The Neighborhood is the Image of the City: Part 4

Social Problems

In 1962, the authors of Black Metropolis were cautiously optimistic when they asked what postwar prosperity and the nation’s recent interest in civil liberties would bring. Would the black ghetto finally disappear? Or maybe black families would choose to maintain an urban subculture, and another, more prosperous, Bronzeville would take shape. In the decades after, the ghetto didn’t disappear.

Back in the 1910s and 20s, a Chicago school of urban social scientists noted how the city’s white ethnic slums swarmed with vices. They catalogued high rates of crime and drunkenness, broken families and prostitution, juvenile delinquency. They thought the slum dwellers’ inability to regulate themselves, to organize around shared principles and values, was an expression of their condition as migrants. Cut free from the social bonds that held their old world together, they struggled to control their children, there were fewer informal authorities to keep people in line, fewer shared institutions to extend a guiding hand.

Those early social scientists also tended to see slum life as a temporary condition. As the migrant assimilated, he and his neighbors would develop new networks and new institutions, or more frequently, he would move out to some other neighborhood where the social order is established, he would leave the deviants behind.

By the 1950s, the old Chicago school of sociology that had made its name with its practice of close observation of human behavior in the urban habitat was out of fashion. Social scientists favored statistics, they talked about how cities were built by coalitions of human agents mobilizing power, rather than coming together naturally like ecosystems.

In 1963, Gerald Suttles had just settled in Chicago's west side slum to research the study that would make his name as an academic. The university that would soon employ him was revisiting the Chicago school heritage at the time. And he took up the tradition, he embedded himself in the neighborhood around Taylor Street and set out to study the moral order of the mixed-race neighborhood.

Later, he’d realize he’d happened to settle right near the boundaries of the separate territories of the neighborhood’s four ethnic groups – Italians, Mexicans, Puerto Ricans and Negroes. He called his book The Social Order of the Slum and described how its diverse inhabitants ordered the territory, who could hang out where, how they behaved.

“Almost all societies create a public morality that exceeds the capacities of some of its members,” he wrote. He meant the moral standards shared by society at large, as distinct from the way people might conduct themselves at home, or in backwaters.

He thought the United States has a high moral standard, that many people fall short, and that in order to avoid compromising the ideals of public morality, much of the public had simply moved away from such individuals, abandoning the inner city to the people they distrust.

“Obviously this practice has some limits” he’d say. It tends to “aggregate” the poor and disreputable in the same slum neighborhoods where those mainstream ideals can’t really be maintained.

Watching his neighbors “compromise” on the markers of public morality, he came to believe they maintained an alternate one. He calls provincial, or personalistic, because it centers its ideals on personal trust. Under the provincial code, to be a “fink” would discredit you more than being unemployed or a felon.

Provincial morality builds through networks that start face to face, and extend to encompass the whole neighborhood in some form another – so that everybody knows their place, where they belong and where they don’t, how to behave to maintain their personal safety, and the safety of their families.

Territory is essential to all these things, the storefront, or stoop, or street corner where people hang out are places where bonds are made, where status is settled and leaders emerge. Suttles thought the Negroes living in public housing were at a disadvantage because they had less control over their space, they couldn’t open a storefront in it, or subdivide it into sublets to better their lot or enhance their position.

Bridgeport was no slum – in the 1960s it was the seat of considerable political power, but the provincial morality Suttles describes still resonates there. Acquaintances will point out the corner where they and their friends gathered, and the ones where they couldn’t really go. Or how in their youth you never called the police, there were certain people in the neighborhood who were sort of in charge, if there was a problem your parents would go talk to them and they’d take care of it.

Suttles described how there was some violence in his neighborhood, but more often conflicts got diffused, or stopped before they went too far. There were street fights in Bridgeport too, but there were limits. “We’d fight with our fists. Now they fight with guns.”

Something changed in Chicago in the 1970s. It was most obvious in the surge in violent crime. The sociologist William Julius Wilson writes that there were 195 homicides in Chicago in 1965. In 1970 there were 810, and there were 970 in 1974, a recession year.  The Wentworth police district was one of the worst.

The violence was accompanied by other problems. Unemployment, out of wedlock births.  Family dissolution. Welfare dependency. All the measures escalated at once.

