Southside Grit: What My Father Taught Me About Survival in Chicago

Growing up on the Southside of Chicago wasn’t just a location—it was an education. It was a daily reckoning with reality. The kind where news anchors counted bodies, and sidewalks carried the echoes of survival stories no one asked for.

A Fathers Lesson

My father was a Teamster. Not just by union badge, but by presence. His loyalty ran deep, his wisdom was raw, and his parenting wasn’t shaped by pages in a book—it was forged in concrete, cold streets, and the kind of love that bleeds.

He didn’t read me fairy tales. He gave me instructions.

“Throw the first punch,” he said. “No hesitation.”   “If you take a hit, don’t be scared of your own blood. That means you’re still standing.”

I was just a kid. Still holding onto coloring books and cartoons. But my lessons came in the form of fists, bruises, and the weight of knowing that compassion didn’t always come knocking in our zip code.

He wasn’t trying to make me violent. He was trying to keep me alive.

As a preteen, I was shaped by his urgency. I learned how to throw a punch, take a punch, and move like every second might matter. Unfortunately, that survival instinct clashed hard with the structure of school systems.

Expulsions came. Misunderstandings followed. Disciplinary notes replaced report cards.

But beneath it all was a scared father teaching his son that the world wasn’t safe—and that hesitation could cost you everything.

Chicago didn’t care about good intentions.

   It cared about reputation. Strength. Fearlessness.

And so I adapted. Too early. I learned the streets had no mercy. And slowly, I lost the version of myself that once led with trust and tenderness.

Looking back, I see now what he was trying to protect. The hard truth is: some kids get bedtime stories. Others get survival codes.

And in Southside Chicago, mercy wasn’t guaranteed. But love—that gritty, messy, unapologetic kind—was always there. I just didn’t recognize it through the knuckles and nosebleeds.