October 2006

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Well, that was fun.

As I mentioned, uh, a month ago, my two fellow AmeriCorps members and I became some kind of crack corps of super… dudes, venturing to all corners of DC (and beyond — I think we were a mile from Delaware at one point). Our job: assessing kids in reading skills at all the various sites under the umbrella of our corporation.

Getting acclimated to a new city and a new job didn’t leave much time for careful reflection via weblog, so let me sum it up in one, pitiful sentence.

The results were hardly surprising.

The sites we visited offered a variety of clientele: Ethiopian and other African immigrants in Silver Spring and Alexandria; kids at a church-run charter school in Southeast, a group of mixed-income middle schoolers in Gaithersberg, run-of-the-mill neighborhood kids in Southeast, and teenagers in Northeast. We tested for phonics, reading comprehension, and even a bit of handwriting. Those hardly-surprising results? Most were way below their grade level. And by “way below” I mean like, my height is “way below” Shaq’s.

It just wears on you… day after day getting to know these cheerful kids who can’t read to save their lives (which, in those parts, may be the only thing to save their lives)… seeing all of their disadvantages pile one on top of the other. And how are they any different than the suburban kids I ran around with at camp two months ago? Duh, they’re not.

All of the sites are understaffed. Only two will have the benefit of an AmeriCorps member (strangely enough, one of the three of us will be working in the corporate office… uhh… yeah) on hand. We’ll be returning in the summer to “re-assess” and mark all those improvements gained throughout the year. If there are any.

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Now that the assessments are over, I’m at the Center for the duration of my commitment.

I feel rather useless at the moment. I guess this organization is still searching for someone to replace the program director I met over the summer. Right now it’s just me, Co-Worker and Co-Workerette. Co-Worker has been here a few years and runs the photography classes. Co-Workerette was the AmeriCorps member here last year and was hired full-time as another teacher. Or whatever the official title is. There’s another guy who’s been here a few years, but he runs the music classes and is always over in the other building. I’m guessing that without the program director leadership, my two co-workers have no idea what to tell me. I didn’t get any kind of orientation/training/crash course and they’ve really been… what’s the word I’m looking for. Unfriendly? That may be a bit harsh, but it seems to me that I’m pretty much on my own as far as figuring out things to do.

One thing I took away from visiting all the other sites over the past few weeks was that I have the unequivocally most difficult place to work. It’s not even close. The neighborhood is much harsher than any of the others, but the most difficult aspect is the age group. Our assessments covered mostly the elementary kids, and I found that they are generally “colorblind,” accept you with open arms and are eager to have new people around. They hug you when you come in and cry when you leave. They happily answer your questions and tell you about their school day. They seem like any other innocent, wonderful children.

Teenagers are the opposite.

And having ample experience with that population, I already knew that. But in this setting, the challenges of interacting with teenagers seem to be grossly amplified. The realities of the world have set in, and whatever fantasies they had of the good life have all but vanished. When asking for their names, they’ll give you some neighborhood moniker. That’s when you correct yourself and say “I’m sorry, I need your government name.” Most aren’t excited that a new person is working there – it’s just another adult to impose discipline and run out on them later. This, in turn, adds to my feeling of uselessness.

I did have my first personal lesson in neighborhood slang. Somebody called me around the time the first set of kids were rolling in. After I hung up, this heavyset girl, probably 15 or 16, walked up to me and said, “you be cupcakin’ up in that?” She provided enough context clues in the ensuing exchange that I understood what she was asking. But it was definitely the most amusing part of my night. “Cupcaking,” as it turns out, means you are talking to your significant other on the phone while standing with your friends. It’s only natural that I bestow upon her the first blog pseudonym: Cupcake. Sadly, I’ll have to enjoy the irony by myself. “Cupcake” is probably the last word that comes to mind when seeing her intimidating, tough demeanor.

