beefing

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Up, Up, Down, Down, Left, Right, Left, Right, B, A, Select, Start

November 12, 2006 in AmeriCorps, Uncategorized by d-roll | No comments

Or something like that.

Those were the super secret controller codes for Contra. I think of that game whenever anyone mentions Original Nintendo.

Another game I remember playing a lot is Mike Tyson’s Punchout. And I think if urban youth were transported to 1988, it would be their favorite game, too.

All of this is by way of introducing my newest friend…… Tyson.

Not that he’d ever bite off anyone’s ear (though honestly, not a lot surprises me here anymore), but it is a pretty appropriate name for this 16-year-old boy with a husky physique and a gap-tooth smile I’ve taken a liking to. Probably not a major coincidence that he also has quite the affinity for fighting.

This fighting thing. It’s just all new and strange for me. Tyson has been coming around a lot the last few days, and I helped him with a bit of social studies homework and some rather exciting (for me, sadly) worksheets on prepositional phrases. He is a lot easier to interact with than anyone else I’ve met thus far, especially right away. He’s funny and is able to tease and be teased in return. Basically, we’re chummy. He also seems pretty smart and at least responsible enough to do his homework.

So, naturally, I absolutely cannot grasp this, for lack of a better word, hobby of his. Fighting. Once again, my Suburbia Stereotypeomatic is spewing out smoke and making ominous noises. I feel like a complete moron for being so utterly stupefied by this.

In my experience, someone who fought a lot at school looked like he belonged in in-school suspension every day. Someone with telltale outcast characteristics, or the usual bullying behavior. Never was someone bright, funny, popular, whatever, mixing it up in the hallways between classes and getting suspended all the time.

Tyson casually informed me that he’s been suspended this year a couple times already for fighting at school, including a couple weeks ago. He just shrugs and says it’s nothing, as if a teacher had simply written his name on the board for talking out of turn. So in my quest for understanding, I tried asking him and another regular more about it.

“So, people fight a lot at your school.”

“E’ry day. Someone’s always fightin.”

“And teachers don’t care?”

“No. They just walk right by. But sometimes the teachers get jumped, too.”

Uh… okay. Speaking of stereotyping, I’m trying not to use Hollywood as a basis for anything remotely truthful, but at the same time, I know the inner city isn’t Milford Junior High.

“Teachers get jumped? How? Why?”

“This one was calling this girl a bitch. So they got into it later.”

Now that I think about it, from what I’ve heard about that school in particular, I guess I’m not surprised. But the teacher thing? Geeze. And that wasn’t all. Lemming came in the other night with his arm slashed and bleeding from some fight out in the neighborhood. Apparently just another day for him. But why?

I’m guessing the willingness to fight is like currency in the inner city. It’s an obsession necessary for survival among the youngest kids up to adults. Last week when we came back from bowling, the bus slowed to a crawl as it passed a school letting out for the day because kids were everywhere — the grass, the sidewalk, the street — all running in the same direction. A few students were involved in some pretty hefty punching and clawing further up the way. So these other kids running had no regard for getting squashed by a city bus just so they could get to the fight in time to see… what? Some new moves to put in their arsenal? A display of power and dominance? A chance to show loyalty to either party? Whatever the case, they were literally running in front of the bus without turning to look at it. I mean like, inches away. I’ve never seen anything like it. I know kids run to the shouts of “FIIIIIIIGHT!” in any school, any situation, but it seems amplified beyond my comprehension here.

And so, getting suspended for fighting is as about as commonplace as Soul Glo in the 80s. Kids get mocked by others for running away from fights. The other day Darth came in here laughing, “[Popeye] just ran. He was gonna get beat so bad.” Co-Workerette said “Good for him. He doesn’t have to fight.” She got a bunch of you triflin’ faces in response.

Girls, I’ve found, are even worse. There’s one trio of 8th graders who drop by sometimes, and they’re usually not here for more than twenty minutes before running out to witness and/or provoke the next fight. They come in, chatter amongst themselves to pick a target, and then leave. Whether it’s just for personal gratification and being able to know they can handle themselves in the neighborhood, or the aforementioned “currency” so that people won’t mess with them… I have no idea. But it’s completely Jerry Springer to me.

