I land in Chicago in the middle of the night, and the hired driver takes me to West Englewood. Although the roads are busy with traffic, the neighborhood seems almost deserted. The streets are poorly lit, but that doesn’t conceal the grubbiness or dereliction of the area from view. The aura of poverty and hardship is reflected in the brown buildings and scruffy stores, and I get that old ripple of trepidation and uneasiness moving through me. That weight of emptiness I used to feel at ...