No matter what happens in the coming weeks, we are Chicago. We rose from the ashes. We never quit.

We are the lake in the morning, the sun rising over the water, its reflection drawing a line straight to our shores.

We are the Haymarket Martyrs, the Pullman strikers, always demanding better than what we've got.

We are the words of Sandburg and Algren and Brooks and Wright.

We are the 90s Bulls, making the impossible possible.

We are the dipped Italian Beef. Messy, sure, but incredible.

We are the humidity in the summer, the frostbitten cheeks in the winter.

We are smoke-kissed rib tips.

We are elotes on the street. We are pierogis in a pot.

We are Curtis singing Hush now child.

We are the Soul Train dance line, the National Barn Dance, the Warehouse on a hot summer night.

We are the beach in the last days of summer, drawing every moment out.

We are the downtown canyons, wind-whipped in the winter, how do you make it through?

We make it through.

We are celery salt and tomatoes and onion, sport peppers and a dill pickle and relish so green you swear it's not real.

We are the dreams of millions.

We are imperfect, but we are perfect.

We are forever.

We are everything.

We are Chicago.

There will never be more of them than there are of us.