The View from Andersonville
by Stephanie Kuenn

Visitors to Andersonville, my north-side Chicago neighborhood, invariably describe it as cute. It's quiet and diverse, filled with charming brownstones, quirky shops and ethnic restaurants usually packed with people. It's an open-minded place, popular among students, artists and the city's gay and lesbian community.

On the surface, nothing has changed here since Tuesday's attacks. But everything is different, filled with tension and an awkwardness that just wasn't here before. That's especially true for the sizable Middle Eastern population that calls this neighborhood home.

Late Tuesday, after all of the other businesses closed, a light remained in a Middle Eastern bakery on Clark Street, although the sign assured passersby that it was closed. Within sat the owner, nervously eyeing the glass in front of her shop while following the television coverage.

On my residential street, a woman in a sari — not, of course, a Middle Eastern-style of clothing — stood with her neighbors and said someone threw a rock through her window. It's the first time I'd seen any sort of criminal act since moving here two months ago.

These events pale in comparison with the harassment Arab-Americans and immigrants from the Middle East are currently facing in other parts of the nation, but they mark the changed mood of not only this neighborhood, but also much of Middle America.

It's as if we live in the same world, but all of the colors have changed. We band together as a community, hanging flags and signs that read "God Bless America" out of our windows, but we're not welcoming everyone who lives here into that community.

We tell ourselves that we need to go on or they win, but every normal action feels false and forced. We've now moved into a vague emotional netherworld, where fear, shock and disbelief have replaced life, love and the pursuit of happiness.

I know things will get better; they have to. But the ultra-safe, tolerant neighborhood I lived in Monday disappeared indefinitely on Tuesday. We can pretend that things are okay if that's what we need to do to get through this, but pretending that we're not terrified and sorrowful isn't going to solve this in the end.

I know I've got it better than my friend who lives on 15th Street in Chelsea, or the Iranian who runs the convenience store on my corner. But just like them, my world has completely changed. My neighborhood still looks cute and seems innocent, but underneath the trimmed bushes and well-kept buildings, it's filled with uncertainty, barely concealed fear and the knowledge that our neighborhood's way of life isn't going to be the same for a long, long time.

E-mail Stephanie Kuenn at smkuenn at gmail dot com.