February 2007

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Where Am I Going, And Why Am I In This Handbasket?*

February 1, 2007 in AmeriCorps, Uncategorized by d-roll | No comments

Let me begin by saying bullet points annoy me. I think they take away from the best part of any written word by stripping away all the details. Like a sound byte. Context is good! Uh, right. But as of this moment, I lack the brain capacity to form anything more than pithy reports.

  • The “Unknown Vandals” broke in during the middle of the day on Saturday. According to the security alarm logs, the initial entrance was around 1 in the afternoon. But apparently they came back a few times. How they know this, I’m not sure.
  • This means that not only did “Security” not see people break in during broad daylight, but a busted window was left for more than two days without anyone noticing.
  • We initially thought only the X-Box was stolen, but now it seems all of our Visa Gift Cards we use for homework rewards have been ganked from Co-Workerette’s desk. Along with what is said to be a priceless ring, a gift from her mom, that was sitting on her desk. I question her judgment/naivety/complacency/stupidity of not only bringing sentimental, expensive items here, but leaving them? Though that’s not my place to discuss.
  • I suggested that she check the receipts for the numbers of the giftcards because it might be possible to track purchases. We’ll see how that pans out.
  • It smells like the elephant house in here. Well, that’s a lie. But I haven’t smelled anything this bad since the last time I was inside the elephant house.
  • A lot of kids dropped by today to see the damage and wonder when we’re re-opening. They were all predictably tight-lipped. Annoyingly tight-lipped. They all know exactly who did it. I don’t know how many times I had this exchange with someone:

Kid: This is bad.
Me: Yes.
Kid: So who did it?
Me: I have no idea. I’m sure you do, though.

  • My office computer monitor isn’t broken, but I don’t think the color will ever be normal again. I think it suffered the electronic equivalent of shaken baby syndrome. Its insides are like scrambled eggs.
  • We still don’t know if the flash equipment is operable because it’s still not completely dry.
  • I found out the results of the questioning of Michael Vick by the two detectives. It seems that he didn’t confess to this, but spilled the details about stealing Co-Workerette’s car last month — AND FOUR OTHERS. He has absolutely no concept of “past is present.” He thinks because they happened weeks ago that they’re done and it’s ok to talk about now. Like he can’t still get punished for it. Or that these kinds of things even HAVE consequences when you keep doing it. The kid is so… he just needs help. He needs to get shipped off to some strict school with literally 24/7 supervision and structure.

These are only some of the wondrous things that occurred today, this great day of Cleanup in Mildewland. But then comes the bombshell. I don’t want to get into this in any kind of detail because it’s really none of my business. But it does affect me. A lot. Co-Worker was fired. I don’t know why, but he’ll be out in 30 days. Gone forever. Whatever the motivation and reasoning and purpose and stuff… could the timing be any worse? We just got bitchslapped by a bunch of angsty teenagers and now we’re losing a third of our measly staff? Yeah. Three of us are in there full time. I don’t even count as a “real staff person.” I don’t even think I can be, legally. Apparently they are hiring a replacement ASAP, but Co-Worker has been here the longest of anyone. The kids don’t trust anyone more. I don’t really want to know what this will do to them.

All at once. What can you do.

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Dumb and Dumber

February 2, 2007 in AmeriCorps, Uncategorized by d-roll | 1 comment

Lennie Briscoe could have figured this out before he even used his patented pre-credits pun.

So naturally, the DC police are still “on it.”

Not wanting to take any chances regarding our standings on the Metro Police Priority List, we decided to proceed onward with our own investigation.

Co-Workerette heard back from the gift card people who tracked the numbers for us. All of the stolen cards were used the Saturday afternoon and evening of the break-in. First, they were attempted to be used as ATM cards for cash. Sheer brilliance, I know. When that didn’t pan out, they were only used in two locations — wait for it… wait for it…

McDonalds and Shoe City!

In my mind, it wasn’t a question of where they would use them, but only if they’d eat before or after buying the latest ghetto trendware. For my Nati people out there, Shoe City is one of DC’s many Deveroes-like stores.

