I graduated from Loyola University of Chicago in 1985, and I lived in East Rogers Park for eight years. Not visited. Not commuted. I lived there. I walked the campus and ran those streets and beaches. I learned which blocks were reasonable, which ones weren’t, and more importantly, how quickly one could turn into the other without warning.
That’s the part nobody tells you.
Because if you listen to Loyola, read their materials, or take a campus tour—much like the Jesuits who ostensibly run the institution —you’d think the university exists in a kind of lakeside bubble. Safe. Insulated. Self-contained…