There’s no doubt that in all cultures, everywhere, people fight. It’s just not as straight up as it is here. People will always find ways to put down others to show their dominance. Whether through money, professional clout, whatever. But I don’t know how I’m supposed to help people make the right decisions here when I can’t understand motivations. Guess I’ll have plenty of time to figure it out.

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If You Build It, They Will… Still Go Elsewhere

November 22, 2006 in AmeriCorps, Uncategorized by d-roll | No comments

Maybe it only works in Iowa.

Or maybe Kevin Costner has special powers. I don’t see how, though, because this is the same guy who was called “Dumb Bear” by the Sioux.

Whatever.

We’ve found that following the advice of an Iowa cornfield doesn’t quite work in the Hood.

A little background: As I’ve said (I think, at some point), this is the first year the Center has been exclusively a teen program. Before this corporation bought out the property and instituted educational programs, the group Upstairs had a thing going. I’ve never really gone into detail about them, but, basically they’re another nonprofit in a different section of the complex that runs after school programming as well. For about ten years (they were here a few years before that), the two have co-existed, and one might even say, competed. But our group came in focusing on being an academic learning and enrichment center, while they were more of a drop-in, at least for teenagers.

Over the years, I guess, a thing has kind of evolved into Upstairs being the place for little kids doing sports, cheerleading, tutoring, that kind of stuff. And since we have all the cool technological hooks like the music studio, photography, etc, we naturally drew more older kids. But up til last year, our Center was taking in kids of all ages for programs and classes. As was Upstairs.

It was decided starting this year that Upstairs would focus completely on the athletics programs for younger kids, and other activities and groups for that age group; while we would undertake the older crowd and advertise exclusively as “13 and up.”

Perfect in theory — it’s what two formerly competing programs do to make life better for youth of all ages in the neighborhood. But it’s far from perfect in practice. First of all, it’s difficult to get the word out that a teens-only area exists. A lot of older teens out there think 10 year olds still run around in this place. The other, more difficult problem lies with Upstairs and their refusal to send “our demographic” down.

If anyone 12 or younger shows up at our door, we invite them to check out Upstairs’ goings-on and roll on back here when they turn 13. The same isn’t done for us. They allow teens to continue to use their area as a drop-in.

I understand their reasoning a little bit. There are some kids who have “grown up” with Upstairs and know the staff, the facility, and just feel at home there. So it just seems wrong to send them away. But when you let some stay, you have to let everyone stay. And when everyone can stay, you can never start building what you set out to. And everyone decided this way would be best. So it’s frustrating. We still get a good number of teens, some from years past and some new. But nothing like we would if things ran like they should. This palpable divide exists, and those who remain Upstairs don’t want to associate with the ones down here. There’s already enough divisiveness among that age group — at school, in the neighborhoods, society in general — we shouldn’t have to worry about it at our own complex. And until that can be fixed, this place will never become what it should.

Speaking of neighborhood divides, we also can’t get many people from outside the boundaries. I bet there are a lot of kids who would love to check out our stuff, but literally fear for their lives if they come into this neighborhood. The rivalries are what you’d expect in this setting. “They don’t like us and we don’t like them.” If one of ours wanders into that area, well, bad stuff would happen. Never can it be a situation where we all just get along. Much too Mr. Rogers. Not that anyone here knows who that is.

It’s hard enough to have a job like this, but when the people running things seem to be working against themselves, it just makes it that much unnecessarily harder. And on that note, let me add that we finally got a replacement for the program director. Problem? He’s never around. They put his office in the next building, and he rarely shows up for programming. He’s also my supervisor. I fail to see how this is helping any matter of …. anything. Then again, if Costner can go from “Dumb Bear” to marrying into the tribe, maybe we can figure things out.

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Stayin’ Alive

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

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

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

Now… errr… not so much.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh.

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

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

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Where’s The Beef?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No kidding,” I replied.

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

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

He shrugged. “I don’t care.”

“Did you not hear anything they said?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He stared at me for a beat.

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

“No, but—”

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

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

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

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

He just shook his head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Piece of Mind

April 21, 2007 in AmeriCorps, Uncategorized by d-roll | 1 comment

I’m borrowing the title of my old high school newspaper column because this is largely me on a soapbox. I promise to make it quick.

The digestion of the tragedy at Virginia Tech by the people around here has been varied. And probably not at all normal.

“I ain’t goin’ to college, now,” Cupcake said the other day.

