Chicago – As I write this, people are gathering in Chicago to honor the legacy of those affected by the Ohio coal mines who made their way to this city in the early 1950s.
They’re recognizing social workers and community activists who have changed thousands of lives in the city over the last 80 years. It’s been noted that her “backbone and willpower have driven positive change in Chicago for decades.”
Angela Piazza Turley was an extraordinary individual, someone whose commitment to fighting for others was truly admirable.
And she was my mother.
George Bernard Shaw once remarked that irrational people expect the world to conform to their vision, and that’s why history is often shaped by those who seem unreasonable.
My mother was one of those wonderfully unreasonable individuals. As a little child, I found myself clutching her skirt while she stood up to a slum landlord, an abusive husband, or gang members in the Uptown neighborhood of Chicago. I often squeezed her hand, anxiously wondering, “What’s next?”
It felt like she always had it figured out. Growing up in a coal mining town in Ohio, my mother witnessed poverty and discrimination first-hand. Those experiences left an indelible mark on her, creating a core that was as strong and unyielding as anthracite coal.
Sometimes, she would fall asleep while thinking about the burning cross on a nearby hillside.
She learned early on that a better life required fighting for it. Her father, Dominic, was among the first organizers of United Miners, and his dedication was something she carried with her.
At Yorkville High School, her peers called her “Champion” because of her incredible spirit and unyielding energy. She had a unique beauty—a tomboyish charm, with olive skin and striking hazel eyes.
After World War II, she caught the eye of Jack Turley, a young veteran with dreams of becoming a photographer. My grandparents, however, weren’t too keen on their budding romance, especially my Sicilian grandmother who kept a close watch over family matters.
Slowly, the two found a way to make their relationship work; they even shared crossword puzzles in the bay window of her family’s grocery store, which was irresistible to my grandmother.
When Jack declared his ambition to be an architect, my mother supported him wholeheartedly, encouraging him to study under the best architect of the time.
It might have seemed crazy, or maybe it was pure confidence. They arrived in Chicago one snowy night, with barely over a dollar to their names, and the first thing they did was order a cup of coffee. Soon after, my mother took a job as a waitress.
Jack eventually became a prominent architect, working closely with Mees, and later as a partner at Skidmore Owings and Merrill, playing a significant role in shaping some of the most iconic buildings in Chicago and beyond.
With her husband’s success, my mother got the chance to pursue her dreams. Together, they created an organization making a real difference in the city, including one of the first community credit unions that offered loans to local residents and businesses.
She presided over Jane Addams Hull House and founded various organizations advocating for better housing, education, and safety for the city’s underserved populations. She even ran for the 46th Ward City Council, earning the title of Uptown’s “scrapper” for her passionate efforts to improve her neighborhood.
Fearlessness defined her. I remember accompanying her into slum areas where she bravely confronted violent landlords and criminals. At one point, she and other mothers literally chased away gang members from playgrounds and low-income buildings.
A pimp once looked shocked and amused as my fierce Sicilian mother, with two children in tow, shoved him into the street. I felt that “What’s happening now?” urgency in her gaze, but she stood her ground, embodying a fierce determination. I could see she was ready to go to any lengths.
We thought we were in real danger, but he never returned.
Thanks to my parents’ success, my mother finally obtained what she had longed for since childhood—a warm home filled with family. They bought one of Uptown’s oldest houses near the lake, which echoed her dreams of security and community.
When she first walked through that house, she paused in the backyard, gazing at a towering Ohio Buckeye and falling in love instantly.
Throughout her life, she welcomed countless individuals seeking new opportunities, as well as foreign students, creating a vibrant, inclusive atmosphere in her home. For her, it symbolized safety and the continuity she yearned for as a young girl.
After my father passed away, she only had one wish: to leave this world in that very house, not in a sterile hospital or hospice.
As time wore on, her health declined, and our beloved home also started to fade. My brother and I did our best to maintain the old furnace and pipes during that challenging time.
Days before her 98th birthday, she lay by a window that overlooked Hazel Street. Her passing, against a backdrop of uncertainty, was something that none of us were ever fully prepared for.
When her condition worsened, I rushed to the airport to be with her, only to be thwarted by a severe storm that closed down all flights. For the first time, she was out of reach. She passed away while I sat waiting at the gate.
In my final moments with her, just a week ago, I found myself at her bedside, trying to keep it together before my flight to Washington. I couldn’t find the words, I just looked at her, sharing that familiar “What’s next?” expression.
Maybe she sensed this too. Suddenly, she sat up, smiled at me with those lovely hazel eyes, kissed me, and then went back to sleep. It felt like a parting message, as if she was saying, “You’re okay. You’ve got this.” And that was the last thing my mother conveyed to me.
She was always there, guiding me through tough situations—from slums to city life. I knew I had to hold my ground alongside her. We would see it through… together.
She was my guiding light, my constant in the storm. Now that she’s gone, I find myself grappling with the emptiness. What do you do when your North Star fades away, leaving behind a void that threatens to consume everything around you?
We didn’t need her to articulate “What’s next?”—we understood implicitly. You hold on even tighter to those you love and stand firm.
Angela left behind five children, 13 grandchildren, and six great-grandchildren. Her legacy will continue to impact thousands who benefitted from her unwavering presence in their times of need. This week, as we gather to say goodbye to Angela Turley, her legacy will remain, growing alongside the city she cherished.
