CFD policy change sparks safety concerns, memories

A proposed policy change in the Chicago Fire Department’s procedures has raised concerns among city leaders, who fear that if implemented, it could lead to more fire deaths in Chicago. 

Under the draft standard operating procedure (SOP), first-arriving firefighters must remain outside a burning structure unless victims are plainly visible or credible bystanders say people are trapped inside. Otherwise, crews will fight the blaze from the exterior. 

The order was triggered by the ICFD policy Administration after Lt. Kevin Ward died battling an August 11, 2023, basement fire on the Northwest Side. When City Hall requested more time to comply, IL OSHA began fining Chicago $10,000 a day on May 12 and will keep assessing daily penalties until CFD adopts the rule.

In addition to Ward, Lt. Jan Tchoryk, who died fighting a blaze in 2023, and firefighter MaShawn Plummer, who perished in 2021, have lost their lives on-duty, drawing the ire of regulators, who cited concerns about equipment and CFD’s operating procedures.

The Crusader reached out to the office of Mayor Brandon Johnson and CFD but did not receive a response before the Crusader’s press deadline.

News of the SOP broke just ahead of Independence Day, when fireworks routinely strain U.S. fire resources. The National Fire Protection Association says fireworks ignited an estimated 31,302 fires in 2022—3,504 structure fires, 887 vehicle fires and 26,492 outdoor fires—causing six deaths, 44 injuries and $109 million in direct damage.

Patrick Cleary, president of Chicago Fire Fighters Union Local 2, told WGN-TV the rule will leave crews “watching a lot of buildings burn down—and that means potential deaths.”

For this writer, Cleary’s comments can’t be clearer.

One evening in March 1990, this writer returned home from work, retrieved my four- and two-year-olds from the babysitter, and after feeding and bathing them, decided to have a fun movie night. Before the movie began, I decided to pop a couple of bags of microwaveable popcorn that I would dump into a large bowl and mix with candy to share.

I set the microwave too high and waited for the beep to signal our snack was ready. The putrid smell of burnt popcorn soon filled our apartment, and I hurried into the kitchen to discard the bag. “Maybe I should have pressed the button that says popcorn instead of three,” I mused to myself as I started to open another bag. Almost simultaneously as I was about to start another pop, a loud banging was heard on my first-floor apartment’s front door.

Upon opening it, there stood a cousin who lived one story above. “Hurry! Get out, there’s a fire in the building,” she yelled. I stuck my head into the smoke-free hallway. I quickly wondered how on earth she could have smelled my burnt popcorn all the way from her second-floor unit? My cousin insisted I get out and she wasn’t taking whatever I was about to say as an answer. Indeed, I was about to calm her nerves, and it was only burnt popcorn she smelled, but before I could get a word out, a loud, crashing sound came from inside my apartment. 

I rushed inside, grabbed my children from the sofa and shoved the little ones into my cousin’s arms. “Get them out,” I said, as she grabbed them and hurried down the steps and out of the building. I then ran into my dining room and saw a firefighter on a protruding ladder climbing through my window. Another followed. “Hey! What’s going on?” I yelled, thinking they were going to really be upset when they realized they were called to confront a burnt bag of popcorn. The firemen ignored me—then one more, carrying an axe, came rushing through my window. “Nothing’s on fire,” I yelled, to no avail.

The three of them looked confused for a moment and then ran toward a kitchen door leading to the back porch. “Is there a way into the other building from here?” one yelled. I told them no. I lived in an L-shaped building that shared a back courtyard. Although it was a single property, there were two tenant entrances, and depending on which door one entered, it determined one of two addresses assigned to the building. I watched CFD climb over my back porch railing onto the adjacent one, which belonged to my aunt Kattie. She had steel security bars on her back door. 

I realized they were trying to get into her apartment. “Hey that’s my aunt’s apartment,” I yelled, now frantic yet still confused. I hadn’t even heard fire sirens. “Is it on fire?!” They ignored me and kept doing their job. I can’t remember if the firemen went back through the giant ladder they had shoved through my window or not. What I do recall is I ran back inside, threw on some jeans and shoes and grabbed my press badge that had been issued by the Chicago Police Department (CPD). I had been working as the public safety and general assignment reporter at the Chicago Defender. Back then, the CPD press badge carried some weight, and so I rushed out of my apartment, rounded the corner and saw two giant fire trucks. I noticed another ladder had gone through my aunt’s front window.

I held up my press badge and ran into the building, but was pushed back by a fireman. “Hey, you can’t go in there,” he yelled. I told him who I was and that the apartment belonged to my aunt. I guess he saw the worried look on my face, so he said, “The lady next door said nobody’s home.” That reduced my pulsing heart rate—but it would not last. My first cousins, both brothers, were not there—one had moved out shortly after high school graduation months earlier, and the other had just started his first job at a local fast-food franchise. 