Bridgeport was buffered from these developments. There were certainly factors other than personalistic morality that buffered it, and just as certainly, Bridgeport’s reputation for racial intolerance didn’t start in the 1970s. But as the violence and social problems gained ground across the expressway, territory and trustworthiness could not have seemed less important than before.

Wilson, a black scholar, caused a stir back in 1978 when he published a book called The Declining Significance of Race. He described the rise in social problems in the context of the real advances made by the black middle class, suggesting that factors other than race must also be at play.  He was surprised when readers sometimes took him to be a conservative – something he set out to correct with his 1987 book The Truly Disadvantaged.

In its opening pages, Wilson observes that liberals mostly avoided talking about the rising rates of social dislocation in the ghetto. By refusing to address it, he argued, they’d abandoned the field to conservatives who traced the rise in social problems back to a “culture of poverty,” by which they meant a sense of dependency fostered by a welfare system gone off the rails.

Their focus on the moral failures of the poor as individuals reads a lot like the old reformers who rallied around vice some 80 years before. Wilson comes out on the side of systemic change. Assembling all the statistics, he shows the push and pull of forces too big for individuals to counter with moral courage alone.

He starts by showing how structural change in the economy caused massive job losses that hit black workers especially hard. He argues contemporary racism was less a factor than historic discrimination that had positioned them at the bottom of the jobs ladder.

“When black men looked for work, employers were concerned about whether they had strong backs, because they would be working in a factory or in the back room of a shop doing heavy lifting and labor. The work was hard and they were hired. Now economic restructuring has broken the figurative back of the black working class.” (This from his introduction to the 1993 edition of Black Metropolis.)

In 1950, he writes, an overwhelming majority of the men of Black Metropolis were employed. By 1980, only 4 in 10 of the adults in Douglas had jobs, and the ratios were lower in Grand Boulevard and Washington Park, other neighborhoods of historic Bronzeville.

Massive joblessness had ripple effects. It caused poverty and welfare dependency. Young men who saw few prospects sometimes turned to crime, drugs and violence. Unemployed men didn’t seem like marriageable partners. He draws on the scholar Herbert Gutman’s work showing that black families weren’t particularly disorganized prior to these upheavals.

There was still a black working and middle classes – in fact the black middle class was thriving. But they moved out to better neighborhoods. The neighborhoods they left behind suffered concentration effects. It was a vicious circle that changed individuals experiencing hard times into something like a separate social class.

“In short,” he writes “the communities of the underclass are plagued by massive joblessness, flagrant and open lawlessness, low achieving schools, and therefore tend to be avoided by outsiders.” The people who lived there found themselves socially isolated from the mainstream – isolated not just from job networks, but isolated in ways that affect their fashions and habits, even their cognitive and linguistic skills.

In Black Metropolis, when the poor, the working and middle classes all lived in close proximity, the middle class were an important buffer against hard times. They supported the social institutions – the churches, stores, schools and parks -- that gave Suttles’ neighborhood its moral contours. Their example made joblessness seem less terminal, and education more useful. They made family stability the norm.

What Wilson describes gaining ground in their absence sounds like a culture of poverty, except that its root cause is not the moral inferiority of the people caught in it.

 

By 1980, Bridgeport is still the image of Chicago as a working city. Its population is employed, its median income just slightly lower than the city median. Its occupations mirror the city’s new occupation structure, except with somewhat fewer executives and professionals, and somewhat more clerks and laborers, slightly more workers in skilled trades.

Bridgeport workers did not want for access to political patronage and union jobs. Though some men whose careers started in the 1980s can recall how their fathers couldn’t get into the union because it was controlled by some other white ethnic group.

Now an acquaintance asks if a system run on reputation and connections is wrong. “Shouldn’t a father be able to help his son get a job?” He says “You know his son is going to work hard, because he’s not going to embarrass his father.”

Of course, all fathers should be able to open doors of opportunity for their sons. The fathers of Douglas couldn’t do that.

This is the fourth of 5 parts on Bridgeport and Douglas and the image of Chicago.

The Neighborhood is the Image of the City: Part 3

 Growth Machine

Dunbar Park: Poet Paul Lawrence Dunbar with Towers in Douglas

Chicago was volatile in the first decades of the last century in ways not unlike how things are volatile now. Big business seemed all powerful. Workers wanted more than wage concessions – Anarchists and Socialists agitated for fundamental change. Racial resentment erupted into a bloody race riot that started with the murder of a black child.

