It's dark when our train arrives in Chicago. As mother and I are next to exit the train, the conductor grabs mother's suitcase, places it on the platform, and helps us down. "Welcome to Chicago," he says. He looks to me. "Is this your first train trip?"
I nod. He takes a moment to smile and then looks up as he helps the next passenger.
We stand on a concrete platform that appears to be a mile long. The station is not in sight. We don't stand long. Hundreds of people behind us would have pushed if we hadn't moved.
Other passengers head toward our train that will eventually end up in New York City. I've never seen so many people in one place. Waiting engines chug and wheeze. Their multi-windowed passenger cars are orange and maroon and have their interior lights on. One train blows its whistle. Sailors, airmen, soldiers, marines are everywhere. Civilian men accompanied by women, most of them wearing flowery hats, are in a hurry.
A black man wearing a white jacket and red cap with shiny black bill offers to carry mother's suitcase. "How much?" she asks. This is the second time I see a person of color. The first, was a smiling man tidying up the men's room on the train. When I return to our seats, I tell mother I saw a black man.
Her look is stern. "Don't call them black. They're Negro, understand?"
I understand.
"Two bits," the man in white jacket replies.
Mother sighs and hands him the luggage. "It's getting heavier by the minute."
"Who is he?" I ask.
"He's a porter, a nice man," says mother.
He looks down to me and grins, displaying piano key teeth.
"You're a Negro, aren't you?"
"That I am," he says, chuckling good naturedly. Soon, we mount stairs, I think a mile wide. Numerous people ascend. More people descend. Some just stand. Finally, a myriad of doors blocks our way. The porter opens one. Mother and I precede him inside. The sounds are deafening. I hold my ears. A voice on the public address system is loudest of all, calling out names of cities for which trains will soon leave. "All aboard," the voice announces. Every word caroms off walls.
Mother stretches and places hand above eyes. Next, she looks to the faraway stairs and then examines both sides of the building before opening her purse. She talks to the smiling porter. "You can put the suitcase down. My driver isn't here yet." She opens her purse and hands the porter a coin. He tips his hat and smiles. "Thank you, ma'am."
"Who's your driver?" I inquire.
"Uncle Charlie, of course."
Off goes the porter. Lickety-split, he stops another woman as she heads toward the doors leading to the tracks. She stops, nods, smiles, and hands him two suitcases.
Echoes of any and all sounds ricochet everywhere. I've never seen anything like this. The floor is shiny marble. Huge marble columns hold up the second floor that's twenty feet up but not above us. We, instead, are under a glass curved ceiling with steel beam bolsters. The Union Station is colossal. Hundreds of people roam its floors.
An odd looking couple approaching us wave. Mother grins and waves back. "There they are, your Uncle Charlie and Aunt Angie."
Aunt Angie's red hair is lighter than mine. Each side of her tips as she walks. She wears black low-heeled shoes with laces, much like nuns wear. Her Navy blue hat's net covers her silver wire-rim glasses. She looks old. Aunt Angie and mother hug. Uncle Charlie and mother hug. Uncle Charlie hefts the suitcase. "So, this is Georgie, eh? We're parked outside."
"My name's not Georgie. It's George."
As we ride in the car, the adults speak in Italian, sprinkling in a few words of English unless they want me to understand. Then they speak each word in American English. "There's no doubt about it," says Uncle Charlie who's taken off his hat and displays receding black hair and dark brown eyes. He reminds me of my older brother Bill. "With that red hair and all those freckles, Georgie's all Irish, isn't he?"
"My name's not Georgie," I protest. "It's George."
Mother winks at Charlie. "George is all boy," she says. She nudges me. "Aren't you?"
Colorful bright lights prompt me to look up. "They're so tall," I say as I witness buildings I could not have imagined. An abundance of lights display the skyscrapers' luxury.
Farther on, we no longer ride on roads, surrounded by tall buildings. Men on street corners tend to wheeled carts with white signs and bright red letters. "What are they?" I ask.
"They're selling hot dogs," says Aunt Angie. "Those signs read, 'Red hots, Ten Cents'."
"Our hot dogs aren't red," I announce.
"But Chicago's are," breaks in Uncle Charlie. "By the way, Georgie, how old are you?"