My aunt worked in nursing, and she sometimes worked evening shifts, although not often. “Man, she is going to be ticked off,” I thought to myself. I pushed past the one standing in the hall and entered Kattie’s home. It was full of thick, raven-colored smoke and I coughed as I walked slowly into the unit. I looked around and saw holes in her walls and floors; the air remained thick but was breathable. Her living room furniture was toppled and trampled upon, and for some reason, I remember fixating on an 8×10 photo of her and her sons, which she had displayed on a coffee table, lying in a puddle of water. A big boot print had broken the frame’s glass.

Suddenly, a burly fireman came from a rear bedroom that belonged to my cousin. He saw me and began to speak, but I cut him off, thinking he was about to kick me out of the fire scene. “Yeah, I’m a reporter, but this is my aunt’s house,” I said, still looking around, and covering my nose from the putrid air. The lights were off, but a descending sun peeking through some mini blinds illuminated the space. I held up the badge I wore on a chain around my neck. “Who lives here?” he demanded, “Any small kids?” I answered in the negative and told him that only my aunt and 15-year-old cousin but that he was at work. My uncle Sterling worked nights and would have just started his shift at a local factory. The fireman said nothing and then disappeared back into the bedroom. I could hear some movement, but as I attempted to see what was going on, another fireman pops out and yells, “We’ve got somebody,” and pushed me out of the way.

I do not know how trauma and memory work. There are spots here and spots of recall there. The rest of this narrative are now just snapshots in my mind. At some point, I was pushed out of her unit and all the way back outside and onto the sidewalk. I think I tried to fight to get back in, because I did not know what the heck was going on.

That back bedroom belonged to my cousin. Was he in there or something? Did he not go to work? I do remember I was asserting myself. I think a fire chief in a white shirt told me something. Paramedics showed up. I still can’t recall hearing their sirens either. My aunt was brought out on a stretcher. She was in a white nightgown, now stained dark grey and also in what used to be cotton-candy pink, fluffy house shoes. They looked as if she were in mud. Her beautiful face was covered in black soot that looked caked on—it was in her eyes and in her hair; it was coming out of her nose. She was alive, coughing up black stuff and trying to say something.

As I explained, Kattie was my aunt, but she was more of a big sister to me. Whenever I snickered and took my aunt’s side in a disagreement she was having with my mother, it wouldn’t be long before I was being reprimanded, “I’m your mother, girl,” my Mama would snap. I would ignore her and take my aunt’s side anyway. 

Both southern sisters moved to Chicago from Pine Bluff, Arkansas, in the early 1960s—my mother first, and Kattie soon followed. They looked almost identical, except my mother was beautifully light skin and older and my aunt was deeply dark and yet equally attractive. I had many aunts and uncles whom I loved ever so dearly, but Kattie was the one—she was that one. Mama was more reserved and stricter, but my auntie was the life of the party. Because I was browner than my mom, when people saw Kattie and I, they often mistook her for my mother. And, since she had given birth to all boys (four, though two died in childbirth), she would often tell me I was the daughter she never had.

When I got fed up with my then-husband, I sought a new place to live. Kattie told me about a unit available in the building where she lived in the Greater Grand Crossing neighborhood. It was nice and next to a city park. Other relatives also occupied units, and she thought it would feel like an everyday family reunion, while I figured things out. I had only been living there for a few months when the fire happened.

As I stood among firetrucks and curious bystanders, my aunt Kattie’s nice apartment looked as if it had been hit by a bomb. The windows were broken, and a breeze rustled her now wet and soiled curtains that dangled out a window, draped across dripping wet window sills. I rushed to my aunt, now strapped to a gurney, and her eyes widened as she saw me. “You’re going to be okay,” I said, kissing her face, as paramedics placed her in the ambulance. I jumped in behind them and told them who I was and that I would ride along. I yelled for an observing relative to alert my mother and others. I told them to tell my children, who were safe inside one of the family’s homes, I’d be back soon. 

No sooner than I hopped in, Kattie began resisting the paramedics’ attempt to put an oxygen mask on her face. She was still strong. “I’m going to die,” she finally got out, looking at me with desperation. “No, you won’t,” I yelled back. She was talking. She must be okay. I was getting angry that she was fighting them. “Stop it, Kattie! Let them help you,” I yelled. “Calm down!”

“I’m going to die,” she said again, shaking her head from side to side. I again told her that she wouldn’t, and I signaled for the paramedics to carry on. Her hand reached toward me as she tried to convince me again. Somehow, she got the mask off again, “I’m going to die!” They got it back on. Those were the last words my aunt said ever to me. She died a week later on March 17 from smoke inhalation. To this day, I cannot get her last words out of my head. 