I know there will be some days here when I’ll just want to escape out the back door and work with the cute, cuddly first graders my fellow AmeriCorps-ite gets to see every day. But then, to steal a Doug Ross-ism, I didn’t come here for Ozzie and Harriet-land. Cupcake will probably be more fun, anyway.

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Way yonder to my misspent youth, in between playing sports and being ten shades of angelic at school, I was infatuated with Agent Mulder from The X-Files. There may be evidence to suggest I still am. But I digress. Though he was a federal agent, the government frequently played the role of “enemy” and attempted to thwart his various alien-hunting shenanigans. Mulder’s shadowy informant warned him early on to “trust no one” and it became his mantra for the next nine seasons and umpteen run-ins with Port-a-Let monsters, chain-smoking syndicate leaders, and whatever else the FOX network let slip past the censors.

Here, the kids take on a similar doctrine. But sadly, their monsters are real. Abusive, drugged-out, incarcerated, or absentee parents; violence at school and at home; subpar living conditions; terrible schools; negative peer pressure… the list goes on. One girl, with the coolest bright red braids streaked through her hair, was apparently tearfully informing Co-Workerette about her mother’s latest abusive behavior. I’m not privy to that information; I only overheard some brief discussion between the other two adults. But that’s obviously something Red won’t come to me about for a long time — if ever. Not trusting anyone is the easiest and most reliable method of self-defense. They wear it like a Kevlar vest.

Let me reiterate. I may be stupid, but I ain’t stupid. I’m prepared to accept the fact that it may take me the entire time I’m here to earn some of their trust. I know I look like another White Savior trying to tell them what’s wrong about their lives and culture… even if I’m not. With others, I may never get it. Take this exchange as an example:

I noticed a seventh grader doing what looked like social studies homework. She looked confused, letting out dramatic sighs while flipping through her textbook.

“Do you need help with anything?” I asked.

“No!” she answered, sporting a look that suggested I just insulted TuPac’s memory.

“Okay. I’ll be over here if you need anything,” I told her, not flinching.

I then sat at a computer at the end of the row, messing around online while watching her from the corner of my eye. A few minutes later, Co-Worker — who has been working at the Center going on four years — walked in.

“[Co-Worker], I need help!” she immediately pulled him over.

At that point, I think most people would either feel insulted or angry, but you can’t let it bother you here. What used to be the most natural thing in the world for me — talking to kids – has turned into something I have to really work to be good at. What did Yoda say? “You must unlearn what you have learned.” Or maybe I’m searching for a Don Henleyism. “The more I know, the less I understand.”

I almost feel like I’ve quit soccer and taken up swimming. I’m still athletic; I won’t drown. But swimming is geared towards people with long, lean bodies, wide shoulders and strong upper bodies. I’m… short. And can run fast. I’d never win any races in the water, though. Both sports, but so different. I grew up in another world — no amount of books describing scenarios and lives can ever adequately prepare for the real thing. And now I’m here, and it’s foreign and uncomfortable. Guess it’s time to master the backstroke.

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I set one goal for myself every day.

Today’s was “get to know one kid.”

Reach for the stars, I know.

It was hard. Really really hard. But I finally got an “in.” Turns out all it takes is doing their homework for them! Yeah, I practically did an entire project for someone, but the payoff was worth it. I was willing to sacrifice a little, and I knew I was being played. But I met my goal. I will be honest, however. I picked my target. The most non-intimidating, academic… shortest girl in the room.

Hey. This isn’t like back at summer camp when I could win over an entire legion of adoring minions with one well-placed lame joke five minutes into the first day. And boy, could I ever. But like I said before, this place is the very definition of my discomfort zone. I’m not as used to working with teenagers in the first place, and certainly not teenagers coming from a place and a background and a life that I couldn’t even begin to understand. I just hope that riding to school with my brother’s rap albums playing will have some payoff.

So, I was hanging out in the “homework room” again, hoping that someone had questions about things other than advanced algebra. My glee rose when I spotted said girl typing some Google keywords that were never gonna lead her anywhere.