“You have a much better chance of getting shot if you stay here than at college,” I said.

“Yeah,” she retorted, “But I know all the beefs around here.”

I guess her logic is that at least she may know her attacker here. Who knows.

“If you got a gun, you got respect” is a line I’ve repeatedly heard here. So we should be living in a world where respect is based on the perpetual killing machine strapped to your side instead of, well, anything else? And pretty soon we’ll all look like this?

It’s irresponsible and barbaric and third-century. Nothing against you cats in the second century.

If I had a gun at work here every day, would that keep me from getting shot? Will it somehow magically stop the stray bullet coming from across the street when the kiddies show up for yet another beef? It’s not a force-field and it’s hardly a deterrent. It’s just perpetuating a backwards society.

I’ve had to read a lot of post-VT comments from the pundits. I live in DC, after all. And Virginia is right there, so everyone’s been talking about the concealed weapons ban on VT’s campus.

The talking heads and their respective Average American Interviewees keep blathering on about their “God-given right” to carry guns. I’m sorry, which God was that again? “Those who live by the sword shall die by it” is usually attributed to Hamlet, but I’m pretty sure Shakespeare stole that from… umm… JESUS. Wait, let me look it up. Ahh, there. Matthew 26:52.

Yeah yeah, I hate it when people quote the Bible out of context just to suit their momentary needs. But I think we can all agree that being peaceful is right in line with love thy neighbor. So I think I’m ok.

Why don’t we, then? At the risk of sounding like some hollowed-out-potato bong-loving hippie… I think “nonviolence” should be a class at school. Right between long division and spelling. I think kids should learn early that there are better ways to solve your problems than fighting, biting, shooting, and exploding. But I don’t think that curriculum can be boxed, wrapped and bowed into a ridiculously irrelevant standardized test, so I won’t be proposing this to the Department of Education anytime soon.

I was never that cynical in high school.

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Dirty Laundry

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

“Hey,” a friend called my cell around lunchtime. “Saw you guys made the Post. Nice.”

On a normal day my breakfast is oatmeal — liberally sprinkled with the Washington Post Online. But having a case of the Mondays, I didn’t eat, didn’t read, and probably didn’t have my head on straight upon arriving at work.

“What?” I dumbly replied.

“A-1,” she said. “Gotta go.”

This was about the time I finally noticed the news van sitting out front.

Oh.

It’s a bit sad how well I know the media machine. I didn’t need to read what happened to know what happened.

People are shooting around here all the time. And the news never shows up. Because it’s hardly newsworthy. So: someone must have finally gotten hit. And if it was in today’s Post, it must have happened yesterday. And if it happened yesterday and the TV news crews were still around now, it must be sexy. And by sexy I mean dramatic, and by dramatic I mean kids. Or old people. But probably kids. And probably not any of ours, either, because I’m sure I would have gotten a call. But that doesn’t mean I don’t know them. There are dozens of kids on this property who don’t come to programming.

Brilliant deductions made, I surfed to the Post Online. Don Henley would have given me a gold star.

Four (4!) teenagers got shot in broad daylight Sunday. On our property. Sitting on the playground.

It says three of them got shot in the back. This isn’t what you’d call a crime of passion. They were RUNNING. AWAY.

No one died. As of yet, anyway. And no names released. The kids all know the victims, though. I was right — nobody who comes to programming, but they all live here. Most of them hang around Upstairs.

So, then comes the question of why — and who dunnit? Surely because this incident happened in the clear, light, warm embrace of a Washington evening will prove useful to naming and catching the perpetrators. Ah, yes! But — wait for it… wait for it…

Nobody’s talking! Nobody wants to say who shot four kids. Nobody wants to snitch.

Our kids say it was a beef between those who ‘rep’ a nearby area and those who ‘rep’ ours. It was some intersection about 5 minutes walking distance from here. Apparently they came here looking for whoever they wanted to beef with and saw these other kids instead. So, you know, might as well shoot ‘em while we’re here! Environmentalists are always pestering people to combine trips, right?

As the days get longer and warmer, those young adults with no life direction, no parenting, no positive influences, and no idea how to escape the vicious circle otherwise known as life in the hood, will be subject to increasing boredom. Which probably means more news vans.

Sorry. I’d love to stay and chat, but I’m off to Pentagon Surplus for some Kevlar.

