Page 1A

One Chicago street tells Census story Western Avenue is rich in culture and diversity, but it's a counter's bad dream

By Rick Hampson
USA TODAY

CHICAGO -- Western Avenue is the longest street in Chicago, the spine in Carl Sandburg's ''City of the Big Shoulders.''

For 23 1/2 miles from Evanston on the north to Blue Island on the south, it runs through neighborhoods with Russians, Indians, Pakistanis, Poles, Germans, Arabs, Lithuanians, Ukrainians, Croats, Italians, Puerto Ricans, Mexicans, Vietnamese, Irish, blacks and Jews.

The avenue is a sociologist's dream and a Census taker's nightmare, as fascinating to observe and as difficult to tally as the rush-hour crowds in the Loop.

Census 2000 aims to count everyone on Western Avenue and every other street in the country. As a result of the national controversy over that ambition -- particularly complaints about the 53 questions on the Census' so-called long form, the longer of the two Census forms -- USA TODAY spent several days talking to people along Western about the big fuss over what once seemed a simple civic duty.

The reasons people had or hadn't filled out and mailed back their Census forms, which are due today, varied as much as the avenue itself.

Some people said they had filed, some said they would, and some said they couldn't be bothered. Some said they never got a form in the mail, and some who did said they were confused or offended by its questions.

In a city once so cognizant of the arithmetic of democracy that even the dead were said to vote, fewer than half the residents (47%) had responded to the Census, according to numbers released Monday. That compared unfavorably with the state (62%), the nation (61%) and other big cities such as New York (50%) and Los Angeles (58%).

Later this month, about 500,000 Census takers will have to knock on the door of every home from which no form was returned and pose the questions. Going door to door costs taxpayers up to eight times more than when people simply fill out and return the forms, which is why the Census spent $167 million in advertising to urge compliance.

In the middle-class neighborhoods at Western's poles -- polyglot West Ridge on the north and Irish- and African-American Morgan Park on the south -- the response rate was slightly above 50%; in the middle, at a decimated housing project named Rockwell Gardens, it was 3.5%.

Fearing that an undercount of poor people and illegal immigrants will cost the city federal aid and legislative representation, Chicago ran its own $1 million shadow Census promotion campaign.

But the Census was hardly the talk of Western Avenue. ''I haven't troubled me head about it,'' said Paul Callaghan, manager of Keegan's Pub. ''Around this place, it's a non-starter.''

Even the prim, 60ish school crossing guard at 36th Street, in her dark blue uniform and bright orange sash, acknowledged that her form was sitting unopened more than a week after its arrival.

''I have many things to do,'' she said, ''and filling out that form is not high on my list.''

Some people were confused by the seeming lack of a deadline. Some people received two forms and didn't know they were only supposed to fill out one. Some echoed complaints about the ''long form,'' which is at the center of a national political issue: its questions are too personal, too obscure and too many, they say.

West Ridge, Pratt Avenue

''I'm safe -- I mailed it this morning,'' reported Richard Ruff, 62. Each morning he comes to Fluky's, a restaurant decorated with historic Chicago street signs, to drink coffee, read the newspaper and chat with his friends.

He got the short form; his friend Don got the long one, and he wasn't happy about the questions about his income. So he didn't answer them. Another regular said he just dumped his form into the trash.

The Census is an event that marks how things have changed. In that sense it was a sad task for Pat Moore, a 60-ish woman sitting at another table, who had to fill out her form for the first time. Her husband, who always did it for them, died a few years ago.

To make matters worse, she got the long form. ''It was too long,'' she said. ''I looked at it and put it down and looked at it and put it down.'' Finally, she mailed it but didn't fill out every line. ''Some of it was a little too personal, like income. With computers now, it could fall into the wrong hands.

''Maybe I'm old-fashioned,'' she said with a sigh.

A mile south, in the bustling Indian business district at Western and Devon Avenue, about a dozen people had actually climbed the 18 stairs to the Midwest Asian American Center to get a Census form when none arrived in the mail.

''We're paying the taxes, and we should be getting the benefits,'' said Vandana Dalal, 48. ''When it comes to educate our children, this will be important. If you don't do the Census, how will you benefit from it?''

Rosehill Cemetery

Two men stood across from the wrought iron fence of Chicago's largest cemetery and explained why they hadn't filled out their forms.

''Just haven't gotten around to it,'' said Lloyd March, 39, who had stepped from the state welfare office at 5822 Western. ''I got it, but I haven't read it,'' admitted Jesse Palmer, 61. He didn't sound as if he ever would.

Across the street, Rosehill Cemetery offered a reminder of a time when elections and the Census were so important that even its residents participated -- under the supervision of the Democratic political machine.