So next came the acquiring of visual evidence. Co-Workerette went down to Shoe City and asked if they remembered any teenagers coming in on Saturday and using gift cards. Not only had they, but they also went back into their store’s digital recordings and provided all the proof we’d ever need.

There stood Darth and Michael Vick, using our homework rewards to stock up on the latest in fly threads, g.

Apparently Michael Vick had the galls to keep peering around, all suspicious-like, as if Myra Fleener was going to jump out from behind the rack of bubble coats and threaten to snitch. Quick digression, I don’t even think I’ve mentioned her yet. I named her in my head the minute we met all those months ago. She’s probably about 13 or 14. Klingon’s sister. She’s always tattling and in other people’s business and then thinks she knows the best for them. Especially her brother. This happened a couple weeks ago:

Me: Where’s [Klingon] today?

Myra Fleener: Home. He got punished.

Me: By whom?

Myra Fleener: Mom. I told her he be disrespectin’ you.

Me: When was he disrespecting me?

Myra Fleener: Other day. When you was talkin’ about usin’ the phone.

Me: No he wasn’t. That wasn’t any of your business. You heard half the conversation and got everything wrong. Now he’s being punished for no reason. Do you understand that things that don’t involve you shouldn’t be your concern? Unless it’s bringing mortal harm to someone else, I don’t want to hear it. Now go research the former jobs of washed-out basketball coaches at the Hickory library.

Myra Fleener: Umm….

Nothing like making references they’ll never get in order to keep myself amused.

Alright, so, that’s Myra Fleener. Digression over.

How could they not think these stores would have cameras? Or that numbers on cards are traceable? They’re the ones who are always so up in ups about “I ain’t givin’ you my govament age.” “I ain’t givin’ you my govament name.” “I ain’t givin’ you my govament number.” Obviously they are apprehensive and aware of records and “being watched.” And I’m sure they’ve watched enough movies and TV shows — geez, Darth, haven’t you seen Chloe track enough numbers to take some precautions yourself? Of course not. We’ll probably hear sometime in the near future that it was actually his twin brother Grand Moff Tarkin on the video, and he really was in North Carolina all weekend.

Co-Workerette contacted the detectives who started this case on Monday and told them about the video evidence. Because it’s digitally recorded, it’s not available in tape format. The cops would actually have to go to the store and see it for themselves. Something that I am willing to bet won’t happen anytime soon. So in the meantime, we decided not to let anyone know that we know it’s them. And we’re not telling the two culprits, either. Every time Darth comes around looking for his T4 check, Co-Workerette is going to tell him it’s not in yet. We’ll see how long that lasts.

This is very bad news for the “Vick family”, as I’ve mentioned. This incident is enough to get his entire family evicted. The mother pays her rent and does her best with having 8 kids to control, plus however many random cousins are crammed into that tiny apartment. Simply put, it’s a sad situation. Thankfully, though, in the last day or so, Co-Workerette has talked to management and Michael is getting shipped off to live with a “strict aunt” in Maryland. They are citing his breaking of a $2,000 security camera during a prior incident as grounds for his dismissal from the property. As long as he’s gone, the rest of the family can stay. I’m not even sure if management knows he was “officially” involved in the Center’s vandalism.

I don’t know what will happen to either of them when the cops finally close out the case. I hate that in the meantime they can seemingly walk around unpunished. The precedent it sets for others who use our services is not good. And I think it makes all the other youth feel unsafe. Our program is supposed to be a place where they can feel secure after school and get help with whatever they need. Right now it’s a siphon for disrespect and violence. That’s supposed to be the world outside, not the one we’re cultivating inside.

And so after five months of struggles, we’re left with $30,000 in damages and two lost causes. Michael Vick will head to Maryland and begin anew, while Darth will schlep around these parts picking out new people to bully. All the extra effort and the strife and the fourth, fifth and sixth chances we gave them. Will it ever mean anything?

I return to another favorite Henleyism:

Maybe someday we will find
That it wasn’t really wasted time.

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“The Allman Brothers, Josh?”

February 6, 2007 in AmeriCorps, Uncategorized by d-roll | No comments

How about a yet-to-be-covered subject of this blog. Drugs!