Then as now, volatility seems to require clampdown, some kind of control by force. Whites enforced the boundaries of the black ghetto by custom and law and when law failed with violence -- crowds in the street with bricks in their hands. Big business rallied its Pinkertons, mobilized the force of the state to make workers submit.

Though what saved big business from socialism, or decades of violent suppression, launched it instead toward a new era of prosperity, wasn’t force. It was change, the promise of opportunity.

Looking back from the 1940s, the authors of Black Metropolis write that a whole class of clerical occupations came up to manage the great volumes of paperwork required by big manufacturing firms. All that clean work was something new, it opened the prospect of a large white-collar middle class, something “neither radicals nor capitalists of a previous epoch had visualized.”

In the 1930s, the Italian sociologist Antonio Gramsci surveyed the American economic system and called it “Fordism,” after Henry Ford, with his assembly lines. Gramsci meant a whole system of business, government and cultural life that extends from them.

At its core is a bargain reached (and not without conflict) between owners and labor. Labor gives up its control, its pride of craftsmanship and sense of self direction for a place on the assembly line.  Owners find their workers will show up reliably if they’re paid enough to buy the car.

For the next 40 years, business, labor and government all rally around the virtuous circle of fair employment and mass consumption. The economy transforms from an arena of crushing conflict to something like a national faith in the cumulative expression of popular choice.

Big business more or less runs the machine, chasing lower costs and lower prices in its pursuit of monopoly. Government works as machinist -- it builds the regulatory framework for safe markets, and the welfare state that keeps the bottom from dropping out when people struggle. And for when people prosper, government builds a physical infrastructure to smooth the way of the consumer engine: the FHA mortgages to buy houses, the expressways to bring families out to further suburbs, and to carry the interstate commerce that will help them furnish their lifestyle as it steadily improves.

To perpetuate itself, the system must be sewn into the popular imagination, it must be worked into what people want and strive for. In 1945, the authors of Black Metropolis thought that the most profound change to mark Chicago in the 1920s “was a gradual shift in the content of the American Dream as presented by men of power.”

They write that 19^th century elites thought labor erred when it failed to see wages as a temporary condition of dependency that workers should inhabit only until they could save enough to shrug it off and open some small shop for themselves. They promoted an American Dream that turned on “thrift, the establishment of small business, and investment in large ones.”  Businessmen of the 1920s had changed their minds, they “began to encourage the masses to spend rather than to save.”

They developed new arts of advertising and new mass media to inform and entertain. The advertising was to tell people what they should buy, the media to show them who they might be. It would feed their shared social repertoire by power of example.

Think of the television shows of the golden era – their picture of the family, of friends and neighbors and of benevolent authorities. People might squabble but conflicts were resolved, everything was alright in the end. Then think of the police procedurals of the 1980s and 90s.

When it first came out in 1981 Hill Street Blues was applauded for its edge, for its willingness to depict unlikable characters and its real world crimes. Entertainment’s willingness to be honest to men’s less attractive impulses had trumped its responsibility to represent the police as guardians of a precinct that is fundamentally safe.

The sense of safety was never uniform. There was always an audience impatient for a more honest portrayal of the darker parts of life. Veterans returning from foreign wars joined their bike gangs, youth rebelled against the compromises made by their parents, outsiders in their ghettos might admire the picture and still chafe at it.

Philosophy professor Paul Weiss chides black writer James Baldwin to be more upbeat about the prospects available to him on the Dick Cavett show. Baldwin tells him “You want me to make an act of faith… on some idealism which you assure me exists in America, which I have never seen.”

 

Tribute to the Past, by Ramon Villareal.
"To all the union men and women and their families who shared the steel dreams."

By 1962, the fruits of Fordism are abundant, the nation buzzing with prosperity, and Drake and Cayton write a preface for a new edition of Black Metropolis to acknowledge “new factors which none of us could have foreseen.” The economy has achieved full employment, there is a “vigorous national concern for civil liberties,” and “renewed devotion to the American Creed.”

There’s a new introduction by the sociologist Everett Hughes, who describes cycling through a neighborhood far south of the old boundaries of the black belt, a neighborhood of grassy lawns and brick bungalows originally built for second or third generation ethnic whites. He says he began to notice black and brown faces among the homeowners out washing their cars in the driveways, mowing their lawns, doing the Saturday morning shopping. First a few of them, then all of them.

