March 2007

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Beware The Ides Of March

March 2, 2007 in AmeriCorps, Uncategorized by d-roll | No comments

It’s a couple weeks early, but whenever a sense of foreboding exists during, really, any month, but especially March, I think of that line. So much that “ides” has somehow changed its meaning from “the 15th of the month” to “bad stuff.” Beware the Bad Stuff of March! Beat that eloquence, Shakespeare.

On Wednesday night, my second little kids reading class couldn’t make the 30 second trip from Upstairs because someone was shooting outside again. Thursday night, only about 3 people showed up to programs because someone was shooting out in front of our building. There are a few bullet holes in the glass window of the lobby. Thursday overnight, someone was shooting out by the building adjacent to ours.

Co-Workerette thinks it’s Darth’s cousin, who is a known weapons dealer in the area, or people connected to him. Darth is still hanging around the neighborhood (DCPD still haven’t done anything about the break-in, despite having evidence). Fooler is supposed to be barred from the property but he’s still around. Michael Vick is supposed to be living in Maryland but he’s on site every other day. I’m not implying that they’re involved, but it’s just proof that security and vigilance really aren’t priority for management.

But who knows if this is because of drug deals, beefs with other neighborhoods, kids fooling around, or older people from other areas of the city coming here to stir things up. I don’t know. Soup is in charge of doing the “investigation.” That’s a bit puzzling. I guess he’s the middleman between the property and the cops. But you’d think they’d have someone a bit more qualified in that area to handle it. Whatever.

Soup recently moved his office into the Center from the senior building next door, where it used to be. So occasionally we get residents coming in here to talk with him. There was a steady stream today, all wanting to talk about the latest shooting incidents. One of them stopped and introduced herself to me, but I already knew her. Everyone knows “Big Mama.”

“They used to call this place ‘Little Beirut,’” she said, shaking her head. “And we’re slippin’ again.”

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White Girls Can’t Jump (But They Can School 12-Year-Olds)

March 6, 2007 in AmeriCorps, Uncategorized by d-roll | 3 comments

Marcus Vick has a favorite hobby — trying to piss me off.

I’m sure his eyes lit up when he first came down here and saw me. There’s no doubt he’s quite used to the revolving door of suburban, white volunteers who try and reform his attitude and then ditch him after futility reigns supreme. Sadly for him, however, I’ve lived through “Nascar McGee” at Cornblow Junior High in Bloomington, Indiana. Nascar McGee thought he could play How Fast Can I Make The Student Teacher Cry and then ended up being the one crying. Well, not quite. I don’t want to sound like I was Madame Defarge or something. But I’m not easily prone to accepting the role of messee.

And beneath the surface, kids are the same. Whether in the sticks of Indiana or the hood of DC. Every chance he gets, he tries to get a rise out of me. A rabble rouser, if you will. Nothing huge. He grabs my hat and runs away. He shuts my computer monitor off when I’m in the middle of doing something. He cusses or uses the term “nigga” a lot in front of me, knowing I hate it. He gives me one word answers when I try and talk with him.

But it never bothers me. And it’s driving him crazy. I think all of this is a sorry attempt to prove himself right — that I don’t care about him. Or something. See, I took Psych 101, and on one or two occasions I went to class.

On the second straight night of shootings this past week, Marcus was one of the three kids who actually showed up. He found a soccer ball in a closet and was running around the Center, dribbling as if it were a basketball instead. He dribbled up to the front desk where I was sitting and started bouncing it off the wall by my head. After about the fourth near-miss, I turned and intercepted the incoming pass. He laughed and said he wanted it back.

Instead of giving it to him, I got up and started dribbling myself. Between the legs, around the back, all around and away from him. He chased after me and then started playing real defense. I burned by him and made a layup at our imaginary hoop at the other end of the room.

Intrigued, but not that impressed yet, he challenged me to one-on-one. I did all my moves and stole all of his. It was becoming a thorough buttkicking.

“Let me see you shoot it again,” I said. “It looks like you’re using both hands. You gotta fix that.”

“No I ain’t,” he insisted.