So, Tunk strolled into our bi-weekly SAT prep class mistaking it for an Allman Brothers concert.

I wasn’t there to see him, but supposedly he couldn’t concentrate or follow along with anything. I know that Upstairs Woman, who spends a great deal of time with him there, talked to him about it. But I don’t know the specific outcomes of that conference.

This isn’t a completely uncommon occurrence. Sometimes kids come in here high. I’ve never noticed anyone on a substance other than pot, however. They get high at school (also not uncommon) or right after.

It’s a problem for all the obvious reasons, but it goes beyond that. The kids who do it will say things like, “well, at least that’s ALL we’re doing.” Which, sad as it sounds, is true. They live in an environment of constant pressures and easy access. This is a big complex within a bigger neighborhood. They would have no problem finding someone (or someone finding them) with connections to heavier drugs. So the sentiment that they’re “only smoking pot among friends” seems like reasonable justification.

But, of course, in what we’re trying to accomplish here, it’s not. Drugs should never serve as an escape route no matter how innocuous kids think they are. Pot is the proverbial gateway drug. Who says their stash isn’t laced with other worse, unknown things? Or what happens when they get bored and want to try something else?

I feel for them. I’d want to get my mind off the daily crap they live through, too. But they don’t have anyone to tell them there are better ways. I’ll bet Texas Tech’s precarious NCAA tournament bid that none of them will listen to me say “drugs are bad! they will screw up your life!” I know this because I’ve tried. And it hasn’t just been me, or the Co-Workers, or Upstairs People. They’ve heard all the lines, had all the guest speakers. But like most other details in life, they don’t think it applies to their situation. They need someone who can really put it in perspective for them. And I don’t know who that is. Relating is never easy.

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Friend or Faux?

February 9, 2007 in AmeriCorps, Uncategorized by d-roll | No comments

Lose one, gain another.

This older-looking teen I’d never seen before strode into the Center yesterday. He had a dazed, kind of drugged-out demeanor, but I don’t think he was on anything. He just seemed slow. Like Eeyore, or that big oafy McDonalds mascot from the 80s. Grimace! Yeah, that’s him.

Co-Workerette recognized him from last year and told me he was “crazy” and regularly hung out with Darth and Michael Vick. So my now expertly-honed preconceived judgmental defenses shot up. And I stayed away from him. I’m not particularly proud of that, but I suppose it was a learned reaction. A survival method.

But that didn’t last long because he sought me out. And I’m glad. We had a nice conversation about books and homework and the fact that he wanted to “start over.” Well, that wasn’t exactly how he put it. But he claims to be reforming himself. He said he didn’t want to do the things that [Darth] was doing anymore. I’ll believe that when I see it, but in the meantime I’ll just try to be a positive presence for him.

Later that night we had another amusing conversation about where he’s taking his girlfriend for Valentine’s Day.

“Got a date on Wednesday,” he began.

“Oh?” I was intrigued. Usually they never want to talk about their dates.

“Takin’ my shorty out for Valentine’ Day.”

“That’s cool. Where are you taking her?”

“One’a them all-you-can-eat places.”

“[Grimace]! You ol smoothie. Gonna get a table in the back?”

He went on to giggle like a 8-year-old girl and tell me everything he was going to order, and how he plans on scooping out the mashed potatoes and mac & cheese for his girlfriend’s plate. Very charming. But given his friends, I’m skeptical. I hope he comes back more often and proves me wrong.

Also coming around almost daily now are The Professor (a regular back in the fall, but he was probably afraid of Darth), named for his shirt and tie getup every day, and Bug (a soon-to-be 13-year-old down here for the first time), named for both his short stature and his less appealing personality traits. They both enjoy making excuses for not having homework and losing to me in foosball. Good times.

In other Post-Darth Era news, Dimples had a minor blowup recently. Actually, he’s been getting more and more ornery lately. His preliminary court appearance for his association/participation with the stolen/wrecked car over Christmas break is coming up, and he’s convinced that Co-Workerette is going to testify in order to land him in jail. The notion that he is completely incapable and undeserving of receiving positive adult support has been figuratively, and perhaps literally, beaten into him throughout his entire life. No matter how many times she or I explain that people DO exist that are on “YOUR SIDE,” nothing ever penetrates his barriers.

