July 2007

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Summer Epilogue IV: Baltimore or Bust….ed Bus

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

Flashback to April.

I was sitting in what passed for my “office” — the one between Soup’s and Co-Workerette’s. I’d only meant to hang out there temporarily among the empty boxes and bare bulletin boards until Co-Worker’s replacement came. It never did.

So, I was in there (still among the boxes and probably working on the ill-fated website), half-listening to Co-Workerette and Soup have a conversation about summer camp over the distance between their offices.

“I found a bus service that’s way cheaper than the others!” Co-Workerette called.

“We can’t go over budget,” Soup answered.

“This is the best deal in town,” Co-Workerette called back. “This guy has all his own buses and runs the service.”

And I thought, Hmmmm….good of her to find us a deal on transportation. Because lord knows we have the worst kind of funding shortage. But I hope that all of our field trips are close by so that the 28 year old cheese bus donated from the Cape May, New Jersey City School District won’t be in the middle of nowhere when it breaks down with 40 kids on it.

And then I thought, nooo! You rueful, rueful girl. What happened to that eternal optimism? Those old cheese buses will be GREAT. And functional.

Flash forward to yesterday.

I was sitting in the second seat from the front of said cheese bus and no longer engrossed in my 47th reading of Slaughterhouse-Five because we’d pulled off onto the shoulder of I-95 due to the thick, white plumes of smoke billowing from the engine.

And I thought, hmmmm. My life has sure gotten predictable.

I’m one of those people who always whips out the cell phone when I get easily amused. Which is a lot. I guess because I’m so far from my family and friends. It’s always, Hey, guess what?

Hey, guess what? I saw a Two-Star and a guy wearing a Peace Train shirt have a stare-down on the Metro.

Hey, guess what? I’m in the liquor store — on a SUNDAY!

Hey, guess what? I’m stuck behind 10,000 Indians decked out in sari protesting arranged marriage. They’re all crossing the street at once.

You wouldn’t believe the restraint it took not to call home and say:

Hey, guess what? The cheese bus is smoking on the side of an 8 lane highway and ready to explode — and we’re all still sitting on it.

But sometime during the course of the year I’ve adopted this Jedi-like countenance of calm. So it really wasn’t that hard to just shrug and smile and wait the 45 long minutes for another cheese bus to pick us up.

It wasn’t exactly an auspicious beginning to our Big Friday Field Trip, but at least things at camp had gotten better. The past week was hard, but not excruciating. The weekly schedule is something like this:

Mondays — an all-day “outdoors” field trip through Georgetown Outdoor Adventures
Tuesdays/Thursdays — workshop days. The camp is divided into four groups who rotate through four workshops like a school day. Art, Drama, Music, and Artist Development. By the end they’ll each (group) have made their own digital documentary using still pictures and video from camp.
Wednesdays — team building and “gardening” in the morning; swimming in the afternoon
Fridays — big field trip

This week we finally had typical M/W/F. Except for W because it was a holiday. But, Monday we went rock climbing (!) at Great Falls National Park, and that was just as amusing as you’d think. Maybe I’ll put that entry on my Special Deleted Scenes Edition.

The workshops have been fine so far; of course it almost feels like school for them so we have some feet-dragging. But the art and drama contractors are both very good. And the kids always love going to the music studio. It’s that “artist development” one that has the issues. Mostly because it’s supposed to be New Guy’s class, but he’s all freaking out over having to keep 10 kids engaged for 45 minutes. So it’s turned into me pulling graphic design lessons out of my butt at the last minute and trying to make them all Photoshop experts. Unfortunately he’s still in shell-shocked mode. Last week he made the unfortunate rookie error of trying to be “cool” and “one of them” and not establishing those boundaries — and now no one respects him and he gets walked all over. I’ve been trying to help him, though. It’s just not the ideal environment for first-time interaction with teenagers.

But anyway. Back to the trip.

Co-Workerette planned all of our summer outings before she left. When I saw that the second week was a semi-close jaunt up the road to Baltimore’s Inner Harbor, I thought it was a great idea. I’d been there several times before and remembered there being a lot of things to do and be exposed to. There’s also a huge variety of entertainment so I figured the kids would be able to really be in control of doing what they wanted. Yay!

No. Slight problem.

After spending money on the exploding bus, we didn’t have anything left for entertainment. Not even for lunch. Or a damn ice cream cone. Soup stressed that we “got them there — anything that anyone wanted to do once we were there was up to them.”

I guess it never occurred to me until after getting there that absolutely everything fun to do up there costs money. Now, I can be easily amused by sitting on a bench and staring at the pretty water for three hours. I really could. But try being around a teenager these days. The attention span is even worse than in “my day” … so yeah, it’s bad.

I made myself think back to the times I’d been there, and the fun things I’d done: ate at a great seafood joint, played a million silly games at the ESPN Zone, ate at a great seafood joint, gone to the famed Baltimore Aquarium, ate at a great seafood joint, went to Camden Yards to watch the Orioles, ate at Hard Rock Cafe, watched the singing and dancing fudge makers and subsequently caved in and bought some, ate a huge, sprinkle-laden ice cream cone, walked aboard one of those docked ships that turned into a pirate thing, ate at a great seafood joint, bought a few things at the Gap, ate at a great seafood joint…

Yes. Come to think of it, the only thing that was completely free of charge was walking with my dad to Edgar Allen Poe’s grave. But that’s not exactly in the Inner Harbor. I’m sure TONS of my peeps want to see that!!

Errr.

I tried my best. The four adults were each “responsible” for a fourth of the clan. Thankfully about ten people couldn’t make the trip so the numbers were more manageable. Half of my group immediately ditched me. They were all new people and I could hardly remember their names. But they knew where to meet — five hours later — if they didn’t want to get stranded in Baltimore.

The remaining four girls all stared at me. I knew one of them from throughout the year, but the rest were summer-only types. They also didn’t talk. It was bizarre. I’m just used to being around people like Tyson and Red and Bug who talk my ear off in regards to what they want to do. So I immediately steered them towards one of the indoor malls.

By this time, it was fast approaching lunch, and the food court we passed was packed. The one girl I knew decided she was hungry, so she got in line at a Sbarro-like Italian place. Another girl followed her. The other two just sort of stared at me.

“Are you guys getting lunch?”

They looked at each other and shrugged.

“Are you not hungry?”

“Yeah, I am,” one mumbled.

Crrrrap. I immediately figured out what was wrong.

“Do you not have money?”

One shook her head and the other just stared at the ground.

So, let’s see. I could either just let them starve for the next five hours (“They can buy their own lunch” -Soup) or I could find an ATM and get out some of those imaginary AmeriCorps funds and buy these kids some damned pizza. Not a hard decision.