“Shoot it.”

He did, and he was.

“Your left hand is just supposed to be a guide. It shouldn’t be helping to push the ball.”

“I make it, don’t I?”

“Then why are you losing?”

He shut up then, and we continued the game. It may have gone on all night, but Tyson interrupted us by mocking Marcus for “gettin schooled by a white girl.” I went back to doing whatever it is I was before, and Marcus retreated to a corner and, thinking I wasn’t watching him, practiced shooting up in the air with one hand.

The next day was our going away party for Co-Worker. DC schools were out so we opened in the morning and went all day. Marcus was the first one there, ball in hand once again.

“Learn some new moves overnight?” I asked.

“Nah,” he said, opening the door. “Gonna beat you in soccer.”

He grabbed a few cones and set them up as goals on the sidewalk. In retrospect, it probably wasn’t the smartest move playing around outside after there’d been people shooting three days in a row. But I didn’t think about that, because someone in the hood wanted to play SOCCER! There’s about as much grass around here as the Gobi Desert; I wasn’t even sure they knew the sport existed.

It ended up being a lot like the basketball game. I kept blowing by him and scoring. He kept getting stuffed by me. But then he stopped and wanted to know how I did my behind-the-foot move. We spent the next 15 minutes going over it as he struggled to make his feet move right, until he finally was successful — against his 4-year-old cousin. Gotta start somewhere, I guess.

After a little cake and ice cream, his determination to beat me at something came back. He pulled a plastic bat and whiffle ball from the closet. We went outside again, and I hit his first pitch to the parking lot. I think it’s still there.

“Sike nah, I ain’t wanna play anyway.”

He decided quitting right away was more prudent than going to get the ball.

We went back inside and watched a little of whatever movie was playing. People were coming and going all day, but most started trickling out as the afternoon turned to evening. Long after most of the other kids had gone off to start their weekend, he tried one final last-ditch effort and pulled me over to the foosball table. His trump card.

In what could have been the shortest game in history, he won, 10-1.

“BAM, son! Knew I could beat you.”

Dignity saved, Marcus Vick finally called it a day. I think that now, together, we can find him a new favorite hobby.

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We’ll Always Have Petworth

March 8, 2007 in AmeriCorps, Uncategorized by d-roll | No comments

I’ve noticed something this past week. Something so unexpectedly glorious, it’s like I have those flower petal chicks from Coming to America purifying my every step.

My days have been conspicuously… easy.

Now why have I — apart from the typical stressors of the hood, such as dodging bullets — been so relaxed and lacking problems? Dimples isn’t around, of course.

Without him here, the maturity level goes up 8000 percent, making my job much more productive. But he probably benefited from being here 8000 times more than the average participant.

And it’s supposed to be hard. If I wanted “easy,” I’d have stayed with the Oy Vey Parade. So, nice as it is, I don’t like it. I still don’t know all of his dismissal details because sometimes I’m frustratingly out of the loop when it comes to administrative things. But apparently Soup said “he can come back as soon as he goes to a set number of regular therapy sessions.” That sounds pretty arbitrary. I’m guessing that would be professional help regarding the destructive relationship he has with his father. Among other things. But who is going to make sure this happens? His “family counselor” is a nice young woman but I think she gets routinely “played” like a two dollar banjo.

I’m struggling to justify the necessity of his removal because I know he’s not from the same cut as the other three who got kicked out. His sole purpose of being here did not revolve around the tormenting of others and the gross abuse of our unwavering care. If the Beatles were thuggy teenagers instead of genius musicians, Dimples would be Pete Best. You know, the guy who got kicked out of the group right before they got famous because he didn’t quite fit in. Also because he sucked at drumming.

I know he still hangs out with those three (Michael Vick spends as much time “with his Aunt in Maryland” as English majors spend in a chemistry lab — good to know things are working out for all parties). And he probably wished he fit in with them, because to a teenager the power they appear to wield must look enticing. But he doesn’t. He’s just a crappy drummer.