“The forces which move people toward the middle-class American ethos are tremendous among Negroes of American decent,” he observes. He believes their growing purchasing power will command respect in a way that law might not. “It is the Negro consumer who sits-in demanding the right to be served and to consume the products of American abundance and to use his leisure as other Americans do.”

Though even in 1962 he sees telling changes in the employment apparatus. There are more white-collar positions, and fewer unskilled ones. “The automated steel mill needs no large roving labor gang,” he writes. Rural newcomers once relied on those jobs to get their foothold and acclimate. They will have to learn new skills faster than their predecessors did, or “they may easily become part of the pool of permanently unemployed.”

IIT Campus, Crown Hall, on the site of the former Mecca Apartments

Richard J. Daley took office as Mayor of Chicago in 1955, and by 1963 national magazines like Time and Holiday are publishing enthusiastic profiles with warm praise from the city’s Protestant business elite.

Advertising executive Fairfax Cone, “a Republican and a gentleman” tells Holiday “Now let’s be frank. People brought up as I was, in a completely Protestant atmosphere, can’t help a certain feeling about Catholics.” But Daley had won him over. He says other Protestant businessmen he knows feel the same way.

“Before Mayor Daley came along, Chicago was stalled. From 1929 to 1946 not a single major building went up.” Depression and global war made that true for most big cities. And the magazine profiles all allude to uncertain urban futures, made more tenuous by racial change.  They say Daley gave Chicago’s business elite something to be confident about.

By 1968, Chicago’s American reports a building boom has virtually remade the city’s central area in 10 years. It counts more than $2.5 billion invested, more than 35 million square feet in new office, commercial and civic construction projects completed and underway.

They include new public buildings, like the Civic Center and a suite of new federal buildings, modern towers with wide plazas, built by famous architects -- using new government powers for assembling large blocks of land. But most of the buildings on the list were private.

Daley had mobilized what would later be called a growth coalition, business and government moved by a common interest in a strong city center, and by a common fear about the city’s long-term prospects.

When the 1960 census came in, Chicago’s population had dropped for the first time in its recorded history. It would have dropped a lot more if the black population hadn’t grown by more than 300,000 people in the 10 years from 1950. Which makes it all the more striking that in Douglas, the original hub of Black Metropolis, the population fell so sharply -- from 79,000 people in 1950, to 52,000.

The growth coalition had got its start in Douglas in the 1940s. Private business and institutions took the lead, test driving the new public powers for acquiring and accumulating land. By 1960, Douglas has been almost entirely leveled and rebuilt from the ground. 

Michael Reese Hospital, the Illinois Institute of Technology and New York Life Insurance launched three synchronized projects that replaced 12 square miles of the old urban fabric with new middle-class housing and a university campus, most of it modern high-rise towers surrounded by vast green lawns. They left a small area where you can still see what the old neighborhood looked like – a pocket  sometimes called The Gap, between 31^st and 35^th Street, Prairie Avenue and Calumet.

Prairie Avenue in The Gap

In the same decade that the populations of Douglas and Grand Boulevard dropped by some 62,000 people, the black population of Englewood rose by almost 600%. It jumped 900% in Kenwood, and 1,400% in Greater Grand Crossing. Neighborhoods turned from white to black.

Even as it was happening the public knew that realtors were using fear tactics to get white homeowners to sell low, threatening how their property values would fall when black families moved in. Then turning around and selling to black families at inflated prices. The courts had released the forced boundaries on where they could live, and they had the purchasing power to buy the American Dream.

Carpenter Street in Bridgeport

Meanwhile, Bridgeport’s population had continued its gentle decline, from 46,000 people in 1950, to just under 42,000 in 1960, and just 65 of them were counted as Negros. The cottages of Bridgeport are of the same vintage as the ones in Douglas. Though Bridgeport’s homeowners had access to credit, they weren’t wanting for city services. And no one called it blight, or proposed it might be best to clear it out and start over with something new. 

This is the third of 5 parts on Bridgeport and Douglas and the image of Chicago.

The Neighborhood is the Image of the City: Part 2

Ethnic Waves

Monument to the Great Northern Migration, at 26th and Martin Luther King Drive

For a hundred years Chicago’s population grew fast and without pausing, and it mostly grew in jumps. Some of it was annexations, the city boundaries redrawn to swallow swelling neighboring settlements. Some of it was native born whites traveling from farms or eastern cities to seek new opportunities. But a lot of it was waves of immigrants from foreign countries. Sent in surges by crises in their homelands, the Irish first, then the Northern Europeans. The 20^th century saw a “new wave” of immigrants from South and Central Europe.

