Someone should tell the local media I’m their next banner headline: Midwestern Girl, White, Wants To Do Good And Stuff.

But that’s how I (dinner) roll. Nothing against the fine people of Bloomington, Indiana, but I wasn’t ready to settle into 35 years of teaching 7th graders where Kentucky is. I had a great student teaching experience, but found myself thinking more about the 5 hours I’d spent on a university-sanctioned shadowing field trip to an inner-Indianapolis jr. high than the entire semester spent with Monroe County Schools. Up in Indy, I had followed this kid, Jordan, around all day. By 3rd period, when I saw that his cover-less social studies textbook still had the U.S.S.R. as a country, I wanted to follow him for the rest of his life.

And so I started exploring the possibility of serving a year in AmeriCorps. It’s a federal program that connects “volunteers” with nonprofits and other organizations and places them in impoverished settings for a year of service. Think “Domestic Peace Corps.” You can apply in whatever realm suits your interests or skills — for me, it was never anything but education. In many cases, you can apply directly to a post, so you essentially pick your placement. I really, really wanted a placement in a big city. I wanted to go where it was “the worst.” I wanted Washington, DC. I was batshit crazy.

I applied to a couple DC posts and had a Cincinnati one as backup. But living at home seemed potentially detrimental to the “experience” so I really hoped I didn’t have to resort to that. As it turned out, I was accepted to my first choice, and drove out for a meet-and-greet. The director of the small after-school program in — shall we say — non-tourist DC seemed enthusiastic about my potential contributions to their photography and digital media classes. I left feeling good, and returned to Ohio anticipating the challenges ahead.

A week before I left for DC permanently, I attended a sort of social function at my old high school. Therein I ran into scores of people I hadn’t seen in years. When telling them of my plans for the coming year, the most popular response – by an overwhelming margin – was that mildly disgusted-yet-expertly-morphed-into-cautious-surprise face. “You’re what?”

Apparently doing AmeriCorps is a bit admirable, but willingly venturing into the ‘hood for 9 hours a day is just gall dang silly. Would they be surprised to learn that no AmeriCorps workers are needed at the West Chester Pottery Barn?

Well, whatever.

Approval of the Midwestern legions or not, my goal for the year is to make my discomfort zone into my comfort zone. How many research papers on Jonathan Kozol should it take to get me into some intense field experience in everything he writes about? At least that’s the way I saw it.

It’s not that I even need a good reason. I only need to refer to a quote from the Greatest (Fake) President of All Time, Josiah Bartlet:

“One in five American children live in the most abject, back-breaking, gut-wrenching, hopeless poverty you can imagine – one in five, and they’re children. If fidelity to freedom is the code of our civic religion, then surely the code of our humanity is faithful service to that unwritten commandment that says ‘we shall give our children better than we ourselves received.’”

Once again the solution to my not-really-a-problem presented itself when I wasn’t looking for it. The best solutions are always stumbled upon, yes? Or, in this case, driven upon.

Having completed the move to DC, I was ready to start my new and frightening existence among the East Coasties. But my parents requested one last thing before they left — how about we drive my route to work, both to familiarize me with it, and make them feel better? Because despite the fact they couldn’t change my participation in this, they could still impart essential wisdom like “turn left here.” So, I said sure. Why not. Good idea, even.

A few minutes later, I mapquested that mofo, printed out the directions, and set off towards the city.

My new apartment is just across the river in Virginia. First, it’s cheaper to live there, and second, it’s easier to have a car there. It also serves as a compromise with my roommate who works a little further back into The Commonwealth. Anyway, it’s barely across the border, so when emerging from the side road that leads to the highway, one is immediately greeted with the “skyline” of DC: the Washington Monument, Lincoln Memorial, and Capitol dome. It’s, in a word, awesome. The actual definition of awesome, mind you, not the version popularized by the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Focus on the awe part.

Maybe it’s because I’m a social studies nerd, or because I think America ~rawks~, or because I have a general appreciation for architectural beauty on display. But looking at that sight, I can’t help get excited. In a way like “man, I’ll NEVER get tired of looking at that.” And I don’t think I will.

“Wow,” my dad said, as if thinking the same thing as me.

“That’s what I get to look at sitting in traffic,” I replied.

“Not a bad view,” he understatement-of-the-year’d.

I continued driving on the 14th Street Bridge over the Mighty Potomac until reaching my exit — the sign that said “US Senate.” How exciting!

I felt like I was on some kind of patriotic high. Not a rah-rah America, post-9/11 bumper sticker kind of patriotic, but the kind born in civic pride — as if these buildings were personifying “checks and balances.” I caught myself reminiscing about the social studies lesson plans I used to write. I know, I know — but don’t judge me, ok?