As I said in another entry, he’s only 14, but he looks so much older. So it’s easy to forget why he acts like he’s 12. And in my experience, teenage boys stay at age 12 until they turn 18. Or something. My first reaction was that Soup grossly overreacted with booting him for good, and I still think he did. I know he forgets that the kid is a little baby. But if this is what it takes for him to get help and talk to someone, then I’m for it. But it’s hard not to be a skeptic and a cynic when you’re on round #4.

Co-Workerette was really involved with Dimples’ court appearances and with talking to his family counselor, so I think she’ll probably be following up on his therapy progress, if there is any. But I can’t do anything about it since I was never a contact point. I wish I could have at least interjected some encouragement before he left that night. Instead, the last interaction we had was the week before — some banter over a fruitless geography assignment using a DC metro map.

“No, this is where you live, and this is where you were stupid enough to ride in a stolen car.”

“We din’ go to Petworth.”

“How do you remember where you went anyway? You got 17,000 stitches from a massive head wound.”

He provided no retort, only a smile before he ran off.

I know he liked being here, and I know he loved succeeding at photography. He’s screwed up, that much is true. But I believe that he got enough out of this place to want to return.

I won’t dwell on it, because there are plenty of other kids who need attention and help. I’m certainly not lacking in things to do. But despite the frustration, the annoyance, the stress… I’m going to miss that kid.

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Stayin’ Alive

March 12, 2007 in AmeriCorps, Uncategorized by d-roll | 1 comment

Complacency, I think, is a phantom menace. To borrow a term from a creatively disappointing movie of the same name.

Before Co-Worker left, he and I talked about the overall state of the property. The non-profit corporation that owns this housing project bought it out about ten years ago, rehabilitated all of the buildings, kicked out all the “tenants” who didn’t want to adhere to a healthier lifestyle, implemented numerous educational and practical, useful programs for both adults and youth, and was entirely vigilant about what went on around here.

Now… errr… not so much.

Adult ed has been cut, the youth program has been scaled down, and the general emphasis on the “human side” is disappearing. “Money is tight” — you know, the usual. But aside from vanishing programs, that community vigilance has become eroded by complacency. A lot of new people have and are moving in, so it’s like a second generation of renters. Much of that new wave hasn’t really adopted the policies of this place when it was put together.

When that first shooting happened back in February, the people Upstairs said guns rarely go off around here during the day. It seemed to be an isolated incident. No one really had cause for concern, or so they said. Three weeks later, this next round of violence took place. All during the late-afternoon an evening hours, when kids were coming back here from school.

This time, our meeting with Upstairs had a different feel. Someone asked if people believed this to be the tail end of a string of incidents, or if the violence was escalating. It became a unanimous opinion that things were only getting worse. In addition to the gun violence, a cabbie had just been robbed on property. It was revealed that authorities believed there were “ten crack houses in one of the buildings and eight in another.” This is figured from the huge amount of off-site traffic visiting certain apartments.

The incidents are, I’m told, “being investigated.” Color me skeptical when I hear things like that, especially if the “investigations” are just as useless as the ones conducted when we were robbed and vandalized by our own participants. Who, by the way, still haven’t been punished/arrested/sent to live in the Yukon, despite a pile of evidence that we provided. Whatever.

But, the people who are in charge of checking this stuff out aren’t sure if it’s younger adults waving guns around the property, outside drug-dealing related, beefs with other neighborhoods, or … what. I wondered why the cops can’t simply bust down the doors of the apartments suspected of serving as crack houses, and apparently some 30-day notice law exists. I didn’t really understand it. I don’t understand a lot of what goes on here.

Every couple weeks, I have a meeting with my supervisor from AmeriCorps. She’s in charge of the 15 or so of us committed to this Washington, DC sub-group of our sub-group of AmeriCorps. This would be better explained with a flowchart and colorful graphs, but I’m not Captain Kinkos. I’d been emailing her about the goings-on at my site regarding the shootings and whatnot, so she had a basic understanding about recent events. But at our last meeting, when I gave her more of the specific details, she came back with this:

“I was fully prepared for you to request a transfer, and I’d even recommend it.”

Oh.

