks and don’t know what’s going on with that, you can get some information here and here, and there’s some interesting commentary here), but then Christopher said, “Hey, there’s Jesus.”
He was driving, and whatever he could see up ahead on the left was out of my line of vision. “Did you say Jesus?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said, very matter-of-fact, as through pointing out a Jiffy Lube.
I scooted to the left, but all I could see were marching people. “What’s Jesus doing?” I asked.
“He’s carrying the cross,” he said. “And there’s some Romans whipping him. Wait, wait—and … he’s down.”
Finally, the wave of the crowd passed our car, and I saw him: Jesus, in orange robes all smeared with orange goo, cross on his back, crown of thorns, look of exhaustion, the whole nine yards. Behind him were two more battered guys carrying crosses, and surrounding them were very mean-looking guys in red tunics and fake armor, frowning under their fake helmets, brandishing their fake swords, and pushing Jesus and those two thieves around in very nasty ways. A couple of them were up on horses, carrying long spears. Behind them were twenty or so women in long robes, and they were crying, and screaming, arms reached out towards Jesus. This whole scene was topped off with a couple of police on horses (their blue-and-blue uniforms, boots, and guns made an interesting contrast to the guys in fake armor, helmets and swords) and five or six bike cops riding in slow circles around everybody. Pull back a little bit and you’ll see a couple hundred people marching with them—some leading, some following, others walking level with Jesus, calmly, silently watching the performance. It made me think of last year’s march down Milwaukee Avenue the day after the Pope passed away. And the protests last week of Immigration reform. And every protest I’ve ever marched in, actually, and Pride, and 4th of July and Puerto Rican Independence and Mardi Gras and Carnivale: all of it just people coming together in solidarity or celebration. A beautiful thing, whatever your religion or color or sexuality.