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The War At Home

May 22, 2007 in AmeriCorps, Uncategorized by d-roll | 4 comments

Tonight was the much-hyped community meeting thing about the recent shootings. A city councilman for this district decided to call the gathering Upstairs and invite residents, community folk, metro police, and whoever else. The little teensy bit of cynic in me had initially wondered if he’s up for re-election or something. But maybe he did it because the people living around here desperately needed it. Either way, it was supposed to serve as a forum for dialogue about what happened and what can be done to curb the ongoing violence.

So of course it dissolved into last-call auditions for Jerry Springer contestants.

Not that I was there to see it or anything.

No, no. I was put to work playing IT support for the upcoming reading post-assessment database. Everyone else went.

But from what Soup and Co-Workerette said, not much got accomplished. It basically turned into a “who could out-bitch who” session. So disappointing. But the worst part was when I asked about which kids showed up.

“Only a couple” according to Co-Workerette.

Herein lies the crux of the problem. Yes, some of the violence around this neighborhood can be attributed to drug dealing and other general hoodish skirmishes and whatnot. But the majority of recent incidents, especially since I’ve been around, have been teenagers/young adults and beef-related. Whether it’s groups coming in from across town or up the street, problems aren’t going to be solved without talking to the demographic most involved.

I didn’t expect “7th and Sesame St.,” or whatever the kids are calling the group responsible for the latest shootings, to show up and have tea and crumpets mumbo sauce. But interacting with and listening to those around that age seems like the logical place to start.

I don’t have a solution. I don’t even have a good suggestion. Like most problems in urban America, it’s multi-layered and complicated when you take the time to examine it. And apparently arresting people isn’t a good deterrent. Maybe that’s why DCPD still hasn’t picked up Darth and Michael Vick.

Nah, see, they’re still “on the loose,” and in the meantime, I just stare at the decorative hunk of useless plastic and fiberglass formerly known as a computer monitor sitting on my desk. It hasn’t worked since Darth and Michael Vick trashed the place in January. Ya know, the break-in and robbery that produced more than enough evidence to arrest them forty times over. I don’t even want them “locked up” (no one ever uses the term “in jail” here — kind of fascinating psychological semantics that should probably be another entry)… a really good placement for 200 hours of community service might be nice.

Although, considering how rare it is to know exactly who the perpetrators of a crime are around here, maybe the cops are just beside themselves with confusion on what to do next. They’re so used to witnesses to a crime, and oftentimes the victims themselves, maintaining ignorance or refusing to report it because snitching is more heinous and socially debilitating an offense than serial murder.

I am so completely not kidding. I can be Captain Hyperbole to illustrate a point, but the culture of anti-snitching in urban America is a very real and massively detrimental problem. Example: Gun-Wielding Thug #1 may have just shot your best friend, but the three of you have a common enemy: The Feds. So it’s just better not to snitch. Because that’s just the way it’s been, so that’s the way it is, G. Also: the world is flat! And sea monsters guard the British Isles! That’s the way it’s always been, so no beans on toast for you.

Which is why I doubt they’ll ever find out who shot up the playground. Even from the kids who got shot themselves.

I chuckle now, thinking about my naivety back when Fooler and Michael Vick stole Co-Workerette’s car and then nobody wanted to say who did it. I didn’t understand why even the “good” kids wouldn’t tell us. I couldn’t comprehend any reason for it. Didn’t they want to do the right thing? Didn’t they want to stop people from getting hurt? Didn’t they want to help the adults whom they liked and trusted? No, no, and no.

Why? Because, THAT’s why!

That’s what they say. There’s a lawlessness here that makes it even more of a “different world” than it already is. Nobody wants to trust the cops, and nobody wants to hold each other accountable. They’d rather just status quo themselves to death forever and ever and ever.

I’m just not confident that anyone can stop what goes on around here. Not until the people with equal parts money, power and heart see our fellow Americans trying to survive the inner city as people worth saving. The current administration seems so keen about “freedom spreading” all over the globe, but what about everyone on our own soil, caught up in the war known as their daily lives?

The War on Drugs, War on Poverty, War on Homelessness, War on Really Crappy Education, War on Violence, War on Joblessness…

No, really. These “War on…” whatevers just amount to one big ol’ “War at Home” that the majority of people would rather pretend doesn’t exist. Otherwise it wouldn’t be there, right? Or they’re so teary-eyed from hearing God Bless America during yet another 7th Inning Stretch that they are just completely ignorant to what’s probably happening a mile down the road, because the route from the suburbs to the stadium doesn’t have to go through the real part of the city.