I didn’t really know how to respond other than “I don’t.” I guess I wasn’t surprised she figured that, because maybe only crazy people would voluntarily stay with all that going on. I’m the only person at our bi-weekly sub-group meetings to share stories about guns, break-ins, and general 11:00 news-ish events. Everyone works at different places, all in different “arenas” (adult literacy, refugee immersion, GED programs, teen mother and infant care, etc), and my after school teen center is unique from the rest. So maybe that’s why. But regardless of my experience being a lot more Dangerous Minds than everyone else’s doesn’t make me want to go somewhere else.

The idea of starting over after six months of building relationships and trust here sounds about as fun as root canal work. I have enough sense to get out if things become out of control, but this is the reality of daily life for these kids. And for eight hours a day, it is for me, too.

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Won’t Somebody Please Think of the Children?!?!?!?!??!?!?!*

March 14, 2007 in Uncategorized by admin | No comments

Or so Pastor Lovejoy’s wife so eloquently put it.

Guess what. I’m a liar. But I also have a certain amount of self-preservation. So I say the trade-off is worth it. Problem? Co-Workerette has to make me feel like shit in the process.

I’m constantly fighting these internal battles of what I perceive to be dangerous and what really is. Is it actually dangerous around here right now? Or am I amplifying recent events in my mind because I feel uneasy due to the inexplicable complacency of Co-Workerette? I used to think her comfort level around here was due to her having worked here for a couple years. But after what happened in December, I just see it as naivety, therefore how am I supposed to believe that following her lead now is a good idea? She was so shocked and appalled that someone could steal her ring, after leaving it out on her desk. Girl, what are you doing with some priceless family heirloom in a place like this? And then you act surprised? Again, naivety?

I hate writing this considering what these kids live like, but there’s something to be said for the mental state of the volunteer.

So back to my liar liar pants on fire-ness. Apparently the kids have wanted a “sleepover” in the Center for quite some time. I immediately dismissed the notion as “disastrous” (to myself) for a number of reasons. But Co-Workerette being Co-Workerette not only humored them, but is going through with it… right smack in the middle of what you may call a “turbulent time” here?! Again, how am I supposed to believe that this is sound judgment from the person who is supposed to be in charge?

My brother had originally been coming to visit this weekend. Although he had to cancel a couple days before, I still used it as an excuse. Let’s pretend, for the sake of judging the low blow of this response, that he was still coming. Remember that this is a brother I haven’t seen in months, to whom I am very close, etc. etc.

Co-Workerette: So you’re coming to the sleepover, right?
Me: I can’t. My brother is in town.
Co-Workerette: You can’t leave him alone for the night?
Me: I’m sorry.
Co-Workerette. I can’t believe you. You’re letting these kids down.

Um… wow. Way to kick someone when she’s down. I’m letting them down?! After everything I’ve done and felt so far? Are you f*&%ing kidding me?!?! The fact that I had nothing to say in return is only indicative of how my self-confidence has seemingly plummeted since being here. I can’t stick up for myself. I should have been able to say “You are full of shit. And I’m not coming because you are completely lacking in sound judgment when it comes to operating this place. You have no regard for safety or, quite frankly, common sense.” But I just stood there.

I don’t want to, in any way, make it seem like my current “lack of support system” in this place is anything remotely approaching the lack of support system these kids deal with in their lives. But there is a strange parallel emerging. With nobody to back me up, I just take whatever is thrown at me. I say that I’m not here for the other adults. I’m here for the kids. I’m gaining an immeasurable… something, in doing this. But I’m also currently losing something in the personal, professional department. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong in regards to working with her, other than being aware that we have completely polar opposite teaching/interacting styles. I’m fine with that. But I get the feeling she’s more of a her way or the highway kind of a girl.

This extra layer of anxiety is something I didn’t anticipate. Not having another AmeriCorps member working here with me (originally there were supposed to be two others) and not being able to go to anyone with my concerns about adult responsibility here is making me crazy. And I’m already crazy enough.

*bonus entry previously unpublished during “live blogging”

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Fuzzy Math

March 17, 2007 in AmeriCorps, Uncategorized by d-roll | No comments

Good news! My chances for surviving this experience just received a huge boost.