The rest of the day was no better. It was a typical hot, humid afternoon. The sun glared off the harbor and the air was as suffocating as the crowds. My quasi-mute peeps were hot, thirsty, tired, and probably a lot dejected.

Here’s a summary of what we saw throughout our fun day: lots of people having a great time shopping to their heart’s content in the many indoor malls, lots of people having a great time in the dragon-shaped pedal boats on the harbor, lots of people having a great time coming in and out of the aquarium, lots of people having a great time enjoying their cold, delicious custard cones, lots of people having a great time buying a ton of the fudge they just sampled, lots of people having a great time picking out and getting their fake tattoos, lots of people having a great time waving their tickets about and boarding the cool pirate ship, lots of people having a great time buying a litany of crab-related paraphernalia, lots of people having a great time sipping frothy, fresh-brewed root beer from frozen mugs, and finally, lots of people having a great time doing lots of fun and great things that required a credit card… in general.

And the fact that three of them barely talked just made it even harder. I kept suggesting new places we could go, and they’d shrug and dutifully follow along. Thankfully, I got the better-late-than-never idea of hitting up Barnes and Noble for the last 90 or so minutes. They were effortlessly and endlessly entertained by the free music samples, and I could finally relax a little.

But overall, it was a five hour exercise in being a “Have Not” in America. I don’t want to make it sound like these kids are walking around like Oliver Twist in rags and bare feet. I’m sure some of the kids in other groups did bring money with them and were able to do more. For these four, though, it was just depressing.

It was very unlike our trip to the Smithsonian Air & Space Museum the previous Friday. Sure, a lot of them were bored. But aside from the gift shop, they had just as much access to everything the place offered as the group of kids from St. Barnabus Preparatory Academy for Effete Snotballs. Here? Not the case.

But it just wasn’t very much fun. Unless you think wafting a steak in front of your dog’s nose and then putting it back on the table and eating it yourself is a good time.

I want them to try a real Maryland crabcake or just experience some food that’s not from a Curryout. I want them to be able to ride in one of those ridiculous duck-shaped water taxis like all the other tourists. I want them to have a damn bus that doesn’t practically explode on the way up. They already get the crappiest teachers in the crappiest schools when they’re not living in the crappiest apartments. I want them to have the opportunity to escape it now and then. We try to provide something meaningful, but we can only half-ass it. We’re always on the cusp of something born of good intentions but can rarely fully achieve it. The nature of a program like this is having everything all but out of reach. Just once, I’d like these kids to get the best.

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Summer Epilogue V: It’s All Greek To Me

July 9, 2007 in AmeriCorps, Uncategorized by d-roll | 4 comments

According to Aristotle, a change must occur in something for its potentiality to become an actuality.

I think that’s what we here in 2007 AD call “walking the talk.” Or maybe “getting off your ass and doing something.”

The point of our Monday ventures into the great outdoors is not only to show the hoodlings that such non-street related places do, in fact, exist, but to also give them the opportunity to partake in things that 1) they’d never considered doing before, 2) they’d never believe they COULD do before, and 3) they’d be able to file away for future use as means to motivate or inspire them to meet the hurdles of their everyday lives.

And also have fun.

Basically, we are hoping these experiences will be useful to some of them in other capacities down the road… tools to help fuel that “change.”

All idealism aside, however, from the moment I read Co-Workerette’s planned outings a couple months back, this one stood out as particularly… incomprehensible.

Kayaking on the Potomac.

KAYAKING. On a VERY LARGE, DANGEROUS RIVER. With a huge group of inner-city teenagers, most of whom CAN’T SWIM, let alone ever been that close to a RAGING BODY OF WATER. IN BOATS DESIGNED TO FLIP OVER. WITH TOTALLY INADEQUATE SUPERVISION.

But would you believe it — this actually turned out to be my favorite day of camp so far. Remarkably stress-free. A few very capable “counselors” from Georgetown taught our shockingly rapt group exactly how to balance in the double-seated kayaks and the correct way to paddle and turn and all that good stuff. I think sheer terror kept them in line more than anything else.

Despite all my promulgating about expanding horizons, we don’t “force” them to participate in things like this. Early on, those who wanted to kayak headed over by the pile of life preservers, and those who didn’t moved off to the opposite side. I was pleasantly surprised to see that a large majority of the group was feeling brave. Not as surprising were those in the latter group — among them, Red and Cupcake.

Soup still wasn’t physically allowed to participate, so he just sort of sat there. Music Guru went along with the kayakers, and I volunteered to stay behind and keep the non-participants from drowning/ditching us for the nearest bus/hijacking any abandoned sailboats. My plans almost changed, though, when Pixel approached me wearing the universal mixed expression of terror, excitement and uncertainty. Very endearing.

“You gonna go?” I asked.

“I’on’ know.”

“You should! Is [Tyson] going? You can be partners.”

Shrug. “Why can’t you go with me?”

These are the times I can’t believe I’m the same person as nine months ago who had to resort to practically doing Tapas’ project for her just to engage in some kind of half-meaningful interaction.

“If you want to go, I’ll go with you,” I assured her.

But Tyson, fickle as a Midwestern spring, suddenly materialized, wanting to go. I made sure Pixel felt comfortable enough to go with him, and thankfully Tyson put on his tough guy act and assured her they’d be fine. I was off the hook.

I think it would have been a lot of fun to go along, but spending time relaxing in the shade also seemed like a decent way to spend the afternoon, too. First, though, came the matter of putting out the Dimples-ignited fire. Dimples’ boatmate wanted no part of being stuck in a precariously-balanced floating object with him. And who could blame her. But there was a numbers problem, and the two were forced to go together.

Everyone else was already downriver, positioned around the head counselor’s kayak as he presumably went through more instructions and rules. I let out a sigh — watching Dimples and his partner, just off the dock, literally paddle around in a circle and yell at each other.

I helped them get straightened out, and even managed to (slightly) control their yelling for a few minutes. But after their eighth crash into shore, I not-so-regretfully pulled the plug on Dimples’ first aquatic adventure. A previously sidelined hoodling volunteered to take his place, and Dimples’ poor former partner was finally kayaking in the correct direction. And I was stuck dealing with him for the rest of the afternoon. Lovely.

Dimples plopped down in the nearest lawn chair as Red and I watched our friends move further down the Potomac towards the Watergate and Kennedy Center until they were finally out of sight. The dock was located in Georgetown, almost directly in the shadow of the Key Bridge. The humidity, coupled with the trees surrounding us almost gave it a bayou-like feel. Not surprising, considering DC was built on a swamp. I’ve heard that’s a myth, though. But there were certainly “swampy areas” back then. Nevermind.

