The Rookie: A Day in the Life of Chicago Policewoman

by Toni Quinn in Crime, July 19, 2009

Being armed with only two years of social work at Loyola University and the older sister of nine brothers, Toni started her first day in 1938 as a Chicago Policewoman. There were only a handful of women on the force at that time, and the next 35 years proved to be a most troubled time in history. This is a story of that first day as told to me by my mother, Toni Quinn.

This view of Chicago with its intimate glimpse of diverse city life was like a trip to another planet. I lived in the far northwest section of the city, cut off from activity because of the lack of transportation. My home area had never heard the beating pulse deep within a cosmopolitan city. We had moved to the city limits because of the size of our family. With nine boys and four girls we needed the wide open spaces of country life. We had escaped the city’s crowded lifestyle for a small community where family groups mingled around their churches for fellowship and discussion. My new acquaintance with big city life was like walking down the yellow brick road into an exciting new experience in the Emerald City. I continued on southeast, feeling the beating pulse of the city and taking in all the sights.

Windows with curtains indicated living quarters above the stores, although I never saw faces or movement. Through dark, narrow openings between buildings, I could see cottages in the rear, all with three or four flats – basement, first floor, second floor and attic. The Logan elevated train ran down the alley in this area and rattling streetcars with screeching wheels ambled downtown and back on Milwaukee Avenue.

For several blocks the sidewalks were crowded with chattering people. Women played their shopping games. They haggled over prices and picked out food items, throwing aside unwanted pieces. Young mothers with small children gossiped with each other, laughing easily and running dutifully, after young toddlers; but always taking time to shoo the flies from their baby buggies. Old men chatted with each other and with shop owners. Even stooped men had to duck their heads to avoid hitting the featherless chickens hanging by the neck from the awnings. I heard only Polish spoken in this part of the district and many times, the word, “Dobra. Dobja.” Later, I would know it to mean, “Good. Good”. The noise of the streetcars and the babble of the shoppers made my street patrol all the more exciting. Without even knowing what it meant, “Dobja. Dobja”, I shouted after a streetcar on its dreary way to the Loop.