Today, the local Census effort is a bit of a publicity stunt: 55 prizes of $1,000 to people who display Census posters in their windows; 15,000 ''Census Rap'' cassettes; 6-by-8-inch mirrors with ''The Most Important Person in Census 2000'' printed on the face; barbers' smocks with the slogan ''You're One'' written in reverse in English, Spanish and Polish.

Under the O'Hare El,

Bloomingdale Avenue

Stanley McCane, 50, completed his Census form, but he knew all about why some others hadn't -- he worked as an enumerator during the last Census.

''They felt like it was Big Brother,'' he said. ''They said the information was too personal.''

He paused. ''Like the number of rooms in your house?''

Wicker Park, North Avenue

The area east of Western is gentrifying, which means fewer kids and more pets. Andrew Gottlieb, 29, capitalized on the trend by founding Laund-UR-Mutt, a place to bring your dog for a bath.

He got the long Census form more than a week earlier but hadn't even opened it. What had he been doing instead? ''Just about anything,'' he admitted with a guilty chuckle. ''I read my Fidelity statement.''

''I know I should fill it out, but I haven't,'' he added. ''This shows that it's not just homeless people and illegal immigrants who don't return their Census forms. It's lazy white people, too.''

A howl came from a dog at the back of the shop. ''MAX, THAT'S ENOUGH!'' Gottlieb shouted over his shoulder. ''Tomorrow's my day off,'' he said. ''Maybe I'll look at it then.''

Ukrainian Village,

Chicago Avenue

William Klowatyj, 79, was born under Lenin and was living under Stalin when he left the Soviet Ukraine to come to the USA in 1952. Perhaps that's what made him leery of the Census.

''Why they want to know how many rooms in house?'' he asked while sitting at a table in Ann's Bakery, where the clerks speak only Ukrainian. ''Do they want to raise the taxes?''

To complicate matters, he received two forms -- one at his Chicago home and one at his place in Indiana -- and did not realize at first that only the one sent to his primary residence should be filled out.

A different kind of bread and a different perspective was provided by Michael Fiore, 49, owner of an Italian deli a few blocks away:

''It's just another form. You just fill it out.''

Rockwell Gardens,

Jackson Avenue

Rockwell Gardens is Census 2000's worst-case scenario. In the past year, several of the project's apartment houses have been closed or demolished. Some residents scattered; others squeezed illegally into the project's remaining towers. Either way, they are unlikely to respond to the Census.

Ethel Washington, 68, who has lived in public housing all her life, said she feared what might happen if she filed.

''What if somebody gets my Social Security number? They might steal my identity.'' When it was suggested that the area will lose federal aid if its residents are not counted, a man with her laughed. ''They never done nothing for us anyway,'' he said. ''Just this.'' He gestured to the 13-story red brick apartment house on the next street, which was being slammed by a wrecking ball.

Lashanta Bell, 20, hurried across the street with her 3-year-old son, Shawn. Planning for Shawn's future is what the Census is supposed to be all about, but his mother said she didn't get a form, possibly because her mailbox had no door.

Would she ask for a Census form? She shook her head: ''Waste a time.''

''As much as I love these people, I have to say most of them don't care,'' said Salvation Army Lt. Marcos Ramirez, who works at a community center in the project. ''They've been programmed for generations not to. Nobody's gonna throw them out of their building or throw their kid out of school if they don't fill out their form, so they won't.''

And even the short form isn't so short if you're functionally illiterate. Ramirez said he had filled out forms for residents who couldn't. ''The Census people must wonder why so many people from this project have the same handwriting,'' he said.

Pilsen, Cermak Road

Pablo did not get a Census form because as far as the government knows he does not exist. He entered the USA illegally last year from Mexico to find work. He lives with a half-dozen other day laborers on the second floor of an old row house in Pilsen, a district once dominated by Czechs but now largely Mexican.

Contacted through an immigrant rights group, Pablo said he had heard about the Census 2000 effort but considered it, if anything, a threat. ''If they count me, they can catch me,'' he said through an interpreter.

He sends money back home to his wife, who is raising their three children. He dreams of bringing them to Chicago someday. In that case, he said, it would be important to be counted.

''But that,'' he said, ''is too far away.''

Beverly/Morgan Park,

111th Street

Barbara Thouvenell, 51, a real estate broker, couldn't wait to fill out her form. Like most people in this leafy suburb-in-the-city at Chicago's southern limits, she considers herself civic-minded. ''People here believe that they can make a difference. They don't think (the Census) is just some stupid form.''

She was ready to tell all: how many bathrooms she had, how many bushes she had planted, the works. She lit a fire in the fireplace. ''I was ready to write all night.''

Alas, she received only the short form, and the whole process was over in a few minutes. ''I wondered, ''What's the big deal?' ''Cover storyCover story