Anyway, Dimples was thankfully well-behaved, and along with Red and Cupcake, we chatted throughout the afternoon about catfish and nature and photography and some additional topics that I tried hard not to get involved in. I took a lot of pictures, both for camp project purposes, and for me, because I love this stuff.

Click here to see a bunch of my photos. Same username and password apply. (Email me if you need it — I don’t want the google spiders to index hoodling photos.)

Sometime during the course of the day, Red asked me what some of our other Monday trips were. She looked dejected when I told her that coming up, we’d be going biking.

“You don’t like riding bikes?”

“I don’ know how,” she answered. “Never done it.”

I’ve seen plenty of kids ride bikes in the hood, but I wasn’t really that surprised at Red’s admittance. If I’ve learned anything during my time in the hood, it’s that what one may consider to be ubiquitous traditions or rites of passages for “other” Americans don’t always apply here.

“I’ll teach you,” I promised.

“Really?” She sounded more skeptical than excited.

“Sure. I don’t want you missing out.”

It didn’t take long. After the kayaking kiddies got back, and everyone was milling around waiting for the bus, I asked one of the Georgetown counselors if I could borrow her bike to teach Red.

I can’t begin to articulate what it felt like, other than maybe this is what parents experience all the time — striving to be simultaneously reassuring and supportive and all-knowing… all the while wishing their kid to have the best time and to be a complete success at trying something new.

And so there, on a street divested of traffic underneath the main thruway to downtown, I held onto the back of the seat as she slowly pedaled along, the handlebars just as predictably wobbly as her Grade-A, Red-like wailing — one part excitement, one part hysteria. After some muttered encouragement, I warned her that I was going to let go — to which she pleaded the opposite position. Finally, like it was straight out of an episode of Full House, I let go and she solo-coasted down the street like a pro.

All it needed was Chariots of Fire playing in the background.

Then, like the aforementioned proud parent, I whipped out the camera and made her do it again.

So here it is. I’m running after her, trying not to laugh. The shaky camera can attest to that. The woman who runs by yelling encouragement is the Georgetown counselor. Red is beside herself with giddiness. Because of the echoing of being under the Whitehurst Freeway, it’s hard to hear, but let me translate –

“I DID IT I DID IT I DID IT I DID IT I DID IT I DID IT,” said Red. “I DID IT!”

Click here for a little video of that second riding attempt.

I don’t know why that was so exhilarating. But I know it’s going to be among the fondest memories I have of my time here.

It really had been a fantastic afternoon. Probably because it was the first time during the camp that I was simply hanging out with my peeps and not nagging the new workers about stuff they shouldn’t be doing. It just felt like a normal, relaxing outing with friends — the kind of day they should be able to experience whenever they want, not just when a camp arranges it. Plus, those who went kayaking, including Pixel, returned with a kind of enthusiasm, confidence and just happiness that I haven’t seen in a long time. It was almost enough to make me forget that we had to pile back on the bus and drive across town to the Real DC.

So of course my proverbial bubble was burst on our way out, when I was thanking one of the other guides. She had a strange name and a stranger accent. We started small-talking and I discovered she was from Greece and this was her first day on the job in DC. She complimented the behavior of our brood (apocalypse now?) and was very curious about them.

“Are you from school?” she asked.

“Sort of. We’re a summer camp,” I tried to explain.

“Did they not know we going in water?”

She was referring to the fact that most of them showed up for a 100+ degree day on the river in 5 layers of denim.

“They knew,” I said, “but most of them have never done something like this. They didn’t really know how to prepare for it. We tried telling them to wear certain things, but it’s hard for them to understand.”

She just sort of stared at me, not entirely understanding, herself.

“A lot of them have never been to the river,” I tried again.

She was positively gobsmacked.

“In America?”

“Well, they– er… um, they all don’t live around here–” I struggled pathetically. “They aren’t exposed to these kinds of things in the inner city. It’s– uh, segregated– uh, there are bad areas–”

“They live in bad like TV?”

“Um… sort of.”

“I did not know that real.”

“Well, it’s– uh…” I was getting nowhere.

“I did not expect…” she grasped for the English translation. “I… why are they all one color?”

Wow.

Hmm.

Great question. How does one explain the nuances of racism, poverty, socioeconomics, and just plain facts of life to a poor English speaker when I can hardly put it in English myself?

I wanted to say, “hey — you’re Greek. You remember what your home dawg Aristotle said about a thing with potential? Something’s gotta change for it to become an actuality. Well, see, this country has a lot of potential. Always has, in fact, ever since the first smallpox blanket was gifted to those pesky Indians. Uh. But over the last couple hundred years, it just seemed a lot easier to leave a huge portion of that potential untapped. Sure, there were a few misguided souls who tried to realize the words of the founders, right — Land of the Free, Home of the Brave, We’re All Equal, Land of Opportunity… you know, that drivel. But here, in 2007, those of us fortunate enough to attend the Clermont County Fair can buy things like this and have a constant reminder of our nation’s fortune cookie pluralism hanging over the kitchen sink. We like to be politically correct about diversity and opportunity, but it’s mostly talk. And sometimes, not even that. Ya see, as long as those with the power and the access are fine and dandy, everyone else is just S-O-L. Including those darling children you’ve just spent the day with. Recognizing the potential in others and possessing the ability to enact change so we can “ALL” be fully-participating members of this great society… who needs that crap. Which is why I just taught a 16-year-old how to ride a bike for the first time. Whether she’d never done so due to poverty of money or poverty of parenting or poverty of life circumstance… that’s unclear. Whatever the reason, it remains symbolic of a nation driven by hypocrisy, delusion and selfishness. And so, in conclusion… all one color. Get it?”

Instead, all I could tell her was “I don’t know.”

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Summer Epilogue VI: Why, Yes, Mr. Fogerty, I Have In Fact ‘Seen The Rain’

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

When I was seven, and visiting my grandparents in New Jersey, my mom gave me an assignment.

“Go see what the weather’s going to be for the picnic on Saturday.”

I flipped through a few channels until I landed on something so unbelievable… it changed my life. It was amazing. It was incredible. It was THE WEATHER CHANNEL.

I think it’s because I liked maps. And cities. And geography. Mostly maps. But it became a thing. When we got back to Ohio, all the sudden it was– “LOOK, Mommy! We have the Weather Channel TOO!(!!!)”

The next order of business was writing a letter to Jim Cantore (I think it was in purple marker, if I remember. And this was before he was all famous and chasing hurricanes and whatever. Pfft.) and blasting him for not having Cincinnati on the business travelers forecast. Ten bucks says it was on the mailroom bulletin board for months due to extreme hilarity. I received a very serious and professional letter in return saying they were “considering it” and thanking me for my inquiry. Whoever wrote that and kept a straight face deserved a gold star.