They would arrive poor, ignorant of local customs, they’d settle in the slums near the center of the city. And as they learned the language, improved their lot, they moved outward to better neighborhoods. They’d put some distance between themselves and the latest foreigners who didn’t know how to live.

In the 1910s and 20s, social scientists thought their movements resembled populations vying within an ecosystem. They wrote about natural areas, even ‘moral zones’ where people with similar characteristics – ethnic, social, moral - would find each other, settle in enclaves where their qualities would intensify by mutual reinforcement.

Bridgeport is still marked by these enclaves. The faint outlines still distinct in the memories of guys who were teenagers in the 1970s and 80s. They’ll tell you ‘I couldn’t come over here,’ because of the Polish guys who used to hang out at The Shack at the top of Morgan Street. Or they’ll describe how Armour Park was jealously watched by Italians. I’d never heard anyone use the word ‘dago’ in conversation until I lived in Bridgeport. Sometimes it sounds like a justification more than a complaint. “We weren’t racist,” an acquaintance says drily, “we hated everybody.”

Each new wave of immigrants endured their share of indignities and prejudice, remembered for generations after the fact. In the 1850s, the WASPs thought the Irish were natural degenerates, prone to drink and crime. Their labor was wanted to dig canals, but Protestant shopkeepers posted signs in their windows that said “Irish need not apply.” In the 1880s, the Germans rioted when nativists passed blue laws to control their drinking on Sundays -- Sunday being their only day off, they spent it in the beer garden, indulging in socialist talk. By the 1920s, when the federal government established immigration quotas, they targeted the ethnic proportions as they were in 1890, before the “new wave” of Italians and Poles had overtaken the northern Europeans.

The native born weren’t just impatient for the immigrants to learn the language and assimilate, they saw them as suspect in a more fundamental sense.

In Black Metropolis, St. Clair Drake and Horace Cayton  set the stage for their account of Chicago’s negro ghetto by describing the city defined by the antagonism among populations, and observed that antagonism was expressed in two different traditions of reform: “one concerned with stopping ‘vice’ and petty political graft; the other with controlling predatory big business.”

Vice was the special concern of the Protestant establishment – prostitution, gambling, and especially drinking. Their commitment to control the drinking of the lower classes predates Prohibition as a proxy for other tensions.

The working class saw those preoccupations with social control as an excuse to avoid addressing more urgent structural reforms. They wanted to stop child labor, shorten the 12-hour work day, form unions and earn a living wage.

In the early 20^th Century, the laborers were the foreign born. Then as now they took the jobs no one else wanted because they were too dirty, too dangerous, the work slaughtering animals and the jobs on the steel mill floor. As they’d assimilate, blend into the ranks of the native born, they tended to advance from hard labor into the skilled trades and clerical work.

The Stockyards National Bank, and a portion of the Root Street transit line,
"In honor of those who traveled this path to toil at the Union Stockyards."

European immigration stopped during World War I, then resumed, but at a trickle, hampered by quotas. With war engines booming, the demand for labor was met by black migrants, traveling north to escape the sharecropping system and unchecked violence in the Jim Crow south.

The black migrants came in the tens of thousands at first, by the 1940s they came in the hundreds of thousands, but already by the 1910s the great migration changed the dynamic between black and white Chicagoans. At the turn of the century, the city’s black population numbered just 30,000, and they safely inhabited most of the city’s neighborhoods “on terms of almost complete social equality with their white neighbors,” according to the sociologist Gunnar Myrdahl.

By 1920, their numbers had tripled, and 85% of them lived in the new black belt that started in the Douglas neighborhood next to Bridgeport, between 26^th and 39^th Street, and extended south through Grand Boulevard to 47^th.  By 1930, the populations of Douglas and Bridgeport were roughly equal – about 50,000 and 54,000 persons respectively, except that there was just one Negro counted in Bridgeport that year. About 5,500 persons in Douglas were white.

The black migrants were not unlike white ethnics finding their enclave in the inner-city slums. They took the place of the foreign born at the bottom of the employment chain; they endured the increased hostility of the native population. As white immigration stopped in the 1920s, William Julius Wilson would observe “eventually, other whites muffled their dislike of the Poles and Italians and Jews and directed their antagonism against blacks.”