Tyson supplied a theory when we were sitting around talking about the recent violence.

“You ain’t gotta worry — you never gonna get shot. You white. If somebody pop you, the popos ‘ll do something. Black dude get shot, no one cares.”

Gosh… that’s…. comforting.

But oh, so true. One only needs to utter a single word — Katrina — and it opens up a lifetime supply of race and cultural-related cans with their respective worms. Whether you need evidence to this fact or not, let me recommend When The Levees Broke as essential viewing for anyone with a pulse.

So, hearing Tyson say that immediately reminded me of something. That something being Article I, Section 2 of a little thing called the United States Constitution.

Not gonna lie — I don’t have to try hard to be a nerd. Even a disappointingly dense professor couldn’t stop Constitutional Law from being one of my favorite undergraduate courses. I own a “Pocket Constitution.” And sometimes I read it for fun. I have a lot of it memorized. In 2004, a drunk old man in a Liverpool, England pub told me, after a five minute conversation, that I’d be the second woman president — after Hillary Clinton. So, maybe knowledge of that Executive Powers section will come in handy. But anyway.

Article I, Section 2 states:

Representatives and direct Taxes shall be apportioned among the several States which may be included within this Union, according to their respective Numbers, which shall be determined by adding to the whole Number of free Persons, including those bound to Service for a Term of Years, and excluding Indians not taxed, three fifths of all other Persons.

The number of representatives each state received was determined by a math equation based on the idea that African Americans only counted as 3/5 of a person. Land of the free, home of the brave, right? Must have felt good to be a slave AND not a whole person.

This, of course, was changed with the ratification of the 14th Amendment in 1868. Finally, justice was served. Every person (well, women were a different story at that point) counted as whole, real, and equal. On paper.

140 years later, paper is still all we have — in New Orleans, in DC, and in the minds of Tyson and every other African-American who still feels like 3/5 of a person. I wonder if society will ever truly evolve.

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Where’s The Beef?

March 21, 2007 in AmeriCorps, Uncategorized by d-roll | No comments

When the doorbell only rings one time, it’s a blessed event. I also know it’s not a kid.

Ever since we got that foul contraption installed, it’s been the bane of my existence. If the adults are all back in the offices, it’s pretty impossible to hear anyone knock at the door. And the door is locked. So for practicality’s sake, it appears to be a smart investment. But the ratio of necessary ding-dongs to woefully unnecessary ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong-ding- dong-ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dongs is about 1:100. And this is with my new and massively-aggrandized tolerance for annoyance.

But this particular time, it only sounded once. I walked out to get it, wondering what non-youth could be visiting us so late in the evening. But Co-Workerette beat me to the door and welcomed in the three older gentlemen whom she apparently was expecting. News to me. They turned out to be the guest speakers for her “Life Skills” class.

One rolled in via wheelchair, one limped, and the other stood in front of them like the bouncer at Nick’s. And then, for the first time in the history of my AmeriCorpsing, every single kid sat in silent, rapt attention during a class. An entire class. All it took was three black dudes talking about back when they used to run around the streets and shoot people. Who knew.

It really was a fascinating hour listening to their stories. In a nutshell, the three of them used to make a living out of dealing drugs and beefing on the streets. Their tales were long and rambling and probably glorified the excitement and power of violence a little too much, judging by the reactions of the kids. All of them had been shot multiple times over their years of perpetual beefing. But in the end, their message was pretty clear: there is life beyond the streets. A much better life. They implored everyone to not fall into the traps that look enticing during adolescence and to make something of their lives. I’m sure the kids have heard it all before, but never from three guys sporting more lead than a pencil factory.

Most of the group left right after the class ended. I was getting ready to head out myself, but stopped to help Tyson and Bug finish off the mozzarella sticks. They thought it was hilarious when I discovered said golden brown pieces of cheesy glory were actually lukewarm fish sticks. Properly chagrined, I started for the door but turned back when Tyson began enthusiastically instructing Bug the proper way to throw punches.