I wanted to be a meteorologist so badly. I was gonna be the cool one who predicted all the severe weather from the underground bunker thing. Not the local news weathergirl who got dolled up and handed wire copy. Nope. According to the back of one of my umpteen weather books, I’d answered enough questions correctly to cut out the cardboard certificate and be an OFFICIAL JUNIOR METEOROLOGIST. Beat that with a barometer!

So, my career plans were set.

Until I got to high school. And realized that such endeavors require some serious math skillz. So… goodbye, dreams.

But, as the famous saying goes, you can take the girl from the cumulonimbus mamatus clouds, but you can’t take the cumulonimbus mamatus clouds from the girl. Or, as in the case yesterday, you can’t take away her OFFICIAL JUNIOR METEOROLOGIST card, even… you know, decade(s) later.

I promise there’s a point to all this self-reflection. See, we’re supposed to go to “the pool” on Wednesdays. We haven’t yet, because last week was a holiday and the week before we didn’t have enough staff. Because it’s not as simple as walking outside and being at the pool. This is a huge production.

First we have to split them into two groups so we’re not all on the same bus. Despite the fact there’s only one bus an hour at midday so we’d all end up cramming on anyway. Whatever. Then two of the staff march one group down to the Metro station where the bus stop is. Then two other staff bring the second group. Then we get a bus to this neighborhood a few miles away. Then we pile off the bus and walk 20-25 minutes to this DC rec pool. Then we spend yea amount of minutes cajoling them to shed their layers of denim and get in the water, all the while hoping no one else in DC wants to swim today because it isn’t exactly considerate showing up with 40 kids all at once when the legal capacity probably isn’t much more than that. Then we drag them out an hour later (assuming no one drowns) and cajole them to re-dress a bit more efficiently so that maybe we can get home before dark. Then we walk 20-25 minutes back to the bus stop, wait for the bus, ride back to our Metro stop, and walk alllllll the way back to the Center.

It’ll all be worth it, because most of them love going to the pool. They’ve been begging for two weeks. And there’s not one around here for them to use. But it’s also all OUTSIDE. The walking, walking, swimming, walking, and walking.

And today, I knew. It was going to rain. Not just rain — we’re talking big, booming, classic summer storms.

Around mid-morning, while Soup and I were waiting for the “gardening” and “team building” groups to switch, I told him that maybe we should think about staying in and watching movies this afternoon because it was going to rain. He said he heard something about that too, but that “it’s so sunny, we should still go.”

What a lot of people don’t understand is that sunshine and humidity are like the… flour and water and yeast for the bread called thunderstorms. So they’re all, “I don’t understand where this storm came from — it was so SUNNY out before!” That’s like saying, “I don’t understand why my car will move now — I only just FILLED IT WITH GAS!”

An hour later, while everyone was eating lunch and Soup was trying to divide the groups up, I tried again.

“Look,” I said, “I know everyone wants to swim, but it’s going to rain. A LOT. Maybe not right now, but probably when we’re out there walking. The storms are going to be bad. We should just stay in.”

“It looks nice out to me,” he said.

I gave up. I also found a small plastic bag from the kitchen and put my cell phone, wallet, and keys in it. Then I took a bigger one and put my notebook in it. I put them all in my little Nike bag along with an umbrella. At least my electronics and important things would be spared the water.

30 minutes later we were off and walking. I didn’t really notice the sky on the trek down to the station because of a 4 foot tall distraction.

That 10-year-old I mentioned a few entries ago is still here. I’m not entirely sure why, but it’s not up to me to decide. But he’s pretty well annoyed everyone to death. It’s a sad situation, though, because the whole thing is unfair to him. He can’t fully participate in activities designed for adolescents, and in turn gets mercilessly teased by the older boys. It’s equally as hard on him as on the staff.

He’d been pissy with me for the last couple days after I kicked him out of Photoshop class, so I was surprised when he tagged along next to me on our walk. He talked my ear off, jabbering about pools and kayaks and rocks and the Fantastic Four. We’d just turned a corner and were walking down a (scary) alley typical of the area, and he moved closer to me, delivering what could be the quote of the summer.

In a pre-pubescent squeak, he piped up, “Hey, we in the ‘hood. Don’t worry, I’ll protect you.”

After my involuntary snort/choke, I managed to ground out a, “Thanks, I appreciate it.”

It was particularly endearing considering he can’t even protect himself from the likes of… well, forget Tyson. He can’t even handle Bug. Or manage to not get lost in the Air & Space Museum. There’s an interesting psychological angle here that, not to worry, I won’t make anyone read. But anyway, he was completely serious. I patted his head in an affectionate and non-patronizing way.

Protection in place, we made it to the bus stop. About 5 minutes later, the second group straggled up the bridge. According to the schedule, the bus wasn’t due to arrive for another 20 minutes. So we waited. I noticed some ominous looking clouds rolling in.

“Ah… [Soup]?” I said. “I think we should go back.”

“It does kind of look like rain, now…” he squinted upwards.

“No, I mean we should start walking back NOW.”

“Let’s just wait a little longer and see if it rains.”

Five minutes later, the first, fat drops started.

He cursed to himself before announcing, “Alright, everybody, we’re going back!”

I have never had the misfortune of being caught in such a horrible rainstorm. My cheap umbrella snapped after 10 seconds. This was the kind of torrential rain that you see on TV during hurricanes. No, better yet — it was exactly like the monsoonesque rain at the end of The Shawshank Redemption when Andy is all MWAAAAAH OUT OF THE POOP DRAAAAAIN.

For the entire. walk. back. Which is 15 minutes on a good day.

No letting up. Buckets upon buckets. Upon buckets. There’s a section of our route that’s on a bit of a hill. I literally had to hold onto the parked car next to me so the raging torrent of water careening down from above didn’t sweep me away. I tried to keep track of kids around me, but it became too difficult to distinguish anything as more than blurry blobs of denim.

Everyone was scattered and seemed to be arriving back in waves. Hah. Great pun. Uh. There’s not exactly a strategic plan in place for this type of crisis. So since the front door was broken (again), I stayed by the cafeteria door and directed the waterlogged hoodlings where to enter. After that? Just about as miserable and confusing as you can probably imagine.

On a typical day, the “entire camp” is only in the Center all at once first thing in the morning. We simply don’t have enough room. And if we truly utilized what room we DO have, there’s not enough supervision to cover all the space. But when everyone’s inside, it’s a tight squeeze, and certainly not conducive to doing anything other than meetings and “gatherings” of that sort.

