A Sense of Pride 

     Before college I lived in a wealthy suburb in Illinois called Winnetka. But with that comes generalizations, reactions, only my sisters and I werenít given money. A quarter for allowance when friends were getting five. Road trips while others went to Club Med at the age of six, when memory hasnít quite begun to work yet. With money comes opportunity and education and a high school with a reputation. These are things I should be proud of, but we were a product of a much more complex system. I was a product. But I choose not to admit it.

     I see Winnetka now as a millionaire-infested, wealthy rat-hole that contained 1% of that economic status- hardly a majority. My parents, however, made sure we felt like we were a minority at home by not giving us everything we wanted. I wonder if there was a conscious decision upon our births to train us to appreciate, to not take for granted our situation. Only I donít appreciate it, at least not how my parents wanted me to.

     I remember during an economic bust, mom and dad saying we might not have much of a Christmas or even a tree and we cried, the brats that we were, half hoping or assuming they would still get us a lot. Because I loved breakfast, I got a box of oatmeal and a bunch of bananas as one of my gifts.

     Birthdays werenít a material celebration- a card from mom and dad, $10 Canadian from Grandma (subliminally encouraging a visit), a book, a cake and dinner of your choice. No complaints- we had gotten used to it.

     But although my parents could suppress the flow of money in our house, they couldnít blind us to the glamour on the streets of our town filled with Lexusí, BMWs, Jags and all the beautiful people that inhabited our small universe. Messages and standards of beauty still crystallized our eyes. They couldnít tell us not to go to so-and-soís Bat Mitzvah who also happened to have the party of the century (or the Millennium) in seventh grade-- DJís, stretches of gourmet food, decorations, dancers, blown-up pictures of the host six feet tall posed as covers on a magazine, and presents, cards, money, money, money- biggest birthday party I ever saw. But we never expected that for a celebration. Besides, we werenít Jewish.

     They couldnít stop us from going to a friendís house or a graduation party whoís dad happened to own Crown Books, as well as two kitchens, a black-bottomed pool, a child who had their own wing and whose house took up half a block.

 They couldnít cover our ears when we heard someoneís dad had their own helicopter on the roof of their house or that theyíre getting their own car that cost half a college tuition at the ripe age of sixteen.

     Iím not proud of where Iím from. There is no pride in witnessing money, abuse of money and indulgence. I couldnít appreciate the education I received nor the opportunities because that was all I knew and school is school regardless if youíre told youíre attending one of the best public schools in the nation- with 4,000 students, 10 gymnasiums, 2 pools, the best faculty, facilities and education one can get with technology and money falling out the classroom doors. I am embarrassed of that, of the excess and how it seems no one sees the wealth or attitude from the inside from how much is being spent and how freely credit cards fly. And I hated that my expectations for everything were now so high.

     As students, we heard the bitterness in our rival schoolís cheers at football and basketball games mocking our economic stature, half bitter, half jealous, but more smug that they were part of the majority, one who had to be taught the meaning of a dollar besides just how to spend it.

     Through school, my friends and I sought out service trips to see ìthe other sideî and thought we understood, but not really as we went home to our chandeliers and oriental rugs and lakefront homes.

         I almost wish I could give them some gloriousí insiderís view of ëhow corrupt it wasí and how money flowed in the streets like water and little kids drank it up until they exploded with greed...

    And I think Iím glad I grew up there- only because I wasnít then half-conscious of my surroundings, rather than going back now and settling after Iíve lived on the other side of the coin and coming back to see so many spoiled, naÔve children taking it all for granted as they lead their lives of luxury and indulgence, and parents only stressing about where to go for vacation or what aerobics class they have next.