“What are you researching?”

“Stuff,” she scowled at me, then got up and left the room. Did I mention the scowl was impressive?

At that point I figured I failed again, but she came back a minute later with whatever she’d just printed out. It looked like “Barcelona” spread out in a large font over two pages. I asked her if she needed some tape and she nodded, so I ran off and brought some back.

She didn’t say anything as I helped her hold the pieces together and carefully tape them down.

After we finished, she went back to the computer. A couple minutes later she looked over at me and asked if I knew anything about Barcelona.

“They eat tapas there.”

“What’s that?”

I jumped all over it and showed her a website that was all about Spanish food. We talked about the Olympics that were held there in ’92 and I felt really old explaining who the original “Dream Team” was. After she found all the information she needed and typed it up, we cut the facts out and arranged them artfully on poster board. Or rather, I did while she watched. She was more than capable of doing it herself – she’s without a doubt the most fluent reader and just all-around intelligent kid I’ve met since being here – but this was really my first successful, extended, purposeful interaction with someone.

Tapas, as I’ve referred to her in my head since then, asked if I’d be coming here every day. She seemed happy that I would.

It’s only one, but somehow it feels like a hundred.

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There are a lot of teens in the center this year who hadn’t been around for summer camp or in previous years. As such, the newbies are bound to test the limits of discipline and structure.

Some are more exuberant than others.

For this spectacular blowup, I had a strictly observational perspective. Not that I’ve been doing much but observing these days. The last thing I wanted to do was jump into the situation and try to impose myself on people who didn’t know or trust me yet.

Our biggest “problem child” at the Center is a 16-year-old (he may even be 17, most of them lie about their ages) boy with an imposing physique. He’s tremendously smart, outgoing, and the kind of person to whom others naturally gravitate. He’s also a born leader and simply a commanding presence in any room.

So of course he wields his powers for evil.

But I want to believe that he can be turned back to the light side, just like any good Jedi person. And while there is potential for that, I certainly won’t give up on… Darth Vader.

Darth and a few younger teens were hanging out in the common room. He must have called another one of them a “faggot” or something of the sort, because when I walked in the room, Co-Worker was already telling him that kind of language isn’t tolerated here. Darth, naturally, wasn’t having any of it. He was adamant that his dislike of gays was cause for his frequent use of the word.
“I hate gay people,” he insisted louder, for purely theatrical purposes.

Co-Worker then tried to explain that it shouldn’t matter if he hates homosexuals or not, that doesn’t make it the correct thing to say. When that failed to yield an understanding response, Co-Worker asked what warranted his “hatred” of a certain group. He tried to explain that it was similar to racism, like when someone decides he hates “all black people.” Still, Darth did nothing but continue yelling about his crusade against faggots.

“I’d shoot all the gay people. I’d just kill them all,” he ranted, as more teens began gathering in the room to watch — many of them younger.

Co-Worker asked what would happen if he came in here and said he wanted to kill all the black people. Darth responded that he’d shoot him, too.

A part-time staffer from Upstairs who is often down with us during homework time — someone you might say Darth even likes — asked, “what would you do if I told you I was gay? You would shoot me?”

“Of course I would,” Darth responded, completely missing the point.

As things were now beyond the point of control, Co-Worker tried one more attempt at illustrating the parallels between this and racism. He talked about how the blacks right here in DC fought for civil rights, and what [Darth] was saying about homosexuals is the same thing that people like Martin Luther King protested against.

“You know what Dr. King said? He said ‘I have a dream. A dream that all the gay people’d be shot up and dead,’” Darth mocked.

He got the reaction he wanted from the younger teens, which was fits of laughter. Finally, mercifully, Co-Worker invited him to either leave or go back to the offices for a private conversation. He actually took the latter.