This is all by way of saying that 40 people, all utterly soaked to the bone and stuck inside was about as far from the ideal situation as Philip Morris at a Lung Lover’s Convention. Normally we’d open up the music studio and allow those who want to work on those projects head over to the other building. But between the weather and the wet bodies, that wasn’t possible. Which meant EVERYONE would be stuck in here “watching a movie.”

Yeah, that really worked. They were all so comfortable, right — either in their wet clothes, freezing in our 40 degree air conditioned back room, or stripped down to their swimsuits, freezing in our 40 degree air conditioned back room.

We left New Guy to try his best at “supervising” the “movie watching,” but judging from the noise coming from that room, there probably wasn’t a lot of sitting and staring going on. Soup went off to try and commandeer some dryers from the nearby complex laundry facility.

I delegated myself to herding the stragglers back to where they were supposed to be, trying not to groan at the tshirts dripping on various electronic equipment. Or the cataclysmic “THUD” and shouting coming from the back room. Or… yeah. After running interference for an hour or so, I re-delegated myself to the kitchen/cafeteria/room, attempting to rid the floor of its flood by slowly shuffling my feet around on a couple dish towels. Yeah, dish towels. It was all I could find. So of course it was anything but a fruitless endeavor. Not.

I’d just noticed that my own soaked jeans were starting to give me something akin to diaper rash when my AmeriCorps program adviser suddenly materialized in the open doorway.

“Just dropped by to see if you’re still alive,” she said, probably 90% serious.

You wouldn’t think nuns are that funny, but she’s a trip.

“Yes… I’m alive… just… you know, wet.”

She just nodded sympathetically and watched me do more towel skating around the room while we chatted about the delights of understaffing. I’ve gotten the feeling from talking to her that none of her visits to the other people in our program are anything like her trips to see me.

There was some not quite atypical shouting and banging coming from a few rooms over, and she took a long glance at the open door before turning back to me with an incredulous look.

I just shrugged, as if to say, you know by now. That’s how we roll around here.

Yup. It may look like you picked the worst possible day to show up. It may appear that we’re dealing with a few issues. Let’s see… we have a back room brandishing two holes in the wall suspiciously shaped like teenaged bodies; bored, inadequately supervised kids cavorting around in various states of undress; six dozen items of sopping clothing splayed about and dripping down every available surface (and some unavailable ones); six dozen more items of clothing mixed up and stuffed into several of the complex’s not-so-drying dryers; a cafeteria floor that’s transformed into a slippery, aquatic lawsuit; several seemingly apocalyptic crises involving waterlogged cell phones; and a youth center that smelled like the world’s biggest wet dog.

But it’s all good. We finally got to go swimming. More or less.

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Summer Epilogue VI – Addendum

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

Bonus feature! I feel like a DVD promotion. This didn’t really fit into the Rain entry, but it was from that day: video from “gardening class.” I had been taking still photos of the kids to use in their end projects, but just randomly decided to switch to video. As luck would have it, Red chose that exact moment to get endearingly curious about… worms. So she asks, in typical unabashed Red fashion. Tyson is her partner in crime inquiry on the couch.

Same username/password as usual. Email me if you need it.

They aint got no wangywangys?

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Summer Epilogue VII: Graffiti Proverbs

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

More often than not, DC looks exactly like its pedigree — #2 nationally in worst traffic and more densely populated than the post-Thanksgiving crowd outside a Super Wal-Mart. Fortunately for me, though, my drive home during the school year was late enough in the evening to be an exception to the above rules. Not to mention it only took 10-15 minutes as opposed to the hour (plus) with which I contend currently.

Back then, I’d regularly miss the majority of red lights along my route; but oddly there was one I’d always hit. Probably not coincidentally, it’s located at the same intersection that I normally saw one of the local homeless. A few of you have heard me mention him in conversation — Redskin Man. No matter the temperature, he’d wander up and down the street wearing an ubiquitous maroon and yellow Washington Redskins blanket like a poncho.

I never gave him anything. As much as I wanted to, I’ve made it a habit not to put down my window while stopped on a dark, empty street in the middle of the ‘hood, particularly when someone knocks on the door (he did, a few times).

As such, it was much easier to just… errr… look in the other direction. Usually, my line of sight found the large, elaborate graffiti-esque mural painted on the side of the corner building. It depicted one guy helping another off the ground. The superimposed words advised, “don’t look down on a man unless you’re gonna pick him up.”

Pretty profound. But it was another sad juxtaposition added to my growing pile: Redskin Man, and the proverbial mural — next to the stoplight where the majority of motorists probably had a lot more ridicule to spare than money.

So, I was thinking about such things today. But more on that later.

One of the older guys brought a football yesterday. At lunch, said kid, visiting from Texas for the summer (and to whom I teasingly refer [in reality, not blogality] as Tony Romo), said they needed “another girl.” And would i like to play, or “maybe just stand there.”

I gave a “gee I guess so” affirmative, milking this “looks can be deceiving” moment for all its worth. I had a feeling it would turn out to be way more amusing than my sports adventure with Marcus Vick a few months ago. Bigger, newer audience and more skepticism, after all.

Judging from the looks of his peers when I showed up, I guess Romo felt responsible (read: guilty) and put me on his team.

20 minutes later, I’m not sure if the guys were more impressed (read: horrifyingly fascinated) that I unhesitatingly dove on a concrete sidewalk to catch the ball, or that I shrugged off the blood pouring from my very considerable road rash because I’d produced the game-winning touchdown.

I mean, really, did they think I wanted to go inside a loser? Sheesh. New people.

Music Guru must have heard about our Lunchtime Fun, and was thankful that a lot of the new kids enjoyed “being active.” Because today’s team building activity was a departure from the norm — frisbee football. Also, along with it, a first—

Teenage boys fought over me.

Yup, it appeared that word had spread near and far of my self-sacrificing stupidity heroic feat the day before. Orrrrr…. it could have been the fact that just about every single person at camp had unabashedly gibed, “what happened to [the lack of skin on] your arms?” Either way, it was equal parts amusing and disconcerting that these towering, strapping young athletes wanted the vertically challenged white girl.

While half the brood got ready to play, the other half started working on a landscaping/gardening project on the imitation flower beds outside the door and sidewalk. I ducked away from the game for a second and put on my Wrangler Hat, trying to rustle up the stragglers, wanderers, and the thought-I’d-never-check-in-the-back-computer-lab-MySpace-ers. Ya know, kids, I wasn’t born yesterday on the back of a mumbo sauce truck.

Finally I made it back to the game, but took another detour to drag Cupcake off the sidewalk railing and closer to the flying frisbee.

“I ain’t playin! You trifilin!!”