When did the Iraq War become the only one worthy of our attention, not to mention tax dollars? Maybe I shouldn’t touch that can of nauseating worms. But it’s hard not to think about it — not while kids are getting shot while sitting on a playground in the capital city of the United States of America.

We have way too many casualties on our own soil. There’s no reason citizens in the world’s richest nation have to live like this — whether it’s my peeps, or those in New Orleans or the sticks of West Virginia or wherever.

Wartime commands an intense precedence in America. We pull together as the personification of patriotism. We take our battles seriously and flex both muscles and pride like a quarterback prom king. All except this one. This other, forgotten one.

It never gets any mention in the State of the Union. It doesn’t have its own memorial on the National Mall. It isn’t transformed into a colored, magnetized and oversized ribbon and plastered on the backs of minivans in the suburbs. It is simply ordinary citizens trying to survive living in a country self-deemed as the Envy of the World. The War at Home isn’t on the DoD’s budget. But it’s there.

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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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Summer Epilogue X: Capitol Front View

August 1, 2007 in AmeriCorps, Uncategorized by d-roll | 4 comments

It was a rather typical Thursday. My last day.

I dropped the lunch order off Upstairs, where I had a stimulating conversation about chocolate milk with a 7-year-old.

I uploaded new class photos to the server, during which I had a not-as-stimulating conversation about Shia LaBeouf with a 16-year-old.

Then Soup formally kicked off the morning with an announcement about the Friday field trip that nobody was paying attention to.

Classes began, and Dimples was not-so-surprisingly wandering the halls. New Guy was taking care of stuff for our class while I filled out the last of my paperwork. Usually I make sure I’m in there with him, because he gets a little flustered, the poor guy. Today I didn’t care so much. Usually I make sure Dimples gets back to where he should be, the little snot. Today I didn’t care so much.

Despite already knowing the answer, I asked my favorite escapee what he was doing away from everyone.

He smoothly grabbed a nearby broom.

“Cleanin’.”

“Cleaning?”

“Uh huh.”

“Is this your first time holding a broom?” I teased.

I received the shamelessly provoked scowl in response.

“This my job today.”

“Ooooh. Says who?”

Shrug.

He proceeded to shadow my general vicinity the rest of the morning sweeping up invisible messes around me. I humored him, feeling the first twingey reminder that this was it.

Soup brought in a small cake (unfortunately it said “Goodbye” instead of “Hoodbye”) for me to share with the other adults (our budget would never cover anything to feed 50 people). Tyson was loitering around the office as I cut myself a piece. He looked at it questioningly.

“It’s her last day,” Soup supplied.

“Oh,” Tyson considered for a beat. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Soup looked at me while speaking to him. “Aren’t you going to say goodbye?”

“Uh–” Tyson began, before I interrupted.

“I know,” I said, “why don’t we delay the goodbye until later this afternoon when I tell you not to cuss, and you tell me to ‘get out yo bidness,’ and I tell you ‘yo bidness is my bidness when you’re setting examples for the younger kids’, and you say ‘sikenah I’m just playin’, and I say ‘probably not, but it’s my last day so let’s pretend you’re actually going to listen and enjoy this landmark of a moment.’”

Soup looked confused, not quite following my recitation of the daily exchange the two of us seem to have, but Tyson grinned.

“Sound’ good, I’ll be there,” he mumbled over the cake he just stuffed in his mouth, and left the office.

It was the sort of finale of understanding I could only achieve with Tyson… a kind of twisted version of “agree to disagree.” Other than anyone who ever got kicked out, he’s been my most difficult conquest. It’s like we both know that no matter how many times I say things, he’s adamant on being more stubborn than Bob Knight doing a grades check.

Although his antagonistic determinism mindset hasn’t changed any, I’ve learned more about their complex culture from him than anyone else. But he’s a smart guy (moreso than his socioeconomically discriminatory, racially skewed SAT scores will ever show) so I have to believe the exchange of learning was bidirectional, and someday he’ll finally hear my voice in the back of his head right before he does something incredibly stupid. One can dream.