The position had been a temporary one for ethnic whites. Eventually, they’d get their foothold and assimilate, they’d move to better neighborhoods and disappear into the population. Blacks couldn’t disappear. For decades, the pathway out of the enclave was tightly restricted – by custom, by law and by violence.

The Chicago newspapers inflamed mistrust with alarming headlines (“Darkies Swarm North”) and stories that exaggerated the numbers of migrants, their suspect character, their supposed propensity for crime.

By 1917, the Chicago Real Estate Board had adopted formal policies for controlling the sale of properties to black families (“each block shall be filled solidly and…further expansion shall be confined to contiguous blocks”) and made violations punishable by expulsion.

When, that same year, the US Supreme Court ruled that segregation ordinances were unconstitutional, the Board began promoting racially restrictive covenants – legal contracts on the deed of parcels of land that prohibit blacks from using, occupying, buying or leasing properties to which they were attached. A map of parcels bound by such covenants as they stood in 1947 shows the black belt thoroughly surrounded by them – an iron ring cutting it off from other neighborhoods.

Some of the covenants were already falling to challenges in the local courts, and the US Supreme Court declared racially restrictive covenants unconstitutional in 1948. Black families moving to white neighborhoods were still slowed by violence – mobs of angry housewives with bricks screaming obscenities. Men with bats destroying property, threatening and sometimes following through with assault.

The Overton Hygenic Co. building at 35th and State Street once housed an array of black owned businesses, including a bank, insurance firm, architect's offices, and a cosmetics company.

Meanwhile, the black migration grew faster. By 1950, there were almost half a million Negroes in Chicago – their numbers doubled from 1930. They brought Chicago’s population to its all-time peak in 1950, even though the numbers of the foreign born were dropping at the opposite rate.

Bridgeport’s population was declining too, but gently. From 54,000 in 1930, to 46,000 in 1950, the number of foreign born in Bridgeport dropped from 15,000 to 8,000. Its immigrants were assimilating, following that path outward to greener pastures. But the neighborhood they left behind was prospering too, its Democratic machine running at maximum influence. Mayors Kelly and Kennelly both came from Bridgeport, Richard J. Daley would take the Mayor’s Office in 1955.

Next door, Douglas was crammed. Its population was approaching 80,000 by 1950, the population of Grand Boulevard was 115,000. With the regular path of assimilation forcibly blocked, the black belt was bursting at its seams.

Decades later, writers and activists would look back at the community described in Black Metropolis and call it remarkable.

Black professionals, the middle and working classes lived close by the lower classes, black Chicagoans who’d lived in the city for generations side by side with those who’d just come from working in the fields. Of course, they did so because they could not live elsewhere. But in living there, they provide more than their good example as role models to reinforce mainstream values. They provided more formal stability, the kind of economic and educational resources that might lend ballast in hard times. And life in the black belt afforded the black professionals some measure of control over their own lives, a refuge from the prejudice they faced outside its borders.

The boulevards of Black Metropolis were lined with gray-stones, its commercial streets vibrant with black owned businesses, law firms and banks. Black artists and writers heard the whispers of meaning that life might have on those streets, they found their fellows, some of them found their audience and made their names.

But the black belt was not romantic. It was desperately overcrowded, and often desperately poor.  Many of its buildings were run by absentee landlords, including institutional ones who let them deteriorate in ways that would be criminal now. Its residents suffered high rates of illness and mortality, they were starved for city services – garbage was allowed to accumulate, schools and playgrounds were overcrowded, crime and police brutality were high.

And there was the weight that contempt inflicts on the psyche.

What peculiar personality formations must be caused by these conditions, Richard Wright mused in his introduction to Black Metropolis. He calls the Negro “child of the culture that crushes him,” he says his fundamental dilemma lies in the fact that he believes in its ideals, he wants to participate and uphold them, even as that society so thoroughly rejects him.

His dilemma is more than a special interest -- it reveals a fatal division "lodged in the innermost heart of America... It haunts her conscience, taints her actions, and might ultimately cause her death." It is a problem bigger than the Negro problem, he writes, but one of which the Negro problem is a symbolically important part.

This is the second of 5 parts on Bridgeport and Douglas and the image of Chicago.