Indeed. I noticed Red was actually trying to play, so I ditched Cupcake and caught up with her partner in crime. Let me pause for a second and just say that Red is… indescribable. And I don’t mean that in the flowery, romantic context. I am literally unable to adequately describe her personality and antics in these entries — even now, mere days from the end of my service. Just like you can’t properly put a sunset over the Rocky Mountains into words… or describe the feeling you get while listening to Penny Lane (in your ears) while walking down the real Penny Lane (in your eyes) on a clear day (beneath the blue suburban skies). That is, if Rocky Mountain sunsets and Beatles Pilgrimages were endlessly hilarious and naively genuine.

See, now that just muddles it up even more. Alright. Well. Red trying to play frisbee football involved a lot of squealing, screaming, and flinging plastic discs into the windows of the neighboring building. So of course I kept passing the frisbee to her, much to the annoyance of my uber competitive teammates. Sorry.

After a while, I noted that it was almost time to switch groups, so I wandered up to see what the “gardeners” were up to.

One of the senior building residents (though sadly, not the paranoid binoculars guy) was serving as the “teacher” for this project. It was interesting seeing them interact — particularly the “yes ma’am” kind of respect she automatically commanded.

I spied The Professor hunched over a large shovel, repeatedly scooping up soil and turning it over. I’m sure there’s some official gardeny name for whatever he was doing, but to me it just looked like… soil priming. Whatever. By this point it was about 11:15 and plenty hot and humid outside.

“How’s the digging?”

He looked up, swiping an arm across his sweaty forehead while giving me his trademark half-smirk, half-grimace. Then he resumed shoveling — while mumbling furiously at the ground. Months ago, I would have included said habitual furious mumbling in that Professor “trademark.” But having met his mother at our closing ceremony… well… It’s obviously genetics. Or, more likely — a really, really, really, really accurate example of social learning theory.

Most of the time, I let him keep mumbling his nonsensical whatevers and just nod and smile. This time I was actually interested in what he thought of our first hands-on gardening activity and wanted a real answer.

“Stop for a second,” I grabbed the shovel hilt and the mumbling finally ceased. “What, now?”

He quickly looked at me and then back down at the ground again, wearing the same strange grimacesmirk.

“Should be gettin them Mexicans to do this.”

Uh.

I stared back at him, genuinely shocked. This is something I’d expect from Darth, and probably even Tyson. But not from someone so non-confrontational and, well, nice.

“What did you say?” I finally sputtered.

He grinned at me. The grin of a kid who exhibits all the ignorance of teenagedom mixed with a backwards society. He has no idea what or why he thinks this.

“Mexicans do this.”

Okay. While technically true — one has to account for the fact that he could have just looked out his window and noticed all the “landscapers” in the past were Hispanic. Because they are; I’ve seen them. Nonetheless, I decided to skip all that and get straight to the racial stereotyping.

“You know how you’re always complaining about how ‘The Feds’ treat all of you like criminals?”

“They do.”

“Okay,” I paused, playing into his semi-accurate declaration, “Do you like it when they lump you all into the same group? You’ve never stolen a car or carried a gun or sold drugs, but they think you do, right?”

Shrug.

“And that’s not fair to you — to be put down and stereotyped.”

Blank stare.

“Well, you’re doing the same thing when you say stuff like that.”

He gave me a skeptical, “no I’m not” kind of look.

“Don’t look down on someone unless you’re gonna pick ‘em up,” I quoted the stoplight mural.

He shrugged. “But they ain’t worth nothin.”

Ahh. I see. Right. I suppose it’s human nature to need someone else to step on. There’s always someone lower in the food chain. Instead of being compassionate and understanding, people make comments like that.

“You know what?” I shoved the tool back into his arms, uncharacteristically allowing my anger to breech the wall between brain and mouth. “I think you need a little more practice in manual labor.”

He made a face and looked over at the rest of his group gathering to play the game.

“Oh, don’t worry. I’ll take your place.”

I turned away before he could mount a protest.

Yup. Poor men wanna be rich; rich men wanna be king; and the king ain’t satisfied til he rules everything.

The need for superiority and some semblance of power seems to overshadow humanity, even in a place like this. You’d think that people who know despair and discrimination intimately would be a bit more empathetic. Unfortunately, much of what “you’d think” … isn’t. I doubt that it’s just a case of him being a kid and prone to ignorant ideas. That sentiment is too much of a dominant underlying theme in the American ideology — so much that now, hours later, I’m “surprised at my surprise” that he’d said it.

But that mural artist was onto something. So I’ll keep hitting that red light, Redskin Man will keep wandering around the intersection, and we’ll both hope that other people take graffiti proverbs to heart.

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Summer Epilogue VIII: Against the Wind

July 24, 2007 in AmeriCorps, Uncategorized by d-roll | No comments

Let me set the scene.

Saturday, January 7, 2006. Morning. Random Academic Building, Xavier University, Cincinnati, Ohio.

Freshly graduated (from a fine, upstanding and honorable institution), I was in the midst of taking a standardized exam with a dozen or so other social studies teachers-to-be. On my 23rd birthday, no less. But anyway. In order to become “fully qualified” to teach in (whatever) state, you must first prove your worth by achieving (whatever) score on a test consisting of random trivia facts of the social sciences. Mostly compiled from material ganked from the discard pile next to Alex Trebek’s podium.

I do not jest. Since when does knowing “which is the Civil War battlefield in Florida used as a secondary site of General Lee’s 3rd officer’s dog’s favorite place to pee” deem one of sufficient pedagogical aptitude?

Oy. So while taking this test, I had an epiphany. I can’t help that I get them in strange places. The last time I’d had one before this was while eating a really crappy McDonald’s cheddar melt. But—as I said. Epiphany. I remember the exact question that caused it:

“Which of the following is an economic problem that potentially affects geographies with semi-arid climates?”

The answer was obviously whichever one describes water issues, but you’d need a PhD in linguistics to figure out which of those maliciously convoluted and vague answer choices actually contained that information. But that’s not the point.

This is: having spent the previous fall semester student teaching — among other things, 7th grade geography — I damn well knew which climate blah blah economy blah blah desert subtropical blah blah rainforest. But here’s the thing – It doesn’t matter if I knew it or not. Because I vividly recall covering this with my students — you know, while being an actual teacher (as opposed to the theoretical kind of which these policy doofs are apparently experts). I remember going over the types of climates and some real life examples. We labeled maps, we talked about types of vegetation, and I may have made a couple questionable “Forest” Gump jokes. It was a rollicking good time.

