Northwest Turf — Part I: The Rules of the Block

By Cliff Potts
Bay Bay City, Leyte, Philippines — November 12, 2026

This is a serialized installment from the autobiography of Cliff Potts.

Unwritten Rules

There are rules on the Northwest Side. They are not written down, but they are understood.

Who grew up here.
Who owns here.
Who belongs here.
Who does not.

By the time I was headed toward Beaubien Elementary, I had already learned that Chicago runs on territory. Not only gangs — although those existed — but families, blocks, homeowners, and long-timers. Even the well-behaved kids carried it in their posture. Every sidewalk, every stoop, every schoolyard corner felt claimed.

We were renters. Transplants. The Peru kids. The Californians.

The Northwest Side recognized that immediately.

Exposure

Argyle had already changed something in me.

For most of my earlier childhood — Peru, California, wherever we landed — I had at least a room of my own. A door. Four walls that answered to me.

Argyle removed that.

The bed in the front room was not simply inconvenient. It was exposure. No boundary. No private territory. When you are already moving across states and countries, that compression sharpens awareness.

You begin to read tone shifts.
You scan rooms automatically.
You measure posture.

Compression creates vigilance.

By the time I approached Beaubien, I was not naïve about hierarchy.

The Northwest Side did not welcome newcomers.

It tested them.