The Border
What is a border? Technically, it’s a delineation between one group of people and another. Delineation can occur at many levels and I think it’s fair to suggest that the lines that matter have mostly to do with economic power. The “haves” must always protect what they have from the “have nots”.
Vito had grown up on the south side of Chicago when it was, indeed, the baddest part of town. He was the son of Gianni and Isabella Pisticci, who had each immigrated to the U.S. and Chicago from that area of Italy referred to as Il Mezzogiorno. That means the mid-day in Italian, referring to the heat of the day that overwhelms the work ethic of this part of southern Italy. They were both from the town of Pisticci, which sits in the arch of the heel of the boot that is southern Italy. They had escaped the plight of poverty and devastation that existed before, but got progressively worse during WWII. In the flush of victory, it was relatively easy to get the U.S.C.I.S in Naples to advance the applications of any emigrants from the region that could prove that they were not members of the Partito Nazionale Fascista or Fascisti as they were called throughout the country. Given the strong northern Italian orientation of Mussolini and his gang, the list of Fascisti in Pisticci was nonexistent. They had to choose where to transit to in war-torn 1946, and both happened to choose the lower west side of Chicago, where the one person from Pisticci that they both knew had gone before them. They met on arrival and saw the destiny of falling in love with one another. Vito was what a trust lawyer might call, their issue, or sole son.
Vito grew up in the wonders of U. S. suburban life during the 1950s and ‘60s. He encountered few barriers due to his heritage. Italians in Chicago were just regular Americans and Vito was destined to grow up as a regular American. College was not on the menu in his household, so after graduating high school, Vito joined the Chicago Police Department. His family and community were mostly about law and order (not that an occasional TV never fell off a truck in his neighborhood). Vito’s hero was Frank Serpico. Vito certainly witnessed his share of police corruption, but he prided himself an honest cop. The truth was, he had limited aspirations and a cop’s salary was plenty for him since, as an only child to Gianni and Isabella, he inherited the family home and what to him was a healthy bank account.
Vito married Marta, the daughter of other southern Italian immigrants. Marta was a good girl, as Vito liked to say. They were happy to stay in the neighborhood, eat out at Giacamo’s Trattoria once a week and raise their family in the bosom of fellow Italian-Americans like themselves. It was a simple, but good life. Vito was happy that Marta stayed home with the kids. Both children had grown up and, unlike he and Marta, had focused on college and had gone on to the hometown school, the University of Chicago. They were both off to the working world, his son to Seattle in technology and his daughter to New York in fashion design. It was just he and Marta again and his Chicago Police Department pension, which he expected would see them through.
Vito, like most municipal workers in Chicago had been raised to be a staunch pro-union Democrat. But sometime during the Clinton years, he, like so many other working men, lost faith and started gravitating right. He voted for Bush twice and then railed at the thought that Barack Obama was from his hometown. He really despised Rahm Emmanuel and wondered what had happened to his beloved Chicago of Richard Daley. Vito was not a racist, but he prided himself a realist when it came to dark people. By the time 2016 had come along, Vito was ready to don a MAGA hat and go all-in for Donald J. Trump. What resonated the most with him was the immigration issue. Vito was an American and he resented the influx of Latinos into his neighborhood. He could see the impact in the rising crime figures. It was easier to get a taco than a pizza in his neighborhood at this point.
When the Trump rallies screamed for the wall, Vito was right there with them. These people from the south had no business getting taxpayer support. Keep them out was a mantra he could get behind. Vito had a lot of time on his hands now that he was retired, so he attended more than a few rallies, always wearing his MAGA hat. And then it started.
In early 2019, the long simmering problems in the Chicago municipal pension system came to the surface. Until then, it had been the Illinois state pension problems had gotten most of the publicity, but now the municipal pensions were highlighted for dipping below 20% funding levels. There were talks of many solutions, but none that had the support of the increasingly younger electorate. By early 2020, the caca de vaca hit the fan and there was talk of dramatically reducing benefits to pensioners as there were no other apparent solutions for this city with a low-level junk bond credit rating.
The new billionaire governor was a Democrat and he tried all the things that the last Republican billionaire governor had tried. Neither had any answers other than foregoing their own meager salaries. Nice gesture, but no impact.
Vito had read all the stories and truth be told, he had begun to worry. He needed that pension. He never mentioned it to Marta because that was not their deal. Then the notice came to him in the mail. Vito’s pension was calculated to be about 56% of his final salary of $74,000. That was $41,440 per year or $3,453.33 monthly. That, with his social security check of $2,157.92, gave him $5,611.25 monthly to live on. That all worked with a little help from his small savings fund. Then he opened that notice.
The City had determined that the underfunding of the municipal workers pension plan would require them to reduce benefits for all pensioners. Vito’s monthly benefit would fall to $656.13. That was 19% of what had been promised. The City was sorry, but that was all there was to go around. They would, however, allow all retired municipal retirees henceforth to have access to all City swimming pools and recreation centers free of charge.
