The Gold Dome

It’s summertime in The Chi. That’s Chicago, for all you newbies. I actually never call it that, but it’s fun to have a term of endearment for something you love, and honestly, everything feels more exciting here right now. Or at least more lively (by lively, I mean the kind of word teachers use when their classrooms are a bit out of control.)
​
Summertime in Chicago is off the chain: ice cream trucks incessantly circle the blocks, blasting looping jingles (apparently, the one that rolls through my neighborhood also has a robot voice that randomly shouts “Hello?” every other beat). The lakefront is buzzing with people, fireworks pop off guerrilla-style long after (and let’s be honest, long before, too!) the 4th of July holiday. Every weekend is stacked with free events: street fests, art markets, live music, farmers markets, you name it. Even the city pools are finally open.

There’s been no shortage of scandal surrounding Chicago Public pools in recent years, including sexual assault, abuse and widespread coverups among lifeguard staff and leadership. A deep scandal that left many pools shut-down, vacant and unused in the dead of summer, at a time when young people need the most access to safe, leisurely spaces. It seemed that this corrupt and pervasive issue was just getting cleaned up and pools were finally reopening, with full staffing and renewed public trust, when tragedy struck again. Last week, a 55-year-old white lifeguard opened fire and killed a Black teenager in Douglass Park. Broad daylight. A child. Gunned down by the very person hired to be their “lifesaver.” A space meant for joy and safety saturated with violence. It’s hard to wrap your head around. You can read about this story right here. 

Like I said, The Chi is lively…
​
And it’s hot. Temperatures in the 90s. So today, I walked down to my neighborhood pool in East Garfield Park. The fieldhouse, affectionately known as “the Gold Dome,” is a hidden gem; its towering Spanish Baroque architecture crowned by a radiant, gold-leafed dome. This two-story rotunda confidently overlooks a Westside community all too often overlooked of its innate beauty. Nestled just outside this monumental landmark and framed by this sprawling urban park, this city pool sits cradled in a setting that feels both exquisite and authentically real.

When I walked into the pool area from the back gate, where  everyone enters, I was met with the sight of two teen girls floating on their backs in the deep end, arms stretched out in a wide wingspan, faces turned up to the clear blue sky. Not a care in the world. I knew I had come to the right place. I was tired today. Tired of the hustle. Tired of the constant pressure to be productive. Tired of worrying about my anxious dog, my bills, and a president in the process of destroying a country.

I came with the intention of lap swimming, but something softer washed over me at the sight of those floating girls. Why not rest? Why not pause and just breathe for a bit? Let the water carry some of the weight, if only for the length of an adult swim. An adult swim that was currently full of children. I have to say, initially I felt disappointed because I knew this wasn’t going to be the dedicated lap swimming environment I had hoped for in order to blow off some steam. But I’m no Karen, complaining to the lifeguard demanding my time in the pool be child-free. Pool, summer and children are synonymous. And who am I to interrupt their joy just so I can churn out laps in a straight line? These kids deserve the freedom of play and maybe I had something to learn from them today. 

So, I simply eased into the water and began gliding back and forth, horizontally, across the pool, adjusting course whenever kids wandered into my imaginary lane. The water was cool. Light rippled off the surface in a series of zebra inspired zig zag light patterns. My own rhythm began to form. I’d swim across the pool, keeping my head mostly above water, partially because the goggles I brought with me snapped the second I tried to stretch them over my head. Years of non-use had made the brittle nose bridge crack in half,  along with it killing my dreams of doing some serious exercise today. But maybe that was the point. This wasn’t the time and place to be serious. 

It was just a couple people: some kids, a few parents, a mom teaching her baby to swim, a bored lifeguard and two teens in the deep end just trying to make the most of their day. A free city pool, still open, still available to us when so much else feels out of reach, too expensive, and incredibly hard. Nothing fancy. Just a dip in the pool will do.

Gliding across the surface of the water on my belly, touching the other side of the pool, then flipping on my back and pushing off the wall, backstroking my way to the other side. Back and forth, like this. I was in no rush. Savoring every sensation at this slow pace, like the carefree seagulls swooping low overhead, flying so close that each time they passed I felt like I could reach out and graze their soft underbelly. My body, this cool water, light dancing off the surface, high-pitched squeals of little girls splashing, and the golden light of the dome overhead, reflecting back the magnificence of this day; a day that, until this moment, had felt simply burdensome.

At some point I got tired of swimming laps and switched to treading water. Something I’ve always been weirdly proud of. I could tread water for what feels like days. Something about my survival instincts that never falter. I looked it up once- the longest record for treading water is 104 hours. That’s over four days. The guy had to be pulled out of the water because it became too dangerous to continue. Honestly, I think I could beat that record, if I didn’t love sleep so much.

So, there I am, in the pool, now situated in the center of the deep end where it was easier to navigate around the little ones. As I’m mindlessly pumping my legs and swirling my arms, a young girl swims up to me, clumsily, her head barely above water; it’s questionable if she should even be in the deep end. But, she’s curious about what I’m doing. I tell her about treading water and demo the motions a little before swimming her back to the side of the pool on the shallow end (mainly because I’m worried she’ll go under and our inattentive lifeguard won’t be the one to provide assistance!). Somehow we get to talking about nose plugs, of which I think I have a pair in my bag, so we get out of the pool and I dig around for this item. Turns out, along with my broken goggles (RIP), I also packed ear plugs instead of my nose plug. Time to refresh my swim gear, clearly. The girl seems instantly disappointed, but then asks if she can use the earplugs. I convince her otherwise because these ear plugs looked used and I haven’t any idea how long they’ve been sitting in the bottom of my swim bag. Undisturbed, she goes back to play with her cousin and I return to treading water in the deep end. 

I continue treading water for another solid 30 minutes before deciding to head out. It’s nearing 7 p.m. and I feel fully satisfied with my decision to come to the pool today. As I’m climbing out of the pool, I notice that same girl has made her way back to the deep end, now trying to tread water herself. I hear the lifeguard call out to her, asking something I can't quite catch. Her reply makes me smile: “I’m doing what she’s doing.”

I have to admit, I feel a quiet sense of pride knowing I may have inspired her to try something new, maybe even a bit risky. A precarious balance of growth and failure. As I walk around the edge of the pool to exit, I call out to her, “hey, if you get tired, just lay on your back.” I catch a glimpse of her trying it. Floating on her back, arms out, face up to the sky. I hope, in that moment, she feels as free as the city bird circling overhead. Her bravery deserves the goldest of stars. 

As I leave, I found myself reflecting on how, as adults, we teach our kids to sink or swim; to survive and hustle, keep moving, keep doing, keep going…but rarely do we teach the act of floatation. To rest, to play, to ease out of the grind. Essentially, we unlearn everything we already knew as kids. 

Play is essential to life. 

As adults, we fight our natural tendencies for leisure and get hardened by life; obsessed with productivity and control, forgetting how to just flow with life’s natural currents. Or, life demands we tread water relentlessly. We forget that floating is an act of surrender, a gentle resistance to the constant push to do more and be more. It’s a reminder that sometimes the greatest strength is in letting go, breathing deep, and just being. And if kids can learn to swim, to keep their heads above water, why should they not be reminded to float every once in a while. Because once they remember to float, they can really learn to fly.