My wife, daughter, and I recently decided to spend the holiday season with my mother and siblings at the family home on the South Side of Chicago. Upon arrival at Nana’s house, I realized that I would always regard Chicago as “home,” despite having lived on the East Coast for the last sixteen years. And yet whenever I visit my childhood home, I often experience an odd muddle of feelings — from love and excitement at reuniting with family and old friends to anguish and despondency over the unrelenting poverty and crime that has come to define my community. A thoroughly African American area due to past and current segregative practices, the Woodlawn-Roseland neighborhood that I grew up in has long been plagued with high rates of crime, poverty, and unemployment. And while I spent long stretches of my childhood on “welfare” and avoiding gang violence, I had always...

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