Note: This story is partially told in my book Ultra-Fat to Ultra-Fit.  The more disturbing second part was edited out, which I have taken the liberty of re-including.

After taking a position at the University of Chicago, I left sunny Florida for the frigid mid-March Midwest.  I had never before lived in a city, and had only spent a total of one-and-a-half days in Chicago before pulling the trigger to move there.  Getting used to the urban sprawl was quite an adjustment; The University of Chicago was located in Hyde Park, a neighborhood deep on the south side of Chicago.  It was a nice university neighborhood sandwiched between Lake Michigan and the ghetto, which stretched for miles in every direction.

It was also pretty cold.  The thin blood of a southerner ran through my veins, and I was freezing every time I headed out the door for a run.  This proved doubly unfortunate: Due to bad planning, I had timed my move to occur about a month before I was scheduled to do an Ironman triathlon (a 140-mile swim, bike, and run sufferfest).  I was spending an unpleasant amount of time outdoors, circumstances that left me scrambling to find something to wear amidst my meager stores of warm clothes.  Where I lacked, I made do with what I had.  For example, I didn’t own a ski cap, so I took to wearing a blue bandana handkerchief as a ‘do rag each time I headed out the door.

I quickly discovered that howling winds made running along the lakefront path unpleasant at this time of year.  To shelter myself from these gales, I was forced to head inland for long runs through the South Side, touring the ghetto while clad a motley assortment of sweatpants, thermal shirts, and old-fashioned woolen mittens.

After a few days of this, I began to notice that a disproportionately large number of people were staring at me as I passed by.  Initially, I thought this was because I was white.  All but two of Chicago’s neighborhoods are unofficially segregated, and a tall Caucasian in this neck of the woods was bound to draw a little attention.  After a while, though, I got the distinct impression that the gawking only occurred when I was in certain neighborhoods, usually those located to the west and south of Hyde Park.

I was waiting for a traffic light one day when I learned the truth behind the stares.  An old toothless bag lady looked up from her cart full of belongings long enough to say “you gon’ get kilt, white boy.”

At first I thought she was threatening me.  “Excuse me?”

“You gon’ get kilt, showin’ dem colors here.”

“What colors?” I asked cautiously.

She gestured to her own head, meaning my bandana.  “You flashin’ Disciple colors below 62nd boy.  Hey, give me a dolla’ huh?”

“Disciples?”

“GANGSTA Disciples?  Damn, don’t you know nothin’?  Man, I’m savin’ yo life, you got any change?”

It appeared I was, and had been the better part of a week, running through one gang’s neighborhood while displaying a rival gang’s colors.  Self-preservation kicked in.  “Wait,” she yelled, as I sprinted away with newfound vigor “where my dolla’?”

Twilight was gloaming as I sprinted towards Hyde Park, an area I now thought of only as my “safe zone.”  Sweat ran into my eyes, irritating them, and my lungs burned as though they had caught fire.  It was probably just the thing I needed to prepare myself for an Ironman.  I crossed the Midway Plaisance into friendly territory and slowed to a walk, panting heavily.  I had almost caught my breath before I realized I probably could have avoided the desperate exodus had I just put the bandana I was wearing in my pocket after learning its meaning. 

The next few days I stuck to the lakefront path, but the cold and wind eventually drove me inland once again.  Unwilling to give up my bandana, I went to a local tienda that featured a selection of urban headgear.  After laughing at my stupidity a little longer than was polite, the shop owner made his pronouncement: “You need a “gang neutral” bandana, son.  Got to get you a color that no gang wears, ‘cause you got no clue what neighborhood you be in.”  Another chuckle.  “Only problem is, South Side’s got a lot of gangs, lot of colors already been taken.”

“What are my options?” I asked, trusting my life to a seventy-ish African-American with – based on his squinting – poor eyesight.

“Well, you got two choices I reckon,” he said, moving over to his selection of ‘do rags.  “Taupe or pink.”

“Do you sell taupe?” I asked, thinking I could pull off light beige rather nicely.

‘Nope,” he said, grinning wickedly.

The pink bandana I bought was lightly shaded, like the petals of a delicate carnation.  I had mixed feelings about it: I no longer got looks of alarm from ghetto residents while I ran, but I was getting a lot more cursory glances while in Hyde Park.  Oh well, I thought, beggars can’t be choosers.

The Pink Bandana

A few weeks later, for a change of scenery, I drove up to the north side of town for a jog.  I promenaded down the lakefront, now mentally insulted the odd glances I garnered.  I ended the run in Boystown, the heart of Chicago’s gay scene, where I hoped to find a bakery I had heard good things about.  I was still wearing running gear, sweaty pink bandana included, when a well-dressed man with a shaved head and a decidedly homosexual affect stopped me on the street.

“Oh, hey Gary,” he said in a luscious gay drawl, “I haven’t seen you at the group in a while.  Do you still like to play?”

I was a little slow on the uptake.  “Play what?” I asked.  I realized that he was probably asking a different sort of question right around the time that he realized that was not, in fact, Gary.

“Sorry,” he said, backing away, “I saw you and your handkerchief there,” he pointed to the pink bandana, “and thought you were a, uh, friend.”

“Hold up,” said I, “what’s my bandana got to do with this?  Play with what?”  It was no use; he was halfway down the block, leaving me no choice but to shake my head and resume course towards the cinnamon rolls I craved.

As fate would have it, the bakery was located almost directly next door to a store that sold adult novelties.  I was walking past, appraising and admiring the wares of this purveyor of smut, when I saw something that rather abruptly grabbed my attention: Next to the double dong dildos and the S&M mannequin, there was a large display containing every color of bandana under the sun.

What was a sex shop in a gay neighborhood doing with that many bandanas?  I popped the last bite of my cinnamon roll into my mouth and entered the store.  I asked the clerk (the standard sex shop employee with multiple piercings and blue hair) what all the bandanas were for.

“Hanky code,” she replied tiredly, pointing towards a sign that hung over the bandana display.  I walked over to read the sign.  It read:

“The Hanky Code”

The Hanky Code is a traditional form of signaling to others what your sexual preferences and interests are.  Men use this code to communicate with each other in the noisy, distracting environment of gay bars.  Depending on the orientation of the handkerchief, you suggest whether you wish to perform or receive the service connotated by each color.

Below this message were color samples matched up to a particular sex act.  The first was red, which, depending on the pocket it was displayed in, connotated an interest in giving or receiving a fist fucking.  There were about 60 colors in total, ranging from nondescript (tan=cuddler) to bizarre (yellow=piss freak).  I quickly read down the list, stopping only when I hit pink.  There it was: I was apparently advertising to the entire gay community that I was into being fucked by a dildo.  Idly, I wondered whether I was in more danger wearing blue on the south side or pink on the north side.  At least I now knew what game the mystery man on the street was asking me to play.  It could have been worse.  I found taupe on the color list.  There it was: a rimming enthusiast.  Oh my.

I decided that if I decided to continue living in Chicago, it was probably time to stop wearing a bandana.