Allow me to go Ebonics for a moment: What had happened was… Kattie had put some food on the stove and had apparently fallen asleep while waiting for it to cook. The fire was contained to the kitchen. It had not spread throughout the apartment, but that smoke, mixed with grease and wood and metal, became like a toxic cloud. There was speculation that she woke up, became disoriented and ran into the back bedroom to try to escape, but was overtaken by the fumes. 

The building, which ironically was owned by a retired firefighter, had no smoke detectors in any of our apartments nor in the hallways. The bars on her back door had come with the unit, and she hadn’t gotten around to having them removed or having the lock cut and replaced. Kattie had made a mistake of trying to fix herself dinner and dozing off with the burner on. Beyond these facts, some of our relatives were angry that a random neighbor had mistakenly told first responders that nobody was in the unit. Would they have gone into rescue mode sooner if they hadn’t been misled? This was a question that troubled us the most.

None of us believed the neighbor was malicious, but in times of sudden or unexpected deaths and unanswered questions, people often look for someone to blame. Maybe after smelling smoke, this woman had knocked on Kattie’s door and when no one answered, she made a quick assumption of an empty place as she dialed 911. I do not remember my aunt’s funeral—though I know I was there. 

According to the U.S. Fire Administration’s (USFA) national civilian-fatality database, 15 people were killed in fire incidents inside the city of Chicago during calendar year 2024. Nationally, USFA reported that African Americans accounted for 20% of all fire deaths in 2022 while making up 14% of the population, a pattern that has held for more than a decade.

Experts say four main factors drive the high rate of deadly fires in Black neighborhoods: outdated wiring, a lack of fire barriers, floor plans with only one way out, and the absence of sprinklers. These issues make fires spread faster and escape harder. A 2025 report by researchers from Johns Hopkins University points to deteriorating buildings in low-income areas as a leading cause of multiple-death fires.

Another problem is the so-called “alarm gap.” Most fatal fires in the U.S. happen where smoke alarms didn’t go off—often because there were no alarms, they had dead batteries, or they were never installed in the first place.

Poverty makes things worse. Households struggling to make ends meet are more likely to use risky heating methods like space heaters, candles, or stoves. These are the top causes of deadly fires. National fire safety groups say high poverty, energy struggles, and crowded homes make fire risks much greater.

Finally, city code enforcement is often understaffed, and safety campaigns rarely reach the rentals where the risk is highest. Language barriers, mistrust, and lack of targeted outreach mean that even good programs often miss the families who need them most.

Cook County Medical Examiner data show roughly two-thirds of Chicago’s 109 fire deaths from 2020-24 were Black residents—meaning, of the 109 confirmed fire-related deaths during that period, 72 were African American individuals.

Local 2 has worked without a labor agreement since July 1, 2021. The City Council Committee on Police and Fire is chaired by Ald. Chris Taliaferro (29th Ward), who oversees day-to-day department matters on behalf of the city’s legislative branch. Ald. Brian Hopkins (2nd Ward) is the chair of the Chicago City Council’s Committee on Public Safety, which has jurisdiction over the Fire Department. The vice chair is 5th Ward Ald. Desmon Yancy. 

Hopkins, who often holds subject-matter hearings, told WGN he has asked CFD and the mayor’s office to brief alderpersons before the order takes effect and warned the rule “slows the first line of defense and exposes residents to needless risk.”

No one wants to relive trauma. I share my aunt’s story, so leaders grasp the stakes. A neighbor’s mistaken “nobody’s home” nearly cost her life; under the new rule, firefighters would have been required to stay outside. Imagine that scenario on a third-floor walk-up at 3 a.m. with a disabled resident who can’t reach a window.

My aunt lived on the first floor. A neighbor mistakenly told the fire department that no one was home. The new policy—this directive instructs firefighters to ignore units up to the seventh floor. It instructs first-in engine crews to begin every non-high-rise fire in a defensive posture and move to interior attack only if victims are visibly trapped or credible reports say people are inside. A “credible report” can be wrong. What if a victim is disabled or incapacitated, or small and unable to reach a window sill or a rooftop? What if a person lives alone, or a fire breaks out in the dead of night, or during a storm, when people are unaware or preoccupied with their own safety?

I can only imagine now if my aunt, who lay dying in a back bedroom, might still be with us; with me—laughing at my corny jokes, making her famous spaghetti and still trying to teach me how to play Bid Whist, if firefighters had gotten to her sooner—if a neighbor had not mistakenly told them no one was home. 

Chicago must find a way to protect both firefighters and civilians without mandating hesitation when seconds count.