     I remember my mom driving me home from Milwaukee for the first time freshmen year for Thanksgiving. Entering our suburb I started to cry four blocks from our house as we passed a block covered in huge spruce trees and breath-taking green grass. I cried tears of coming home, of having missed home, of having forgotten home, but also as my mom put, ìI bet you didnít know you lived in paradise.î

     My dad would tell us that we lived in a bubble and lived like only 1% of the entire global population. That the rest of the world wasnít like this. And my sisters and I would nod are heads with wide, disbelieving eyes that the rest of the world wasnít like ours.

     So I am not proud. And others arenít impressed and Iím half afraid to tell people because I know their reaction. They immediately assume things about me purely because of where Iím from and look away as if I wasnít worth taking to because my life was supposedly handed to me on a silver platter with garnish. And I hate them and all their assumptions. Assumptions that they already know me because they think they knew where I grew up. They think I donít see the difference between there and everywhere else. And I almost wish I could give them some gloriousí insiderís view of ëhow corrupt it wasí and how money flowed in the streets like water and little kids drank it up until they exploded with greed. That  everyone (including myself and my family) was snobby and beautiful, thin and lazy with gorgeous homes and cars and vacations and extra houses in another paradise, and that everyone was just dumb with money. I wish I could tell them that- to give them and me, the satisfaction of agreeing with their assumptions. Because then at least I would fit their stereotypes and would be able to agree that maybe itís not really a stereotype or some form of sick, jealous prejudice, but a truth, a reality about out little, sheltered, wealthy suburb.

     So I am not proud. I find myself avoiding pinpointing a specific location when someone asks me where Iím from, as if Illinois is specific enough, or a suburb of Chicago. And I find myself dragged down into unwillingly telling them more and more- a North suburb, and then 20 minutes north of Evanston and then downplaying, ëoh you probably havenít heard of it, itís really small.í But they persist and I surrender and when they do know, I still act surprised, as if who couldíve possibly heard of such a small little suburb representing only 1% of the population.

     So I am not proud. And I like being outside the bubble now that Iím in college. I like being part of the ënormalí world.  Iím proud of Chicago (everybody loves Chicago) and Iím proud of my family and my parents and how they raised us. Ií m proud that my dadís hobby is his toy train and that we set it up at Christmas as tradition. Iím proud that I worked my ass off hours of practice on my own to make our Varsity soccer team. Iím proud of being part of a youth group, which contained a well of life and religion. Iím proud of surviving high school, passing classes, studying, stressing, learning and succeeding. Iím proud I played classical music on the clarinet. Iím proud I mowed the lawn and cleaned out the gutters, shoveled the driveway and racked the leaves. Iím proud to be Catholic and Canadian. Iím proud I took the bus, rode my bike or walked the 2.5 miles to school. Iím proud I worked every summer. Iím proud I raised $1200 in eighth grade to go to France for three weeks. Iím proud I babysat every weekend of my eighth grade life to do so.

     In a sense I donít feel like Iím outside that suffocating sphere by going to a Jesuit University with mainly a white, middle to upper-class student body- 75% of whom probably were a product of a similar environment. And although we as an assembly can create our own microcosm of Winnetka and all others like it, we can also walk out our doors and experience reality- with people asking us for money, traffic filled with broken-down, discolored cars, people of all races, ages and attractiveness, force ourselves to ride the bus and to be a minority on that bus. At home I had to search out such opportunities, but in Milwaukee I have the choice between two worlds-- one weíve created as an institution and one we canít escape from without closing the door. It was this slap-in-the-face coming to Milwaukee that woke me from my dream world only to discover it was a nightmare- that with the cushioned sphere of white suburban America comes selfishness, greed, close-mindedness and expectations.

     I should be proud of my amazing education in Winnetka, of meeting strong personalities who worked hard to get where they are, with amazing morals, values and work ethic. I should be proud of the opportunities that I was able to take advantage of-- proud of knowing incredible people who supported, encouraged and inspired me- parents, teachers, coaches or friends. I am proud of these parts because I cannot deny my experiences. Iím proud of who I am. But somehow I cannot be proud of where Iím from.