Maxwell Street Polish

I went to high school a stones throw from Maxwell Street. If you don’t know Maxwell Street, it was kind of the grand daddy of flea markets, a raucous exercise in free enterprise and street entertainment that thrived on the near south side of Chicago for decades, until the University of Chicago pushed it out of the way in the 90′s. They “relocated” it, but it’s not the same anymore. Sigh…

Though Maxwell Street was primarily a black experience, it wasn’t exclusively so. Ron (“I’ve got a Pocket Fisherman for you right here baby!”) Popiel got his start on Maxwell Street, for example. What strikes me, decades later, is how it was a color blind place. Not that you weren’t aware that you were white, or black, or whatever; and not that people didn’t trade racial insults from time to time; but it was never a – a… THING. It’s what you were, but it didn’t define who you were, if that makes any sense. Nobody needed sensitivity training or government intervention to figure it out.

The music was fabulous, assuming that you enjoy Chicago-style blues. I assume that the Chicago-immigrant connection portion of my fellow Threedonians do. (And if they don’t, they can turn in their “Richie Daley fan club” cards right now!)

For those who remember, and to those who have never been, here’s a taste.

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