“[Co-Workerette] is goin’ just to get me locked up. Gonna get locked up. Just like everyone else.”

I know he’s terrified and thinks he’s going to jail. His father is going to be there and will likely tell the judge that he thinks Dimples should be shipped off to the worst juvey in three states. I don’t know how to placate someone like this. None of the usual methods are working.

“I’m leavin,” he told me, early in the evening. “Goin to get my last meal before I get locked up.”

“Where?” I asked, trying not to smile.

“Popeye’s.” He stalked outside like a dejected puppy.

He has a flair for the dramatic, but the facade really isn’t that deep.

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Go-Go-Gadget Void Filler!

February 12, 2007 in AmeriCorps, Uncategorized by d-roll | No comments

Group dynamics are fascinating.

There is this 17-year-old here who has come around just about every day since I’ve been working. But I’ve yet to mention him in a single entry just because he’s such a non-factor in everything that goes on. I haven’t even given him an alias yet. He comes in, settles down at a computer, plays video games until I remind him of homework, then he does that and just sort of chills out every night. He never caused problems and really never said much.

UNTIL NOW!

I’m not sure if he was intimidated by the likes of Darth and his cohorts, or if he just noticed that this place is missing its proverbial big shot now, or what. But he’s certainly filled the void. It started off slowly, with him pestering us about changing the Valentines thing into a full-out go-go party.

Digression: when I first came here and heard the term “go-go,” I pictured like, 50’s sock-hop kind of thing. Boy, aren’t I the blushing white Midwesterner! It’s quite far from that. “Go-go” is a term developed right here in DC in regards to bands that play at clubs and the surrounding drugs and violence and groupies. From what I’ve seen, a go-go band is a sort of rap-rock hybrid. Go-go parties have go-go bands and are essentially raves. So. There’s that clarification.

But anyway, he wanted a go-go party. He even went around and wrote on all the signs posted about V-day that it was a go-go party and to invite your friends and all. Go-go this and go-go that, it wasn’t hard for me to start thinking of him as Inspector Gadget. And from the go-go pestering he graduated into full-on disruption every day. For lack of a more descriptive analysis… he’s just crazy.

He was a crack baby. And I’m not articulating that slangy expression people in the suburbs use to insult their friends. He was born to a mother addicted to crack and reaps the consequences. Even if I didn’t know this for a fact, it’s not hard to figure out. It’s still wildly evident today in his slow speech patterns and his demeanor. Sometimes he just stares into space. For minutes. And then he just snaps out of it and bounces off the walls again. He talks to himself, mumbling entire conversations. He’s probably ADHD and a million other things.

He’s abnormally obsessed with sex. This is hard for a teenage boy, because being obsessed with sex is considered to be very normal. The abnormal part comes with his complete lack of brain-to-mouth filter. He threw a DCPS-sanctioned condom at Diva. He talked about how he loves watching porn… to the twelve-year-old he was playing foosball with. We had a frank discussion about appropriate and inappropriate places for such conversations. I doubt it’ll happen again — today.

His favorite hobby besides porn is picking on Klingon. I know, right — whose isn’t? But he goes out of his way to make Klingon miserable. A person with a lesser soul would find their interaction highly entertaining — two kids on opposite ends of the “not entirely right in the brain” spectrum. But I just see one kid bugging the only other one he has the capability to pick on. Klingon cannot process the concept of “rabble rousing,” therefore he doesn’t understand why Inspector Gadget bothers him for entertainment value. And due to The Golden Rule of Living In The Hood (do worse unto others as they had done to you so their homies don’t kick the crap out of you later), “ignoring” is about as relevant of a practice as blood-purifying leeches.

Despite all of this, I think he’s pretty harmless. I’m getting soft.

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Born to Gun

February 13, 2007 in AmeriCorps, Uncategorized by d-roll | No comments

I’m not sure what was more disturbing tonight: the fact that someone was shooting out of the building next to ours, or that the kids were all used to it. Someone even said, “Could be my mom — she’s packin’!”