I guess Tyson went on talking with his mouth full after leaving, because it only took 30 seconds for Pixel and Red to show up. Soup tried to ward them off (“but it’s YOUR cake,” he insisted. “so it’ll be fun to share,” I countered) but he gave up and went back to his office. The three of us started talking about places they wanted to take pictures during their afternoon class with me. We didn’t get far before another interruption hurled herself through the door.

“Happy Birthday Happy Birthday Happy Birthday!” Diva bombarded me with hugs and nonsensical well-wishes. At least I think they were.

I smiled at her patiently.

“[Diva], it’s not my birthday.”

She eyed the cake.

“Oh but what about the—”

“It’s her last day,” Dimples piped in from his spot sweeping up the invisible mess behind me.

“Oh. You leavin?” She paused for half a beat, then launched. “Ohwellyouknowthatssadimgonnamissyouanderrythin – now can I have some cake?”

Anyone who wasn’t so endeared by her personality would have been offended. I leave here knowing Diva always puts herself first (and second, and third), yet still manages being the sweetest person in the world at the same time.

“Of course,” I tried to answer, but her back was already turned, bypassing the plates and grabbing a piece.

After the relatively uneventful morning, I played some more football at lunch. Romo seemed distressed that he’d have no one to pass to after today, and I said that not completing passes would make his portrayal of the Dallas QB much more realistic.

I think he was fine with me leaving after that.

So, it was “last chance day” in my class – last chance for groups to take advantage of my camera and photography skillz if they still wanted images for their projects. It made for a lovely afternoon of running around outside playing paparazzi for the kids.

Among the messing around and picture-taking was just the most normal, natural conversation and interaction possible. I can’t even properly recount the afternoon because it simply felt so typical. It was the type of ease and familiarity that, last October, ranked up with “education receives same yearly budget as national defense” on the probability scale.

Towards the end, though, Pixel started getting clingy. Those two things usually don’t go together.

She and Red decided that I needed more pictures of them to take with me. So we wandered around taking random shots, and every once in a while The Professor would run over and get in one.

“Now one with us three” Pixel said. “So you can remember us.”

I choked on my long-stale piece of gum. Remember them? Of course they wouldn’t realize their own impact. They’re just teenagers with, to them, seemingly normal lives. And I’m just the random person who happens to work here this year.

I gave the camera to The Professor, teasing him about how to compose shots. He seemed to regularly disappear to play Internet video games when I covered that stuff.

He took a couple before Red told him to erase those because I was smiling.

“No cheesin’ — we be lookin’ serious. Be tough like I taught you. You reppin’ now,” Red told me.

“Oh. Right,” I said.

Naturally I couldn’t quite do it. And although the photo is more than goofy, it’s perfect, and will have a spot right next to the Certificate of National Service that Captain AmeriCorps (or maybe just a rep from the office) will give me next week.

A bit later, back in my quasi-office, I was finishing up the cover design for the camp CD. Pixel and Red were hanging around and we did more of that innocuous smalltalk. Finally getting around to the inevitable, they wanted to know what I’d be doing after I “left them.”

I tried explaining grad school, but their eyes replied with complete bewilderment. And why not? To them, education is just another in a long line of crappy entrees on their life’s menu. What use could anyone possibly have for going to college….TWICE? But the specifics of my next endeavors weren’t the important thing. I tried to emphasize the fact that I’d still be in DC.

“Remember when we went to Georgetown?”

Pixel looked confused and Red reminded us that she was sick that day.

“Well, that’s where the school is. So I won’t be going far.”

They just both gave me these incredulous looks, like “yes it is!”

I looked back at them sadly.

Wanna leave with me? I didn’t say. I can home school you. You know, in between reading what will almost positively be 655 pages of whatthefuh academia discourse every night.

“Here,” I said, scribbling on a piece of paper. “My email and my cell number. Don’t lose it.”

“Aight,” Red answered for both of them.

I watched them both stick their own lone, tiny connections to me in the front pockets of their bookbags, glad that the information succeeded in reaching a semi-safe place, but knowing it would likely never see the light of day again.

“You contact me if you ever need anything. I’ll only be across the city.”

Nods.

“You’re going to need recommendations when you apply for college. Don’t forget to call me.”

More nods.

Yeah right, I didn’t say.