This performance was purely for entertainment value; he loved feeding off his more-than-willing audience’s reactions. Because of that, I’m not quite sure how deeply this hatred runs, or if it was just hyperbolized for dramatic flair. I can already tell he’s smart enough to know when something is very wrong, but I doubt that sense will override his need for negative attention.

I wasn’t a part of the private conference with him, but the basic outcome was that Darth had no precursor to hating homosexuals. He didn’t have a bad run-in with anyone — no real, personal life experiences to shape his views. He only has what he’s heard from other people or seen on TV. But this isn’t abnormal. It seems no one considers how lessons from the past can be translated into today’s problems.

When it comes to ill-informed opinions and prejudices, Gay is the new Black.

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I’ve decided that the only way to earn my street cred around here is to just… be here. Keep showing up, keep being there — whether it’s offering help, silent encouragement, foosball games, whatever. And maybe it will get easier. A few days ago a kid got mad at me when I asked if she had any siblings. It’s the kind of question that, in my experience, kids love to answer… they love talking about themselves. Here, I was prying for information. Lesson learned.

Still though, finding connections is the only way to survive in this place. Either that, or spend a year here. Because right now, they think you’re only a temporary fixture — someone who will surely leave right when they get comfortable with you. So, they’d rather just… not. Since I don’t have the currency of experience, I have to find something in common with them… without making anymore Hood Faux Pas. Otherwise, it’s hard to get in. And if you don’t get in, they feel like you don’t have a genuine interest in them.

Let’s see here… the sliver of rap music I do know is from the mid 90s — you know, “ANCIENT.” So, naturally, my next move is football.

I kept this in mind as I settled in for a long night… data-entering at the front desk. It was a strange night; they didn’t need my help in whatever class was going on, so I busied myself elsewhere. I had the area to myself until a tall, gangly kid wanders out and stands by the desk, not really saying anything.

It’s Darth’s sidekick — the other boy we’ve been having the most problems with. He’s 14 but is taller than just about everyone, so it’s hard to remember he’s that young. From the shards of information I’ve been able to cobble together while overhearing conversations around the danish cart, he lives with his mom and is one of eight siblings. His dad is currently incarcerated and his sentence will be up in a few years. Like some of the teens here, he doesn’t go to a public high school — instead, it’s some kind of alternative school where he gets special attention. It might even be a school for kids who have been in trouble with the law. I’m not sure. But anyway, I obviously didn’t find any of this out from the kid himself. I’d be surprised if I got anyone to let that kind of info out.

I wasn’t sure why he wasn’t in the class; we have a rule that at 6:00, you’re either in one of the classes or you roll on home. So this is when I’m supposed to send him back or send him out. But I said the hell with it.

“Geez, how’d you get that bump on your head?” I asked, pointing at a nasty looking lump on the side of his forehead.

“Ran into somethin’,” he muttered.

“What, an outside linebacker?” I shot back.

He smiled, surprised that I knew anything about football. Score.

We then got to talking about our teams. Or, rather, I did most of the talking — first self-deprecating about the hapless Bengals, and then trying to get him to tell me why in the world he was an Atlanta Falcons fan. I ran through just about every possible reason why (lived there? family there? like the mascot? red your favorite color?) until I finally hit it: he wants to be Michael Vick. Not surprising, it’s probably the goal of half the urban population of the nation.*

I left the desk and grabbed a football from the game closet. We spent the next 20 minutes tossing it around the room while he predictably mocked my team. It was a nice turnaround to the evening. Now, at least I speak one of his languages.

~

*1/09 edit: considering what happens to “my” Michael Vick later on, the turn of events with the “real” Michael Vick is, and I say this with every measure of tact, a fascinatingly sad development. My Michael Vick has nothing to do with the crimes for which the real one was convicted after I wrote this chronicle. I realize that people reading this after the fact may be confused, or associate the two according to that, or… whatever. But honestly, the real Michael Vick was that big of a role model to urban youth… and probably still is. That’s a topic for another entry.

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