It happens, just usually not at 7:00 in the evening. But I still can’t imagine being one of them trying to sleep at night and hearing gunshots in the apartment next door. Even if their homelife is relatively stable, like Tapas for instance, they’d still have to contend with whatever the neighbors were up to. And then they’re supposed to be bright-eyed and ready to do great work in school the next day? You know, the place which holds the only sliver of a crack in the wall they’ll need to squeeze through in order to escape this vicious, generational circle?

If there was a strategically placed “dawg” or “yo” in the phrase “when it rains, it pours” I’d have thought it was born in urban America.

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Mid-Service Crisis

February 20, 2007 in AmeriCorps, Uncategorized by d-roll | 1 comment

We just had our AmeriCorps midyear conference this past weekend. I got to spend three days with the people doing the same sub-program as me from 12 other cities. I heard some inspiring speakers, attended some useful workshops, and exchanged stories with people having the same — yet entirely different — experience as me. It was supposed to re-energize me for the second half, and I thought it did. But it turned out to be more like a sugar crash instead.

Today was probably the worst day I’ve ever had here. Worse than any Darth-procured shenanigans. Worse than the time I left here covered in fingerprint powder and smelling like the pool bathroom at the Countryside Y. I’m still not quite sure why it was so bad, but my addled brain has produced an applicable analogy… if you tilt your head:

Some prescription drugs have certain side effects that can be dealt with on their own. But when certain ones are taken together, or within a set timeframe of each other, they can produce adverse reactions and possibly kill you. Tonight was that deadly combination of aecetometaphine and… Dimples, The Professor, Tapas, Bug, Inspector Gadget, and some very fiesty HTFUs.

The shorter explanation is that I’ve finally cracked.

I walked to my car with only one thought: “I wish I was back with kids I can relate to.”

Maybe I should be proud that it took a whopping five months before I melted into a decrepit blob. I called home and mom wanted to know what was wrong with me. I didn’t know. No, it wasn’t any physical confrontation. No, it wasn’t anyone being deliberately rude or mean to me. No, it wasn’t any single upsetting event. I didn’t know what to tell her. So I hung up. I eventually decided it was an overwhelming feeling of abject failure and misery all at once. You know, nothing bad.

This is difficult to articulate because these entries are not published in the form of a daily diary. I write every day, but only translate whatever seems interesting to me at the moment into the entries that appear here. So only a small percentage of what actually goes on makes it here. Some days are uneventful. Most are pretty challenging. Especially difficult days are not uncommon, either. But I deal with whatever arises using the most applicable method I can conjure. Patience and high tolerance for loud, unpredictable environments are the essential sword and shield. That gets me out the door with at least partial sanity most nights.

But tonight, everyone’s various problems and issues and temperaments seemed to brew into this unstable… thing. Between homework crises, fights, more fights, and typical adolescent dumbassery, the frustration and sheer unfulfillment became overwhelming. I’ll have to be completely lame and say that you really “had to be there” to understand it, because… you just did. I’ve had fleeting moments like this, but never before have I vehemently wished to be back with “relatable kids.”

There was a bit of unconscious precursor-ing to this mind-meld. I’d recently gotten an e-mail from one of my campers from the past four summers telling me she’s going to be playing Scout in the Playhouse Series’ production of To Kill a Mockingbird. She remembered it was one of my favorite books and couldn’t wait to tell me about landing the part. I was angry that being 500 miles away would prevent me from seeing her perform. I got another e-mail from a camper who joined a soccer team after I encouraged her to learn some basic skills at camp last year. She invited me to a game and was disappointed when I reminded her I didn’t live around there anymore.

These are two examples of kids who came into my group at camp with little confidence, friends, or ‘niches’ they could ride for success. It took less than six weeks for me to point them in a positive direction and now they’re flourishing. It feels good. I probably didn’t think it was easy then, but it was. A positive role model here, some encouragement there, add in some genuine interest and a daily dose of goofy humor and presto — instant pre-teen, ready and confident for those troubling years ahead.

