In 1956, when I was a boy growing up in Garfield Park, the city was invaded by what we called locusts. Today, I know they were cicadas, but to us kids they were locusts, and they were everywhere.
One morning, the neighborhood looked normal. A few days later, it was as if the Earth had come alive.
They covered the sidewalks, streets and playgrounds. On hot afternoons, a constant buzzing filled the air. It started as a distant hum and grew into a sound so loud that it seemed to come from the sky.
There were billions of them. Everywhere I turned, there were insects crawling, flying, buzzing and singing. The trees and the ground seemed alive. I began to wonder if this was what the world was going to look like from now on.
When I was a child, I didn’t yet know which events were temporary and which were permanent. I remember looking out at those streets and playgrounds and thinking that maybe the grown-ups were wrong when they said, “Don’t worry. They’ll be gone soon.” How could they be gone soon? There were too many of them.
Adults walked on them, making crunching sounds without much concern. Children stared in amazement. Birds feasted on them; dogs chased them.
Then, almost as suddenly as they had arrived, they began to disappear. The buzzing grew quieter. Fewer insects clung to the trees. The sidewalks were swept clean. Before long, it was hard to believe that only weeks earlier the neighborhood had been covered with insects. What happened to them?
They had emerged from the ground, filled the air with their songs, found mates, laid eggs and died. Their tiny offspring dropped from the trees, burrowed into the soil and disappeared underground, where they would remain for 17 years before emerging again. Life returned to normal.
Seventy years later, I can still picture myself standing in Garfield Park, looking at billions of cicadas and wondering if the world had changed forever. Of course, it hadn’t. Some of the most vivid memories of my childhood are of things that seemed as though they might last forever.
Bill Sipple, Belmont Cragin
Advocating for fellow refugees in trying times
I arrived in Chicago 13 years ago as a refugee, clutching my paperwork from the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees. I still remember being full of fear and hope — fearful of a new society, new people and a new culture.
A refugee is someone who has been forced to flee his or her country because of persecution, war or violence, according to the U.N. Many refugees have “a well-founded fear of persecution for reasons of race, religion, nationality, political opinion or membership in a particular social group. Most likely, they cannot return home or are afraid to do so,” the U.N. says.
Of the 117 million people forcibly displaced worldwide, by the end of 2025 only 35.6 million were registered as refugees, and 9 million were seeking asylum.
Between 1975 and 2016, the United States was a world leader in resettling refugees, admitting more than 3 million people. Many refugees went on to hold prominent positions, including the late former Secretary of State Madeleine Albright.
But sadly, the U.S. has now lost much of its global standing that helped it advance its national interests within international institutions. The current administration has dismantled the U.S. Refugee Admissions Program, affecting not only refugees abroad but also many who have already been resettled in the country.
As a consequence, many nonprofits and refugee resettlement agencies have been forced to conduct mass layoffs — impacting mostly employees who are U.S. citizens — leaving refugee and immigrant communities with fewer services and less support.
A few days ago, on June 20, World Refugee Day, I thought about and honored my fellow refugees who have lost their jobs and hope for a safer place to rebuild their lives. When the system cannot offer solutions but has become the source of the problem, it falls on us — as people — to support one another and ease each other’s pain.
Ali Tarokh, director of development, Syrian Community Network
Bears stadium debate meaningless
The Bears debating between Hammond and Arlington Heights is like a vegetarian debating between steak and chicken. It’s irrelevant, and it means we, the citizens, have already lost.
They’re called the Chicago Bears, not the Illinois or Indiana Bears. Since leaving Decatur, Illinois in 1919 — where they were originally called the Staleys — and renaming themselves the Bears, they’ve played in Chicago for more than 100 years.
As a Chicagoan, Hammond versus Arlington Heights is a wash. Hammond is actually closer to downtown than Arlington Heights. Between those two bad choices, who cares? Hammond is fine.
Anyone thinking Arlington Heights is a big win is gullible and being sold something. The Bears should be in Chicago. If not, move ‘em back to Decatur.
William Choslovsky, Sheffield Neighbors
Imagining the Trump Presidential Center
I’m sure that Donald Trump is planning his presidential center. One room will honor the insurrectionists he pardoned and another room will be a billionaires’ room — no millionaires need apply. There will also be an Epstein room. The library will consist of all the comic books Trump has read while he has been awake. In the library will also be photos of all the convicted criminals in his administration.
Mike Levey, Deerfield