Apparently Co-Workerette had noticed the same thing, and shook her head.

“Nice to see he actually learned something from all of that,” she lamented.

“No kidding,” I replied.

We stood watching for another minute or two before Bug finally scampered out the door. Co-Workerette finally interjected.

“I can’t believe you’re teaching a little kid how to do all that not five minutes after you hear these guys talk about how their lives were pretty much ruined.”

He shrugged. “I don’t care.”

“Did you not hear anything they said?”

“That’s what it’s like here. I rep my own hood. I rep myself. When you gotta beef, you gotta beef.”

He went on to talk about occurrences in his recent past that warranted the need for such… beefs. The catalyst, naturally, was the universal teenage angst-causer that permeates every social class and situation — getting hurt.

“There are other ways you can deal with that stuff,” Co-Workerette said.

“Not when you get jumped. You got no respect if you don’t rep.”

“[Tyson], you are so smart and have so much potential. Why would you even chance wasting it away on that?”

I was thinking the same thing. I’ve mentioned it in other entries — he has what it takes to do whatever he wants and be that guy. The one who escapes in tact and better than ever. But he’s so bogged down in a culture he accepts as the law, that he predictably and stubbornly replied:

“You don’t understand. That’s what it’s like in DC. You don’t know what it’s like.”

“We know what it is, even if we haven’t lived it exactly the way you have,” Co-Workerette said.

“No offense, but you don’t. I don’t mean to be racist,” he said, “but you guys out in the nice suburbs haven’t lived this shit so you don’t understand that’s the way it is. That’s DC. You can’t change the way things are.”

“Be the change you wish to see in the world,” I quoted automatically.

He stared at me for a beat.

“You can’t! It’s the way! It is!” he said, as if speaking to a small child. “Do you know what it’s like to get hit from behind and kicked in your ribs?”

“No, but—”

“And it’s all by people who s’posed to be your friends? No. You don’t. I have, and I want to hurt them like they hurt me.”

“I may have never been jumped like you, but trust me,” I said, “I got hurt plenty by my so-called friends in high school. Sometimes emotional pain can feel just as bad. So I just went far away to college and found some new friends that I had more in common with than living proximity and sports teams.”

He didn’t seem to find that a valid comparison. Co-Workerette filled the silence:

“Don’t you think it’ll hurt your friends a lot more when you get somewhere in life and they don’t?”

He just shook his head.

“When you come back to DC with your fancy car and your clothes and your great job. Things you worked hard for and earned without resorting to dealing drugs and living the street life,” she finished.

Another teen had been listening to us debate for the past couple minutes. I can’t believe, considering she’s here practically every day, that she hasn’t been “named” yet. But sometimes they just blend into the wall, or, in her case, into her perpetually-raised hood. Anyway–

“C’mon,” Hoodie said, “You one’a my best friends. I don’t wanna see you locked up.”

“Gotta do what I gotta do,” Tyson said. “I got a gun and if I’m goin down I’m takin everyone with me.”

“[Tyson]…” I sighed. Hoodie just threw her arms up in exasperation.

“You just don’t get what it’s like to be hurt like that. They s’posed to be my friends,” he repeated, as if we hadn’t covered this topic two minutes ago. “I don’t care. If they wanna beef with me, I’m gonna get my gun and take care of that shit. People gotta know they can’t mess with me. And I’ll take anyone down with me.”

An African-American volunteer from Upstairs was passing through and caught our conversation.

“Look,” she said, “My dad is locked up in South-Central LA for this stuff. I don’t even know him. My brother too. It don’t make you a man. It just ruins your life.”

He just shrugged again, still not buying it — at least on the outside. He could be the most stubborn person I’ve ever met, which is saying something. So I don’t believe he’s completely dismissed our survival logic. I listened to Co-Workerette work on him a little more, with Hoodie occasionally repeating her desire for him to stay out of jail, but it appeared not even the pleading of a close friend was enough.

It was a half hour past our closing time, and I had not the energy nor the will to keep talking in circles, but the three of them continued on.