It was fun, too. All the time. I miss being around kids I know. I miss being able to completely be myself. I can’t do that here. It’s like living in a foreign country and speaking a new language. Even after five months. You’ll probably never be as you are in your native land. I miss being able to solve a kid’s problem and see them happy and benefiting from that service. Here, you hope that some tiny bit of what you’re saying gets through. And you may never know if it does. You don’t know if situation or circumstance beyond their control will prevent success or change. With less to feel good about, there’s a lot more room for despair. I know what it feels like to stand at the line and swish all my free throws. Right now I feel like my eyes are closed and I just hope I come within 10 feet of the basket.

I’m crazy. I have to be. Some of my friends think I am. “Why don’t you pick a safer job? Is it worth it?” “What are you doing there?” Hmm. What AM I doing here? I’ve wondered the same thing.

I wondered that during the drive to my apartment tonight. I wondered why I’m not back home teaching AP Government and coaching a peewee basketball team. I wondered why I’m not getting ready for another summer of making lanyards with fifth graders and receiving my esteemed award for Counselor Most Likely To Eat Skyline For Every Meal. I wondered why I’m putting so much energy into kids who hardly understand me. I wondered how I can keep doing this when it’s a seemingly endless road of crappy life situations and kids who won’t listen to anything. Yeah, they need someone, but me? I wondered why I’m doing THIS, why I have to be the one in the trenches, when doing what is familiar and easy sounds so appealing.

I kept wondering when I got home. Wondered while I picked at my tofu stir fry. Wondered all through Jon Stewart doing the headlines. Wondered until I plopped down at my desk.

I finally stopped. The answer was never very far.

I have a favorite verse. Short and sweet. It’s written on a little card, and I’ve had it on my desk since 11th grade. Whenever I change desks, dorms, apartments, states, whatever. It comes with me. And it’s here now. Days like these are reasons I keep it in plain view.

And so, dear friends, let us never grow tired of doing what is right.

2 Thess. 3:13

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Changes in Attitudes, Changes in Latitudes

February 26, 2007 in AmeriCorps, Uncategorized by d-roll | No comments

No one knew who the Fresh Prince was.

And so I couldn’t do the theme song to pump anyone up about going to Philly. Suddenly my 24 years seemed ancient. Alas.

Despite the gross lack of early 90s TV connoisseurs among the teens, the combined Upstairs and Center trip to Philly pressed on. 17 kids “determined to be interested in college” went to the cluster of schools in inner-Philly, such as Temple, Drexel, and a couple others, this past weekend.

I didn’t go. But from what I’ve been told, it was a very good experience for everyone. Some of them have never been outside of metro DC. They got to walk around in the dorms and talk to current students, see lecture halls and get official tours, etc. Some kids, like Red and D-Roll 2.0, even stepped up and “interviewed” random students around the campuses about their experiences and college life in general. Hearing that was really encouraging. Red, especially, has the personality for that, but could have easily clammed up in an unfamiliar setting. Good for her.

I think the hope was that if they actually got to experience a real, college “atmosphere” instead of just hearing about how great it was, they’d be more excited about trying to get there. The “fear factor” in the inner city is immense. No one wants to leave their comfort zone, even if it’s entirely uncomfortable. How ’bout that? They’ve all heard that a better life awaits them on “the outside,” but some, if not most of them, would rather just not even take that risk.

Reports from the adults who went indicated that everyone was well-behaved (even Inspector Gadget and Popeye, which is some kind of miracle) and very “into” all they were seeing. The pro-college chatter was up. The motivation to buckle down and put in that extra effort was imminent. The trip was already paying off in dividends of worthwhileness.

Which… er…. completely explains why no one could be bothered to go to SAT prep class the following day.

The frustration and disappointment was rolling off Co-Workerette in waves. Literally. Yes. I think, if examined under a microscope, the particles wafting from her every pore would read something like “#(%*#%&^*I(*$T^&(*$^& !!!!!!!!”

I shouldn’t say “no one” bothered to go. A handful of the usual dozen showed up, but there were several more conspicuously slothing around on the Internet, hoping we wouldn’t notice. And then they had to be dragged in there, complete with the proverbial kicking and screaming.

Why?