By now, I know how all of these kids operate. I may not always know what they’re thinking, but I know their mindset. And because of this, I also know that despite my encouragement, they won’t call and won’t write. I’m only on the other side of the city, but it might as well be the other side of the planet. They don’t exist in a culture that acknowledges the one that surrounds it. If I’m not in that group, I’m not there. The reality is, I have serious doubts I’ll see them ever again. It’s a concept only truly understood when you ditch the books and the theories and immerse yourself as an ethnographer. Or, in the words of a smart dude named Atticus, “until you climb into [their] skin and walk around in it.”

But I had to try anyway.

Finally time to punch my final punchout, I told Pixel and Red I’d see them around. They said goodbye and went off in search of Cupcake, probably already on her afternoon curryout run (she already had her first of the day during lunch). Somehow, knowing Cupcake was off enjoying some mumbo sauce-slathered Unidentified Fried Object made not giving her a proper goodbye more than okay.

Dimples’ one-man cleaning service had disappeared right on schedule. He would much rather not acknowledge my leaving him than catch me before I’m gone for good. Play #284 from the Dimples Life Survival Guide. Maybe in his mind that made it easier, because then it’s just like another in his long line of abandonments.

But that’s just a bit of drive thru curryout psychology from my end. He’s been nothing if not my enigma. This kid who reads with all the skill and grace of a 4th grader stuck in the Dick and Jane group, but instinctively works a camera like a seasoned art student. This charming, lovable goof-with-a-record… who once taught me the best way to pick a lock (including the difference between picking car locks and door locks) and the best way to cook mashed sweet potatoes — in the same afternoon.

Knowing (and understanding why) he’d hide still didn’t stop me from being a little disappointed. Halfway down the front walk, I took a quick glance back. Part of his face was just visible, peering out the kitchen window. But he shot out of sight before I could react. My tiny smile and empathetic head shake was, of course, automatic.

I want to believe I’ve had some kind of impact, but realistically – even after all this – I could very well end up as just another adult who drifted in and out of their lives. So I’m going to try my best from this end not to lose touch. But even if that happens, and they continue life without anything else I provide them, I can’t possibly top what they’ve given me.

At my old summer camp job, the last day always meant scoring a huge pile of booty. Gift booty. Have I mentioned the clientele? Suburban, rich, white Jewish kids, with a tiny smattering of suburban, rich, white Catholic kids. All darling, mind you, just a sociological 180 from my peeps.

So they’d bestow me the latest styles in Vera Bradley bags (how’s this for hip – I didn’t even know what Vera Bradley was before receiving one as a gift; thankfully I restrained myself from asking if her grandma knitted it), t-shirts, picture albums, jewelry, candy, Barnes & Noble gift cards, Skyline Chili Bucks, and lots (and lots and lots) of handwritten cards and notes professing love and devotion and the apparent end of the world because I’d no longer be their counselor. It was pretty much the same thing when I finished my student teaching, too.

Of course I didn’t expect, nor receive anything like that here. But I still left richer than I could have ever predicted – richer than if I went to a thousand summers of the old camp. What did Bono say that one time? “You gave me nothing — now it’s all I got.” That line was always kind of obscure and throwaway until now. Funny.

I walked to my car without the vigilance of an outsider, but instead the confidence of a community member. An errant Upstairs kid called me by name and waved; I gave a cheerful return before pulling out of the lot.

Without making a conscious decision I found myself taking an unusually circuitous route out of the neighborhood. I passed the corner store already overrun with loitering kids holding the telltale black bags; the side alley that lead to the dumping point for their favorite Metro shortcut; the school where Tunk and Inspector Gadget endured textbookless trigonometry (among other things). I cut back along the street that served as a dividing line for the crews responsible for many of the beefs this year, before passing Cupcake’s favorite Popeye’s branch and the shop where Darth Vader and Michael Vick used our stolen homework rewards.

Eventually I got back on the route to lead me home, which meant habitually turning onto the country’s most paradoxical street. I crawled along with the rush hour traffic, having plenty of time to stare at the grandeur of the Capitol dome, straight ahead and characteristically blurred in the midsummer humidity.

The buildings lining the street gradually gentrified as the dilapidation of the periphery slowly faded away. A clump of Hill staffers and map-wielding tourists crossed the street in front of me — signaling my return to Postcard Washington, while the true DC was relegated to forgotten existence in the rear view.

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