Here’s the kicker. I also distinctly remember having to spend 30 minutes just DEFINING an “arid” climate. Arid? What is this strange word? How can we possibly remember this? After all, we’ll need to memorize it for those great standardized tests that will ultimately determine our life’s worth. And so we never actually got to cover the critical thinking portion. That’s not encouraged (it’s not testable, see). So those kids didn’t learn anything beyond the general definition (and let’s be honest — some of them, not even that); they certainly didn’t learn anything about related economies. No time! Chop chop! Standards! Must! Cover! All! And so we moved onto the next selection of surface buffet that is fortune cookie education.

So tell me, oh craptastic policy wonks, why should a teacher have to pass this ridiculous exam when it has little or no relation to the actual practice of teaching? Come to think of it — have any of you ever been in a real classroom? Nope — recalling your own 10th grade Trig class where you secretly wrote the COSINE formula on your hand before the test doesn’t count! Have you ever tried to rescue all those children left behind by No Child Left Behind? Or is too much of your time taken by sneaking off to clandestine meetings with stockholders of #2 Pencils, Ltd.?

No, I’m not bitter.

I of course had been aware of the horrid legislation currently mandating America’s public schools, but it didn’t really strike any especially painful (just the normal kind of painful) nerve endings until coming across that arid climate question.

So that’s when the disembodied poor man’s Field of Dreams voice came out of the walls. “You know this is wrong,” it boomed, “so what are you gonna do about it?” And I suddenly knew then that I didn’t want to be a teacher – at least not in the formal sense, and at least not yet. I had to do something. Something else. First.

If my life was broadcast in widescreen and had timely access to dramatic accompanying music, I would have just chucked the crumpled paper at the proctor walked out of the room right there. But since my epiphanies occur in Real Life, I continued to the last section of questions (which covered ancient Chinese history, and I so I was set, having memorized the complete works of Confucius while driving over that morning).

In the subsequent few months, after fulfilling the role of indecisive lump in my parents’ house, I decided that “something” was joining AmerCorps. I wanted to try to have an educational impact outside of traditional education. I wanted to reach the kids who were not only ‘left behind,’ but had been behind even before they’d been officially forgotten by the government. I thought that by working in a non-school setting, such as some kind of inner city after school thing, I’d be able to find that opportunity.

So here I am. Here I’ve been, I guess, is more accurate.

And just how does that long-winded anecdote apply to the present?

Today, our programs dept (as opposed to the rest of the corporation which deals with business/real estate stuff) higher-ups held a meeting. About what exactly, who knows – I’m never invited. But my guess is the usual… budget, curriculum, grants, reports. What makes us live and breathe. Fun!

Bizarrely, the meeting took place in the middle of our youth center. During camp. Were they spraying for bugs up at the main office? Well, whatever. As I considered the strangeness of it, something else occurred to me. Conducting a meeting with the bigwigs, right here on the front lines, as it were, presented a fantastic opportunity. They’d be able to engage with actual, you know, PEOPLE! See some action! Spot me for a five minute break!

But I guess I’m (still) naive, or maybe just exceedingly delusional. Soup instructed me to embargo everyone from my class in the small computer lab that adjoins the main area where they were meeting. Which was totally easy, considering this class typically uses 3 rooms to do everything we need to. Um.

I was told, in so many words, to keep them quiet and out of sight — to assume the role of babysitter, implored to keep the naughty children from burning down the house while Daddy talked to the nice, important man from the travel agency… or something. But I understood that, you know, okay, they’re busy people and need to cover their agenda and get things done. That’s fine — there’s always AFTERWARDS!

Not so much.

It really, really bothered me that the half dozen-ish suits pretended – from what I saw – that they weren’t even at a camp. I didn’t see any interaction with the kids after the meeting wrapped. By that point we were well into “rec time.” It would have taken minimal effort to strike up a conversation with somebody adjusting a photo or putting away art supplies or just hanging out. You know, a little of: “Hey, what are you working on? What have you liked so far? What are you learning?”

Hell, if they have some indomitable aversion to talking with 14-year-olds, they could have at least pulled me aside for some intel on how their investments actually operate in Real Life. You know, a little of: “What seems to be working? What needs improvement? What changes should we consider? How’s that website coming?”

Soup’s not going to know – not the good stuff, at least. He’s too much like the GM, while I’m the manager… and the first base coach. And the umpire. And the front row of die-hard fans. And absurd as it sounds, especially to me, I have more experience here than anyone. Soup came on in October, but really didn’t start spending every day in the youth center until late March. Co-Worker and Co-Workerette are both gone. And although Music Guru has been here for years, he spends 95% of the time in the music studio, which might as well be a separate program.

So that leaves me. Sad, but true.

This was really the culmination of my ongoing frustration with how the “programs” portion of this organization operates. I suppose that would be obvious, considering the AmeriCorps volunteer is practically running this camp. This place, in theory, is so fascinating and created with truly good intentions: a real estate corporation devoted to not just affordable housing, but developing a further sense of community through both adult and youth educational programs.

But from what I gather, that portion of the mission has depleted considerably since its inception. It’s not enough to say you’re having these programs so it looks good to investors. You need to actually DO IT. Watching the way they acted today just reminded me of those nameless, faceless people who sat in a room and decided I needed to pass a Jeopardy tryout to earn teacher certification; the same ones who thought more tests and less learning is the heart of education.

Maybe if they spent a few moments immersed in this world from “our” perspective, they’d see that having such a tiny staff is detrimental to accomplishing our goals. Not enough money for more staff? That’s easy. Scale down the scope of the program and make a fantastic camp for 20 kids instead of a half-assed one for 60. Simply telling them that “more kids = more success” is faulty logic hasn’t worked thus far.

Still not convinced? Maybe if they took time to see the technological skills the kids are gaining through learning professional programs like Photoshop and Acid, not to mention the output of incredible work produced, they’d understand the importance of teacher-student ratio. It’s not like those kids will have such opportunities upon returning to schools with no arts programs. Among other things.

And maybe, just maybe, if they simply surrendered two minutes and struck up a conversation with a couple kids they’d discover that they are living, breathing, charming, wonderful agents of potential. PEOPLE. Not just numbers for equations in the yearly reports. People who depend on programs such as this to point them in a direction that will encourage self-worth and success. Otherwise they’re left to rely on school, parents, and their friendly neighborhood crack dealer. In these parts, that’s worse than a crapshoot.

To be fair, though, it’s not just these bigwigs. It’s also the architects of self-important grants that make ridiculous stipulations, like our required 7-hour days. But we should be able to rely on our higher-ups to advocate for us and explain why that’s not conducive to our situation – that we’re able to run a solid program with your generous funds, just not for 7 hours. Instead, we’re stonewalled and expected to make it work.

