When I arrived on Western Avenue, I was immediately swept up by the excitement of it all…

The street was crowded to the point that it spilled over onto the sidewalks with diverse families, business owners and individuals simply enjoying themselves and each other in community. It felt pure and vibrant; it was a full expression of South Bend as a community. It also confirmed my fears; I felt like I didn’t belong there.

As a quick aside which I alluded to earlier, there is a certain why [here] matters irony about Western Avenue. In 2018, Mayor Pete’s administration won the Indiana Chapter of the American Planning Association’s Hoosier Planning Award for Outstanding Implementation for a widely-successful $3 million corridor improvement project there. In 2020, the project was mocked and belittled in a Biden campaign attack ad following Pete’s surprise primary victory in Iowa. Today, Pete sits as Biden’s Secretary of Transportation. I honestly don’t know what to make of federal politics anymore, but at the end of the day Western Avenue improved and the community along with it.

I had plans to meet up with Christin, but she was a bit preoccupied coordinating an event that would attract over 4,000 people that day. So I wandered, from one end of the event to the other, noting familiar faces and exchanging a few brief greetings as I went. By the time I reached the opposite parking barrier, I came to the acknowledgement that this was South Bend, nothing more, nothing less, yet everything that it needed to be.

Beside Christin, other people that I had interviewed were present and prominently weaving this community in the ways that they best knew how to do so. The first person I interacted with that day, Jonathan Grant, had created a pop-up DIY community mural that was being scribbled and decorated by a diverse, intergenerational crew of passerby Picassos and Pollocks. A born-and-raised, multigenerational South Bender himself, he had spent most of his adult life splitting time between Chicago and Paris, advocating for church reform as a queer artist and activist in both places. Despite experiencing life in these glorious metropolises, he still managed to always make his way back to South Bend and still considered it home. We chatted briefly before he excused himself and went back to his work.

A block down was Kintae, where he had set up [barber]shop on the sidewalk, as he had become known to do. A Black man, who had overcome many of the terribly common challenges of growing up African-American during the War on Drugs, he had found his place as a barber, entrepreneur, educator and even community activist in adulthood. He had a quote during our interview which has stuck with me to this day, “What I wish people would realize about South Bend is that we are incredible, incredible people. I have my strength. My neighbor, she has her strength. My other neighbor, he has his strength. That organization, they have their strength. But when you put us all together, we dang near like superheroes. We could make the magic happen. That's what I love.”

Kintae’s strength was cutting hair and taking initiative. His initiative, which had gained broad recognition, was going to sites of recent community gun violence, setting up shop and providing free haircuts to children. As far as showing up to do the work is concerned, he might as well be Superman. As I passed him, I gave him a wave and hello, but I’m not sure he registered who I was, so I snagged this picture and moved on.

Eventually, I queued up at a food truck, got some eats and ventured towards the main performance stage. Sitting at a mostly vacant table was Sam. He and I had actually met the previous Fall, when I first visited South Bend as an outsider affectionately referred to as “The Wisconsin Guy,” and we connected over the fact that he graduated from high school in Milton, Wisconsin with one of my college roommates. We had likewise interacted another time or two during my month there that winter. And, if memory serves me, we had connected on social media by that time. So, I asked if I could sit with him. He obliged. After a few moments of passive silence, he asked, “do I know you from somewhere?”

My early realization was cemented - South Bend didn’t need someone like me to come and help tell its story; it was doing just fine by living it.

By the time I had finished my meal, the now presidential candidate, Pete Buttigieg, had arrived. I reflected back to standing five feet away from him in a cramped used-auto-turned-mayoral-campaign office on my first day in town that February, and on how much had changed between then and now. I took a deep breath, puffed up my chest, and mustered up the bravado to go tell him what I thought of him, sharing “thank you for your representation of our generation in aspiring towards the highest level of leadership.” I shook his hand, and we posed for an awkward picture.

…as I stepped aside to let the next person in line get their photo with the hometown hero, I felt depleted and began withdrawing from the experience, desiring to disappear from a community that wasn’t mine.

on western avenue | w[h]m pt.7

why [here] actually matters | w[h]m pt.8

what happens when you come back empty handed? | w[h]m pt.6