A few more turns and some stop signs later, I made a left and noted via my directions that I’d be on this street for a while. After a moment I glanced in my rear view mirror and was stunned — there, in all its glory, was an unobstructed view of the Capitol Dome, larger and closer than I ever expected. I couldn’t stop gaping, so good thing it was an early Sunday morning and traffic was non-existent.

Nothing could top a sight like that, right?

Nope. So let me reintroduce you to the phrase “nowhere to go but down.”

As I kept driving, the buildings alongside the road gradually began to look shabbier. Some had boarded-up windows; others had graffiti on the sides. Instead of inviting shopfronts I saw bars on doors. I glanced in my mirror again. The dome looked slightly smaller, but still every bit as visible.

I sat at a red light and looked at a row of condemned buildings adjacent to a liquor store with a little kid sitting alone outside of it.

“Do you have to go on this road?” My mom interrupted my thoughts.

Distracted by the corner store next to us with the two bullet holes in its glass door, I didn’t answer. I took a last glance in my rear view at the dome and turned off onto the street that would lead to my placement site.

Talk about sobering. I can’t properly articulate that feeling — going from a sense of pride and awe, to wondering what the residents of this dilapidated, seemingly forgotten neighborhood felt when they saw it. Obviously, I knew I’d be working in a poor neighborhood. But seeing the landscape morph before my eyes, all the while that same dome that had excited me ten minutes ago turned borderline mocking. The Capitol can be seen from so many points in DC, but the people in power there don’t reciprocate that view.

To belatedly answer my mom’s question, yes, it’s the only route for me to get to work. Looks like I’ll have plenty of occasions to ponder this new twist on American symbolism in my mirror. Welcome to life in the Rear View.

AmeriCorps > Sub-Program > Placement Organization/Nonprofit > Me!

My sub-program is an organization that has about 15 or so small groups in cities across the country. It’s education-based, so all the AmeriCorps members are placed in various teaching/tutoring/mentoring scenarios — whether it’s adult literacy, ESL, after school programs, charter schools… the works. My Washington, DC sub-program has about a dozen members placed throughout the city.

Two other members in my group have been assigned to the same Placement Organization as me. But after reporting for our first day, it seems that two of us are going to be moved to other sites within the city. I’ve worked with the secondary-aged population, so I’m staying at the teen center. I have no idea where my “colleagues” are going, but the majority of the other after-school programs in this organization are for “little kids.” So, bye guys.

This development is a little disconcerting to me. The woman I’d met over the summer who ran the program is no longer here. Things seem pretty disorganized at the moment, and I still haven’t been told exactly what I’m supposed to be doing. Or will be doing. Also, not having two other AmeriCorps people here means my support network just vanished. Sure, they’ll be around at other sites, but I’m not naive enough to think this year is going to be easy.

So, more about the site.

The Center, which is my generic name for this place’s much longer and formal name, is located within a housing complex, in what would not be described as a four-star neighborhood. According to a DC demographics site, this is the poorest area in all of DC west of the Anacostia River. 31% of children live in poverty in this general vicinity. It’s not the worst; there are some other areas of Southeast that climb as high as 55%. But compare that to areas of Northwest that have rates as low as .0001%. It’s hard to believe, looking at this place, that it could be worse. It features a liberal amount of the big three: unemployment, crime, drugs. Not all the youth who are in the program live in this housing complex. Some are from around the neighborhood, and few come from further out. The complex itself is supposedly mixed-income; based on what I’ve seen, though, I’m not sure how accurate that claim is at this point.

Anyway, the Center is home to a new after-school teen program that’s way beyond babysitting. And when I say “new,” I mean that this is the first year it’s strictly for teenagers. In years past, they had younger kids as well as a few older ones, but The Powers That Be have worked out a system with the other program, located over a building and up a floor, to separate the two groups. Teens with us, younger ones “Upstairs” (my generic name for that program).

The first couple hours are devoted to homework help, reading enrichment, or other academic activities. There’s a really fine line that will need to be constantly tweaked: if this place is too much like school, no teenager in his right mind would show up. But its purpose is not as a “drop in center.” This is supposed to have an academic focus. We just don’t want to make it school. Talk about hard.

Later in the evening, the program offers structured courses that vary by the day of the week: Photography, life skills, civics, media literacy, music, etc. There is a state-of-the-art music studio and real, professional recording equipment. The only catch is the music made there must have lyrics to help the world, not hurt it. Ok, then.

I already made my first mistake. It was stupid, really. I am never going to get anywhere with these kids if I show up looking like Miss Banana Republic. Well, it wasn’t that bad, but I’m just used to dressing like a teacher when I’m teaching. Makes sense, yeah? Not here. In my first set of ethnographic notes, my researcher side has deemed I need to blend in with my population more. And by “blend in” I mean, not give them any more reason to chalk me up to a parole officer. I’ll start by wearing jeans.