Uncle Charlie shall not be my favorite uncle. Of that, I am certain.
I nod. He takes a moment to smile and then looks up as he helps the next passenger.
We stand on a concrete platform that appears to be a mile long. The station is not in sight. We don't stand long. Hundreds of people behind us would have pushed if we hadn't moved.
Other passengers head toward our train that will eventually end up in New York City. I've never seen so many people in one place. Waiting engines chug and wheeze. Their multi-windowed passenger cars are orange and maroon and have their interior lights on. One train blows its whistle. Sailors, airmen, soldiers, marines are everywhere. Civilian men accompanied by women, most of them wearing flowery hats, are in a hurry.
A black man wearing a white jacket and red cap with shiny black bill offers to carry mother's suitcase. "How much?" she asks. This is the second time I see a person of color. The first, was a smiling man tidying up the men's room on the train. When I return to our seats, I tell mother I saw a black man.
Her look is stern. "Don't call them black. They're Negro, understand?"
I understand.
"Two bits," the man in white jacket replies.
Mother sighs and hands him the luggage. "It's getting heavier by the minute."
"Who is he?" I ask.
"He's a porter, a nice man," says mother.
He looks down to me and grins, displaying piano key teeth.
"You're a Negro, aren't you?"
"That I am," he says, chuckling good naturedly. Soon, we mount stairs, I think a mile wide. Numerous people ascend. More people descend. Some just stand. Finally, a myriad of doors blocks our way. The porter opens one. Mother and I precede him inside. The sounds are deafening. I hold my ears. A voice on the public address system is loudest of all, calling out names of cities for which trains will soon leave. "All aboard," the voice announces. Every word caroms off walls.
Mother stretches and places hand above eyes. Next, she looks to the faraway stairs and then examines both sides of the building before opening her purse. She talks to the smiling porter. "You can put the suitcase down. My driver isn't here yet." She opens her purse and hands the porter a coin. He tips his hat and smiles. "Thank you, ma'am."
"Who's your driver?" I inquire.
"Uncle Charlie, of course."
Off goes the porter. Lickety-split, he stops another woman as she heads toward the doors leading to the tracks. She stops, nods, smiles, and hands him two suitcases.
Echoes of any and all sounds ricochet everywhere. I've never seen anything like this. The floor is shiny marble. Huge marble columns hold up the second floor that's twenty feet up but not above us. We, instead, are under a glass curved ceiling with steel beam bolsters. The Union Station is colossal. Hundreds of people roam its floors.
An odd looking couple approaching us wave. Mother grins and waves back. "There they are, your Uncle Charlie and Aunt Angie."
Aunt Angie's red hair is lighter than mine. Each side of her tips as she walks. She wears black low-heeled shoes with laces, much like nuns wear. Her Navy blue hat's net covers her silver wire-rim glasses. She looks old. Aunt Angie and mother hug. Uncle Charlie and mother hug. Uncle Charlie hefts the suitcase. "So, this is Georgie, eh? We're parked outside."
"My name's not Georgie. It's George."
As we ride in the car, the adults speak in Italian, sprinkling in a few words of English unless they want me to understand. Then they speak each word in American English. "There's no doubt about it," says Uncle Charlie who's taken off his hat and displays receding black hair and dark brown eyes. He reminds me of my older brother Bill. "With that red hair and all those freckles, Georgie's all Irish, isn't he?"
"My name's not Georgie," I protest. "It's George."
Mother winks at Charlie. "George is all boy," she says. She nudges me. "Aren't you?"
Colorful bright lights prompt me to look up. "They're so tall," I say as I witness buildings I could not have imagined. An abundance of lights display the skyscrapers' luxury.
Farther on, we no longer ride on roads, surrounded by tall buildings. Men on street corners tend to wheeled carts with white signs and bright red letters. "What are they?" I ask.
"They're selling hot dogs," says Aunt Angie. "Those signs read, 'Red hots, Ten Cents'."
"Our hot dogs aren't red," I announce.
"But Chicago's are," breaks in Uncle Charlie. "By the way, Georgie, how old are you?"
Uncle Charlie shall not be my favorite uncle. Of that, I am certain.
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