Wherever We Go, There We Are

Chicago holds memory like a drum—echoing, constant, never still.

This summer, the South Side sang in every register: fireworks cracking through the night sky, children shrieking with joy, organizers building futures block by block. Since Juneteenth, every weekend has felt like a pageant of presence. Brown skin shining like mirrors to the sun. All of us lit up, again.

The heat loosens what winter held tight. It coaxes us out of hiding. We move from Garfield Blvd to Shady Grove Rd, ice pops in hand, smoke curling from grills. The sun doesn’t just warm—it heals. The awkwardness we carried through the cold, the sorrow we tucked beneath layers—we let it go, just for a moment. We sit in the sun longer. We breathe deeper. We remember we’re still here.

I carry the memories of angels—like Malik—on my morning walks. The years fold in on themselves: ‘23 conjuring ‘99 and ‘03. I feel haunted in the best way. Chicago is where I came into abolition as a practice, not a metaphor. Where I built alongside those who knew that safety isn’t a police badge but a community’s refusal to abandon each other. From the West Side’s resistance histories to the fight for a Community Benefits Agreement in Woodlawn—this city taught me that grief and joy live next door. They trade sugar. They borrow time.

This summer, relationships formed in motion: at graduations, Juneteenth markets from the DuSable to South Shore, at the Silver Room Block Party, the first NASCAR Black block hosted by Bubba Wallace, South Side Pride, Black Pride with Party Noire, the lake, the fireworks, the fireflies. These weren’t just events—they were declarations. Of life. Of breath. Of memory that dances instead of mourns.

And even as the ghosts showed up to celebrate with us, the violence of this city was never far. We carry the names of Rekia Boyd, Serabi Medina, Adam Toledo, Unique Banks, and countless others—not as hashtags, but as calls to action. In this city, people curse, fight for, and love Chicago in the same breath. That’s not contradiction. That’s intimacy.

What this summer reminded us is: we are the destination. Not the weekend. Not the reprieve. Us.

The chaos remains. But so does the clarity. And Chicago, in her sunlit months, shows us who we’ve always been: memory-keepers, block historians, lovers of long light and hard truths. We stay by the lake longer. We watch the fireflies blink their little lanterns. We know this city will break your heart and make you whole in the same afternoon.

Wherever we go, there we are.
Wherever we gather, we remember.
This is what it means to be alive in a city that refuses to forget us.

Miranda Goosby (she/her) is a writer, educator, and creative committed to documenting and amplifying Black and Brown voices across borders. Rooted in Chicago by way of Maryland’s DMV, she works as a Program Manager at Northwestern University’s Global Learning Office, where she facilitates transformative learning experiences through a Black intersectional feminist lens.

Her work centers storytelling as a tool for liberation—spanning issues from reproductive justice to ethical global engagement. Whether advising study abroad programs in Scandinavia or building transnational networks from Mexico City to Hanoi, Miranda cultivates spaces that are inclusive, youth-centered, and grounded in care. Her heart beats for community, narrative, and radical possibility.