That blasted doorbell caught my eye on my way out. I paused, suddenly and surprisingly thankful for all the times I hear it ringing ad nauseam. Every time Tyson — or whoever else — chooses to come here after school, it’s another day where all that spiteful adherence of the beefing culture stays in the harmless smack-talk phase. And I have to believe that in those few hours, conversations that may seem fruitless, aren’t.

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Curryout My Wayward Son

March 23, 2007 in AmeriCorps, Uncategorized by d-roll | 1 comment

While it’s been a volatile month outside, the opposite has been true for us inside.

We’re finally into some sort of rhythm — post-break in, post-Darth, and even post-Dimples. There’s just this calmness and sense of normalcy that I hadn’t felt since being here. Not saying the joint isn’t as loud and kid-friendly as ever, but it’s just… different. I know, eloquently put, right.

There haven’t been discipline issues. Everyone who comes in here gets along with each other. Popeye was our last real remaining link to Darth’s crowd, and he rarely comes around now. The last time I saw him was a couple weeks ago. He stopped by with his entourage of 9-year-old groupies. Of all the people to have a crowd following him… Popeye? I think they’re his misfits-in-training. Really — I can’t explain how comical this visual is. The kid is not quite Steve Urkel, but he’s the closest we have. Imagine… umm… Don Quixote’s horse suddenly leading his own pack of… alright this analogy is going nowhere.

Anyway.

It’s just been very “chill.” Unfortunately we still don’t have photography equipment or a contractor, so there hasn’t been a real class for that since Co-Worker left. It leaves a gaping hole twice a week for me especially, so I try and fill the time the best I can under the circumstances. Sometimes it’s camouflaging an English lesson with a game of Scrabble or a math lesson with a round of Spades.

Other times I just pause to… stop and smell the mumbo sauce.

Yes, the mumbo sauce. I’ve learned a lot about the culture of this area in my time here. One thing that’s been amusing me lately is the culture of food — that is, once I get past the depressing fact that it’s a stark example of why the current generation of kids in America is the first in history to have a shorter life expectancy than their parents because of the crap they eat every day. Childhood obesity, diabetes, high cholesterol and whatever else from the sodium-laced, saturated fat-infused, super-hydrogenated, sugary processed crap. It’s cheap, it’s there, and it’s another thing plaguing the already plagued in poverty.

Right. So, as I said, once you get PAST that… very amusing. Here’s the important stuff I’ve learned. PRESENTING:

“The Only 3 Things You Need To Know About ‘Fine Dining’ In The DC Hood”

>> Lesson #1: Trans Fat Killed The Dinosaurs (And The Home-Cooked Meal)

I don’t think anyone eats at home anymore.

Every day, we serve a “healthy snack.” It’s provided by a DC food bank free of charge, so sometimes the quality and healthiness varies. One day it’ll be apples and goldfish crackers, and the next it could be expired yogurt. So uh…

But the kids are always hungry. I don’t know what the stats are for this area, but I’d be willing to bet the majority of them are on free or reduced lunch at school. And then a lot of them just won’t eat school food, so they go the entire day having nothing (add that to the list of items working against the education of inner-city students). So, some of them come straight here after school hoping we have something edible. They either eat our snack, or they “go to the store” which is this little tiny 7-11 wannabe on the corner that specializes in selling very cheap empty carbohydrates.

So, often I’ll see them leave and come back with the telltale black plastic bag holding a “juice” (sugar water dyed blue) and anything from hoho’s to pork rinds. Not that they know it’s actually fried pig skin. Oy.

If they happen to have a few dollars on them, they might choose to hit up one of the local artery-clogging establishments. Within walking distance is a Popeye’s – always a popular choice. Enough to make me never set foot in one for the rest of my life. They’d probably need to hop a bus to reach the nearest McDonalds — although it’s close enough to walk, no one will put forth that much “effort.”

Then, you have all the little independent joints, also known as “curryouts.” It has nothing to do with the Indian spice, but everything to do with the way “carry-out” is pronounced as one single strange word around here. I have no idea why. I just go with it.