This is what I came here to avoid. We can’t control the grand travesty that is the formal education of this neighborhood’s youth, but we’re supposed to be able to control the supplemental help they receive here. It’s our program. We’re invested in the residents. Doing something should mean doing it right. In the meantime, I do what I can in spite of my frustration. I try to have some kind of impact. But I did that back in junior high social studies, too.

The people with the money and influence want to see improvement. They want to see standard deviations and pie charts and bar graphs. But education can’t exclusively be measured by numbers. You can’t document the impact of gaining confidence or inspiration or the ability to think critically about issues. Surely there can be some other, more creative and accurate way of maintaining accountability if that’s what’s so important to them.

The common theme among all the national education legislation and the local operations like this is that perspective is essential. Grants and policy and decisions trying to benefit the enrichment of children should be reached as a coalition of minds. I’ve criticized the suits a lot, but they’re important to the process — just not exclusively important. Sharing ideas and perspectives with those from the aforementioned “front lines” is how real solutions can be found. And real solutions, of course, are those devised in the powerless’ interests — not the special interests.

This country already has enough controversial issues to deal with. And that’s fine. Debate ‘em out. Quabble all you want over whatever gets you fired up. But education needn’t be one of them. Education shouldn’t be a hard choice. It’s what leads to the solutions for everything else. It’s not sexy, but it doesn’t have to be. It’s like clean tap water. Essential for living and something one should automatically expect as an American citizen. You’d demand it if your house didn’t have it, right?

But it’s going to take pressure from regular people to see any change — and I’m not talking about Sally PTA-Pants complaining to the school board when Susie has a mean French teacher. The masses are going to have to demand that those in power make reforming public education a national priority.

But it seems like an uphill battle, considering auspicious ratings for Are You Smarter Than A Fifth Grader, which, while a harmless game show, seems to highlight the undercurrent of embracing our own ignorance.

In a few days I’ll leave here after a year of doing that “something different” I sought. I don’t know what’s next. But no matter the context, I’ll at least be able to share that valuable perspective gained while engaging in a different side.

The absolute priority of education should be, if you pardon the ironic term, a no-brainer. The hoodlings and I await the rest of America’s epiphany.

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Summer Epilogue IX: A Hitchhiker’s Guide To The Hood

July 25, 2007 in AmeriCorps, Uncategorized by d-roll | No comments

Since my first day on the job here, I’ve kept a small notebook on my person at pretty much all times. How else am I supposed to get everything down? The days are long, and the opportunities are many. I’m on my fourth one at this point. Notes, quotes, particular happenings and observations. It’s where I’ve started writing all these entries.

But it’s not like I’m hastily transcribing every conversation. The last thing I want to do is appear like I’m taking notes on their lives. And I guess it’s worked out fine — I don’t recall anyone ever noticing or asking about it. Apparently that cultural law about yo bidness is reciprocal.

Like most long-term ethnographical excursions, there’s waaaaaay more material in said notebooks than whatever makes it to this site. Probably double the amount of “entries” plus endless random, nonsensical notes and whatevers. It’s just strange looking back through what I’ve actually “published” here and realizing how much more context I have because of the “unpublished” material. And I feel like I’ve talked about people way more than I actually have.

One of those people is the infamous Popeye. I think he got the shaft as far as lack of pub in this thing. At least in terms of amount of times I saw him to amount of blog mentions ratio. Although he did disappear from the classes and daily activities after Darth’s banishment, I still saw him around the complex almost every day. Off in the distance, running up the stairs, walking down the street, going into his building.

My first page of notes from the opening day of programming last September is… all about him. I was hanging around by the front door, chatting with Co-Worker and watching people roll in. He wasn’t the first to arrive, but when he finally came in, people noticed.

First, he’s just goofy-looking. I don’t mean that in a degrading way – more like a stereotypical, lovable bad sitcom sidekick. I believe I wrote about some Urkelesque qualities in another entry. Well, whatever. He looked so approachable — the type I would have hit it off with immediately in just about any other scenario. And then, his name! I don’t want to mention anything resembling a real name on here, but that was part of it. The nickname everyone calls him sounds like the combined first and last names of a prominent 80s Brat Packer. And at the time it sounded hilarious to me. I wondered why it hadn’t occurred to anyone else, but it would take me a few months to figure out the cultural bubble encasing them didn’t quite extend to white C-list actors.

And so I learned he’s like this neighborhood’s less articulate version of Ferris Bueller. He’s obviously been around forever. Knows everyone. Everyone knows him. And loves him in that “Ooooh Popeye!” sort of way. He has to run up and talk to everyone he sees.

Except me.

And man, there’s nothing quite like getting figuratively kicked in the teeth every day because the neighborhood everyman assumes you’re just another Fed out to get him. So as I did with everyone else, I didn’t push. Just kept doing my thing and trying to find a way in.

For eight months.

Sometime during the summer I finally became a true part of his landscape. He went out of his way to say whatsup, visited even though he worked Upstairs, and talked to me just like he would anyone else. Just like he did on that first day to everyone except me. Finally.

So good thing I’m leaving at the end of the week.

This afternoon I’d just dropped off some chairs we borrowed from Upstairs and saw him hanging off one of the outer railings. He hopped down, ran over, and we did one of those super hip handshake greeting things.

Then we bantered for a few minutes about his possible corruption of the young kids he works with as a junior counselor at Upstairs’ camp.

“Somebody say you leavin soon,” he non-sequitored.

“Yeah, tomorrow, actually. Will you be here?”

“Ain’t gonna be around,” he said.

“Alright,” I shrugged. “Well. So long, and thanks for all the fish.”

I knew there was an absolute 0% chance he’d get the obscure sci-fi reference, but figured he’d appreciate the apparent randomness of the line regardless.

His eyes lit up.

“You bouttago ta Big Fish? Me ‘n [Bug] are bouttago get curryout,” he gestured with his head to the street behind us.

“No,” I resisted an indulgent smile at his misinterpretation. Big Fish is the name of a carry out in the neighborhood. “I, um. I gotta get home.”

He shrugged.

“Aight, well you come back and we hit up Big Fish,” he said.

“It’s a date,” I replied.

He squinted back at me – the same look he got whenever I pointed out that he couldn’t have done his homework, as he hadn’t brought any homework with him.

“Uh…Sikenah…?” I tried, inwardly cringing at how ridiculous that slang sounded coming from me.

Sounded just fine to him, I think, as he smiled goofily, flashed the neighborhood sign, and hopped back over the railing.

There’s something strangely satisfying about long battles and small victories. Popeye, darling, I don’t know about fulfilling that raincheck, but there’s no way I’m ever eating wings again without hallucinating your sauce-slurping self nearby.

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