Apparently I’ll have a lot of time to think about my wardrobe. Our partnering nonprofit has wrangled its three AmeriCorps members into conducting its annual reading assessment tests at all of the DC sites. Which means we’ll be spending the next four weeks traipsing from ‘hood to ‘hood torturing these unsuspecting children with our bubblesheets. Here we go.

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

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

The results were hardly surprising.

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

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

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

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

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

Teenagers are the opposite.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Today’s was “get to know one kid.”

Reach for the stars, I know.

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

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

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

“What are you researching?”

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

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

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

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

“They eat tapas there.”

“What’s that?”

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

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

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

Some are more exuberant than others.

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

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

So of course he wields his powers for evil.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ran into somethin’,” he muttered.

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

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

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

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

~

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

At least that’s what I kept telling myself during the 35 minutes it took for the (only) employee to make my veggie wrap.

This week’s “Fun Friday” jaunt took us to said shop. It’s a tiny building, with just the one couch, an overstuffed chair, and a few small tables and chairs. I happened to be in the area with a fellow AmeriCorpsite following our sub-group’s meeting, so we decided to hang out there and wait for everyone despite being an hour early.

The event was supposed to be a poetry slam, giving some of our very talented and stereotypically angsty teenagers a chance to show their mad skillz. As of Thursday night, no one had written a poem yet, so Co-Workerette vowed to turn it into an etiquette lesson if no one had material. So there we sat, waiting for the would-be Robert Herricks or, uh, Martha Stewarts to show up.

Before the brood arrived, a group of cops were hanging out over at the tables. I guess donuts aren’t chic enough these days. One of them kept looking over at us, and decided to break the ice by making fun of my hat. It must have been the first time he’d ever seen someone wear a knit ski cap when it was 30 degrees outside. I know, so weird.

Finally, he came over and introduced himself and asked what we were doing “around here.” Shocking, I tell you, to think that two people not of African American decent would be conspicuous in this part of DC. He was young, probably not more than five years older than me. But his eyes betrayed a few lifetimes of experience. I told him where I worked, and he replied with a mixture of surprise, horror and admiration. Turns out he grew up in Southeast and knows exactly what DC teenagers act like. “I had extensive experience being one.”

And now he’s a cop. Hmm.

We continued to converse about the best methods of reaching such teens and turning lives around. His advice was not to proceed in the direction our program was. “All these kids think they can do is be rappers or professional athletes. They need to see other things.”

I didn’t disagree, but how else are you going to get them in the door? You can’t have your proverbial sticks without any carrots. Or, I suppose, in this case, chicken wings. I doubt any of the kids who go through our program are going to become the next… wow, I can’t even think of the name of a prominent R&B producer. I am so lame. Point is, even if there aren’t any “Michael Jordans,” they can still learn something along the way. Self-confidence, respect, professional skills… you know, things that working the afternoon shift at KFC Popeye’s won’t teach. Because that’s where they could be instead of our program. He had a lot of nice things to say, and I enjoyed hearing his intimate perspective.

But time was up — the cops bounced, and in walked Co-Worker, Co-Workerette, and…. six teenage boys. Ha.

I figured the poetry slam would be a hard sell, but I didn’t think it would be the guys showing up. I was glad to see three of our “regulars” were in the group — ones I was able to interact with during the week:

Popeye, a goofy-looking (I say this with all amount of tact — it adds to his charm) mainstay who is probably about 15, and is hardly ever seen without a six piece of the aforementioned Popeye’s chicken wings. Fooler, a towering 17-year-old who upon first glance looks like a Grade A Thug. But… not so much: the other day we were talking about our favorite Harry Potter books (he prefers Goblet of Fire over my Prisoner of Azkaban in case anyone’s tracking these things). Lemming is his 13-year-old brother who follows Darth around like a Sith Apprentice. I wish he’d pay more attention to his brother.

Each boy was armed with a Co-Workerette-written checklist of behaviors for ordering food, such as tips on politeness and methods for figuring out tax and tip if need be. They were given a set dollar amount and had to figure out their totals before ordering to be sure they had enough. I guess there’s an epidemic of teenagers being short money while in line at McDonalds in these parts.

Anyway, after everyone successfully ordered dinner (most opted to stick with safe things such as… cookies) they took turns reading from poems they printed off the Internet. Not quite the same as producing their own stuff, but it was nice to see them actually get in front of people and read. They asked if I had any memorized poems to share, but I feigned bad memory, suddenly shy under the unexpected glare of attention. But maybe next time, having been around them for a while, I’ll feel brave enough to give them my best poetic advice:

When old age shall this generation waste
Thou shalt remain, in the midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say’st
‘Beauty is truth, truth beauty — that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.’

Next time.