The Streetwise Professor | Lit Feature | Chicago Reader

Arts & Culture » Lit Feature

The Streetwise Professor

Jerald Walker's drug-addled adolescence on Chicago's south side—and how it prepared him for academia.


Sign up for our newsletters Subscribe


Jerald Walker teaches English lit and creative writing at Bridgewater State College in Massachusetts, but his memoir, Street Shadows, is a south-side Chicago tale through and through—real deal, as some say below Cermak, unspun in its tracking of the author's circular path from hope to despair and then back to hope again. Street Shadows is Walker's homage to second chances, recounting how he took a wayward turn in youth and still found his way as an adult, discovering opportunity in Chicago.

Walker and his wife, both academics, are raising their two elementary-school-aged children in circumstances quite distinct from Walker's own as a child. His life's trajectory and the potential for reimagining fate—the possibility of better lives to be lived even for the most compromised of souls—invigorate his voice as he tells his story.

The early portion of Street Shadows discusses your life as a young man in Chicago during the 1970s and '80s—a changing place in changing times. Could you talk a bit about your background?

I was born on the west side in a housing project. My parents, both of whom were blind, struggled mightily to get us out of that environment, and they managed to do so in 1970, when I was six years old. We moved to South Shore, which was predominately white. We were one of the first black families, if not the first black family, to move into the neighborhood. It was a solid, middle-class, stable environment. That lasted for a few years, until the whites seemed to have some important place to be. We started noticing the for-sale signs sprouting up, until, maybe six, seven years after we had arrived, the neighborhood was all black. And by ten years after we'd arrived it had turned into a ghetto, not unlike the project area we'd moved from.

By age 14 I'd started experimenting with drugs and alcohol. I dropped out of high school at 16. Then, by 20, I had a strong interest in snorting all the cocaine I could find. And then a friend of mine was murdered when I was 21—he died soon after I'd bought some drugs from him. That kind of shook me up like other things had not shaken me up and made me decide it was time to redirect my life. So, at the age of 24, I enrolled in Loop College [now Harold Washington College], and there I met Professor Edward Homewood, who took an interest in me and in my writing ability. He helped me get to the Iowa Writers Workshop.

Professor Homewood's course work was your first encounter with creative writing?

It's funny, I gave a reading in Chicago and a lot of my teenage friends were there. Afterward they were saying, "You know, we remember when you used to write these stories and read them to us when we were getting high"—and I don't remember doing any of that. They told me I would craft these stories that had awesome characters, and I would amuse them by reading. So maybe I did. I'm sure if they say I did it, then I did it, but . . .

I didn't get interested in writing, nor think that I could write, until I randomly took a class with Professor Homewood. I'd taken a few classes previously—I'd thought I might be an architect, and that didn't work out. And I'd wanted to be a politician, and then a sociologist, but none of these things really grabbed me. So I took that class with Professor Homewood, and he said, "You have the goods."

Support Independent Chicago Journalism: Join the Reader Revolution

We speak Chicago to Chicagoans, but we couldn’t do it without your help. Every dollar you give helps us continue to explore and report on the diverse happenings of our city. Our reporters scour Chicago in search of what’s new, what’s now, and what’s next. Stay connected to our city’s pulse by joining the Reader Revolution.

Are you in?

  Reader Revolutionary $35/month →  
  Rabble Rouser $25/month →  
  Reader Radical $15/month →  
  Reader Rebel  $5/month  → 

Not ready to commit? Send us what you can!

 One-time donation  →