So these curryouts can be anything from Chinese food joints to Fish places to ones that actually say “Carry Out” on their signs. But no matter what they “appear” to be, they all serve the same thing – Fried… Everything.

Here’s a recent conversation as I pretty clearly remember it.

Cupcake: We bout to get some food.

Red: You bout to get some Curryout?

Tyson: Yeah, I don’t want Popeye’s.

Cupcake: You want Popeye’s or Curryout?

Pixel: [eating some fries she’d earlier gotten from McDonalds] I don’t want Curryout.

Me: Isn’t Popeye’s also considered Carry-out?

Which brings me to—

>> Lesson #2: Semantics? You bet.

Them: No… Curryout is Curryout.

Me: Carry-out is just a term for food that you get to go. Food that you “Carry Out.”

Them: [blank stares]

Pixel: I don’t want Curryout!

Me: Hold on. You’re sitting there eating fries from McDonalds. Ones that you got “to go.” You went there and “carried them out.” They’re fried… fries. They sell the same thing at the carry-outs.

Them: [collective ‘clueless white girl’ look]

Cupcake: We bout to get Curryout. Who gonna call?

Pixel: [huffs]

Tyson: Aight. I want a steak sandwich with salpeppaketchup and mumbo sauce.

Me: You can get mumbo sauce on a cheesesteak?

Tyson: [incredulous look]

Apparently, yes, you can, in fact—

>> Lesson #3: There Are Only Two Food Groups: Mumbo Sauce, And Everything You Can Put It On

Mumbo Sauce, I’ve come to learn, is this goop of unknown origin landing somewhere on the taste spectrum between sweet & sour sauce and barbeque sauce. It has a bit of a twangy kick. It is THE staple of DC curryouts. Its invention, surely by somebody who tripped while carrying a bunch of condiments in the back of a Chinese joint, probably stimulated the local economy 100x more than bubblecoats.

Tyson: And fries. Extra mumbo on my fries.

Of course. That’s the only thing I’ll touch from a curryout. The fries and mumbo sauce is quite addicting. A little while later, they came back from picking up their food. It was a typical scene betraying the return of someone from a curryout. Styrofoam containers of all sizes were pulled from the plastic bag adorned with a yellow smiley face. Very fitting — how could anyone be dissatisfied? Impossible, in the land of curryout.

Tyson had his cheesesteak and mumbo sauce — and his 5-piece wings with mumbo sauce that he added in at the last minute. Cupcake had her chicken fingers with mumbo sauce. Red had her egg rolls and fried rice with mumbo sauce. Everyone picked at the extra pile of fries with mumbo sauce. Extra containers of mumbo sauce were being fought over. Even Pixel swiped a few, because no one could ever resist the allure of the addictive mystery topping.

Sometime later, during another game of Scrabble, someone scored two dozen points on the word “mumbo.” Usually I’m quick to point out when they use a proper name or slang, which aren’t allowed, because we want them to work on real vocabulary. But not this time. Like it does for everything else, a little mumbo sauce made our game a lot better.

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Shoe’d Away

March 26, 2007 in AmeriCorps, Uncategorized by d-roll | 1 comment

Yo Mamma’s so strict, she grounded you from the after school program the rest of the year when all you did was wear the wrong shoes to school!

Not that funny, but apparently true in the case of our dear Tyson.

Of course this is coming from Red, who, sweet as she is, articulates coherent thoughts about as well as Charlie Brown’s Mom. Wonk-wonk-wonk-Tyson lied to his mom about shoes-wonk-wonk-wonk. Or something.

He doesn’t live on the complex, but “commutes” in from a neighborhood south of here. His bus route from school goes past here on his way home, so I’m sure he’ll drop by to pick up a snack every day, regardless.

“Shoe Issues” or not, he should probably be grounded for getting horrible grades when he can run academic circles around most of his class. He is unbelievable in the SAT classes. He’s always participating, raising his hand to answer questions and explaining how to attack problems. And at school… not so much.

Speaking of the SAT class, somebody’s going to need to call Mrs. Tyson to explain that his absence from that portion of the program probably isn’t the most logical of punishments. Co-Workerette can have fun with that one.

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