After such a seemingly beneficial field trip, that’s a perfectly good question. But here are my theories. First — they can’t, or can’t seem to, make a connection between everything they saw in Philly and exactly how such glory is attained. It’s like they were watching a movie about themselves. The past weekend wasn’t reality. Just a fantasy they were able to place themselves into for a couple fleeting days of fun. Almost every other great thing they “experience” is through some kind of virtual/media/thing, either fictitious or glorified. Maybe they didn’t know how to absorb something real.

But more likely, they still don’t really understand their predicament. They’ve heard all about their crappy life “hand.” A two, four, and seven. Off suit. While most kids have trip aces, or at least a decent pair. Those who realize their disadvantage aren’t overly ambitious about changing it (“Just the way it is, dog. Growin up in DC.” -Tyson). Those who don’t, think they can stick to their current nightly chicken wing to homework assignment completed ratio (27:1?) and make it to college. Between the two camps, complacency and familiarity rules the day.

We’re planning on another college visit trip, probably to Atlanta, sometime later in the year. The more they’re exposed, the more it’ll sink in… I hope. I don’t know. But maybe it was a good thing none of them knew who the Fresh Prince was. I doubt any of them have a rich uncle in Cali who can save them from the hood.

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The Exit Files

February 28, 2007 in AmeriCorps, Uncategorized by d-roll | No comments

I always miss the Monday Drama.

I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned that I teach a reading enrichment mini-class for some little kids from Upstairs twice a week. I’m not exactly sure why this duty was bestowed upon me, when they have plenty of people from their own organization who are perfectly capable, but… whatever. It’s me. And two sets of about five kids, ages ranging from 7-11. They’re so cute and cuddly that they don’t fit in this blog’s pit of teenage angst and despair. So for the most part they exist unmentioned. Maybe I’ll write about their adorable exploits sometime. But really it’s just me having an hour of fun with some younger kids for once.

So Mondays is one of the days I’m with them. We break it down in a lab that might as well be its own time zone, it’s so far away from all the other “action.” I have those two classes, then I go from there straight to Photography and immediately get into that. It’s traditionally a small class because of its specificity in skills, so I don’t see a lot of the teens in there. The moral of this story is that if anything happens or has happened during that 3 hour block of time, I usually remain completely oblivious.

Apparently, yesterday, I was as oblivious as an undergrad stumbling out of Kilroy’s on Kirkwood.

I should have known something was wrong when Dimples didn’t come to Photography class. Through the window in the door I saw him sitting at a table with Co-Workerette and Soup, the program director who will be over here most nights now instead of another building where he’d previously been concentrating on administrative duties.

I hadn’t talked to Dimples that day, but heard through the hoodvine that he was mad about not being able to go on the Philly trip. With a limited number of spots available, he and some of the other 14-and-youngers were denied permission. The age factor apparently wasn’t a sufficient reason for him and so he decided to take it out on every adult in the building. I didn’t know how big a hissy fit he threw until the following day when Soup stopped me in the hall.

“Just so you know, [Dimples] won’t be coming back.”

“….Excuse me?” I gaped.

“[Dimples] has been removed from the program.”

I guess my face said it all. I’m not very good at that poker face thing. Just ask… well, anyone who knows me.

He filled me in on some of the events that transpired during the aforementioned Oblivious Monday. Dimples’ attitude was unacceptable, he said something horribly insolent to Co-Worker, he refused to acknowledge or take responsibility for his escalating disrespectful behavior, blah blah blah. He threatened to bust out all the window’s on Soup’s car. It sounded like a typical 14-year-old’s blowup when he didn’t get his way. I would have kicked him out for a week and had a conference to talk about his behavior before re-admittance. Not anything this drastic.

But Soup’s patience is not the same as mine. And he probably doesn’t want to deal with any issues/baggage/problems after what’s happened here this year. I can’t blame him for that, but at the same time, Dimples isn’t Darth. He’s not even Michael Vick. He’s actually getting things out of this program, and now he’s back sitting at home with his 70-year-old parents who hate him.

“He needs therapy,” Soup said.

“He just needs to go somewhere and cry for hours,” Co-Workerette added.

I won’t discount these statements. In fact, I agree with them. But now it’s for someone else to worry about. Around here, though, that might as well read “now there’s no one to worry about it.”

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