In the fall of 2022, I came out of retirement for a part-time job in the city of Chicago that has
been transformative and instructive in ways I could not have imagined. I became an elementary school crossing guard.

Given a choice, I selected a school in Scottsdale, a neighborhood on the South Side, because the school was predominantly Latino, and I have an interest in diverse cultures.

Twice a day, I ensure that young students — and often their parents or relatives — are able to cross a busy street safely and without fear.

I have embraced the job and even the uniform. I wear multiple layers when it’s cold but always with a neon, high-visibility vest and a “stop” sign, which allows me to halt traffic.

At my school, an adult — typically a parent, grandparent or other relative — parks in a lot adjacent to the street crossing to which I’m assigned and accompanies the child across the street and to the school door, a process that’s reversed at the end of the day.

I have encountered many of the same students and relatives every day. Even though new crossing guards receive extensive training, I had an additional plan for every encounter: to treat every student and whoever might be accompanying them with the same courtesy, respect and kindness we all would like to receive from those around us every day.

Everyone who crosses the street with me gets a “good morning,” “how are you doing today?” or “have a good evening.”

No exceptions.

At first, I encountered mostly skepticism and distrust. Eyes were averted. Few responded.

Later, I learned from parents that people thought I was a police officer because I’m a tall, white male in a uniform — crossing guards tend to be women. Yet I persevered.

Slowly, I started to get smiles, then greetings or responses from the students and their family members.

This was followed by an occasional bag of treats after a holiday or school event.

One brutally cold morning, out of the blue, a student brought me a package of much-needed hand warmers to put inside my gloves. I had no idea what they were or how they worked, but, boy, were they appreciated!

Perhaps my favorite moment was the time I was facing the street, with my left arm out to block any students from entering the crosswalk, when a kindergartner unexpectedly put his right hand in my left hand before we started to cross.

It’s fair to say I have witnessed the building blocks of trust and friendship. People share tales of births and deaths.

Everyone now calls me “Mr. Sam.”

This experience has been good for everyone involved, but I’ve come to realize something more fundamental about the future and well-being of Chicago and its residents. We need to find ways to “cross the street” with everyone, not just those in our own ward or at our own block party, to find ways to interact at the street level. So go to the South Side Irish Parade and the Bud Billiken Parade. Go to the Art Institute and the National Museum of Mexican Art.

Or become a crossing guard.