Vito did the math after the shock and anger had worn off. He could not make ends come close to meeting for $2,814.05 monthly. He went to all the grievance sessions and union meetings, but there was nothing to be done. Everybody was in the same shit he was. The hue and cry of Chicago municipal workers fell on the deaf ears of Detroit, San Jose and other cities that had similar problems. No one in the atrium administration seemed particularly concerned about Chicago. It was said that California was ready to split into two states over the same sort of pension underfunding issues. It was every man for himself. Vito needed a plan.
When Vito sat Marta down and told her they needed to sell the house and move up to the cabin they had rented for the summer several summers in the past and that sat in the north woods of Wisconsin, Marta didn’t cry. She looked at Vito and just squeezed his hand. It seems Marta had been reading all the articles without telling Vito, and she saw this coming for months. Marta was much better informed than Vito had ever realized. She was also a strong woman. She understood and set to the task of cleaning the house for showing.
The market for middle class housing in Chicago was not at its best during this turmoil, but Vito was able to sell his house. The best he could tell was that it was bought by an LLC that was owned by a consortium of Chinese investors that had partnered with Ivanka Trump. They were buying up Chicago housing on the cheap. Vito and Marta were not the only retirees who needed to scale back, s there were lots of properties available and prices were plummeting. By that time, the how and why mattered less to Vito and Marta than getting their plan underway.
Vito and Marta spoke to the kids and said it was their long-held dream to move to the woods, putting a brave face on it all. The kids were busy enough trying to make their own financial lives work that they were happy to accept this implausible explanation. The house was sold. The yard sale was over. The old Ford Explorer was loaded. The rent deposit on the cabin was sent. Tomorrow they would launch their adventure.
When Vito approached the Wisconsin border on Rt. 94 North, he saw way more activity than he expected. He hadn’t driven north for a few years, so he assumed it was just some new agricultural protocol. Wisconsin had always been weird about protecting their agriculture from bugs and protecting their dairy exports (Vito remembered the oleomargarine wars of the 1960’s). He assumed it might have to do with that. When his line of cars slowly edged him to the front, he was approached by a uniformed Wisconsin state trooper, who had that Norwegian heritage of the northland look about him. Vito smiled and made conversation with the trooper.
“Hey, officer, what’s going on? I’m a retired City cop and I can see you’re real busy.”
“Sir, please pull over to the left to that red parking space.”
“Sure, officer, but what’s the problem?”
“Sir, please follow my orders.” Officer Erikson said holding his hand on his gun belt.
Vito pulled over. He knew police-serious when he saw it. He got out of the car, but was careful to look non-threatening and stay close to the car, where Marta sat somewhat concerned in the passenger seat.
Officer Erikson signaled to another officer whose job seemed to be to process exceptions. Officer Moore approached Vito with a smile.
“Sir, may I see some identification?”
Vito handed him his wallet with his drivers license and Chicago PD card. He thought it might help and it did.
Officer Moore sighed and said, “When I saw you and your packed car, I was afraid of this.”
Vito was now officially confused.
“Mr. Pisticci, did I say that right? Are you relocating?”
“Close enough, Officer Moore. If you are asking me if I’m moving, the answer is yes. My wife and I are moving to a cabin we’ve rented in Red Arrow, up north.”
“Mr. Pisticci, are you aware of the new state Transfer Integrity laws we enacted last week here is Wisconsin?”
Vito was clueless.
“These laws do not allow any unemployed pensioners to relocate to Wisconsin without a full and thorough financial review and application process.”
“But I’m from Chicago and I’ve been vacationing in Wisconsin for years.” Said Vito, quite incredulously.
“That’s actually the point, sir. With all the Chicago and Illinois pension problems, Wisconsin has seen a tremendous influx of Illinois and particularly Chicago retirees in the past few months. You guys have the worst pension funding in the country and Wisconsin in number one in pension funding in the country. The problem has overwhelmed us and we have put in a marshal law provision to stop the migration. You will have to turn around.”
Vito didn’t know what to say. Finally, he said, “But I sold my house. I rented a cottage. What am I supposed to do now?”
“Mr. Pisticci, I’m not supposed to say this, but given your law enforcement background I will tell you that you could go to your cabin and stay for a month, but then you would get a knock on your door and the new immigration unit of the state police would put you through the same thing. Why don’t you just find another place to go? Save yourself the trouble of the deportation hearings. Living as a refugee is no fun. Do you have kids?”
Vito was in shock. He was being called a refugee. But he could see he was getting nowhere here. So, he and Marta drove back to a diner they had passed. After a few minutes and a coffee, they called their son in Seattle. They said they were coming out for a visit. Was that OK? They would explain when they got there.
Vito aimed the car towards Iowa and just hoped other states along the way did not have similar border walls set up like were being built between Illinois and Wisconsin. On the radio was a report about the greatly improved situation on the U.S. southern border. It seemed Mexicans and Central Americans no longer were trying to cross to the U.S. President Trump was declaring it a victory for his wall.
Vito chose that moment to toss his MAGA hat out the window on the Illinois/Iowa border.
Unsettling, to say the least.