Damaged Goods

Every now and then I just have a hard week.  My work gets under my skin.  The infinite injustices around the world come over me and I find myself overwhelmed with questions and not enough answers.  I have these days when my words don’t always come out correctly because I can’t seem to grasp what it is I’m actually trying to say or what I’m trying to process.  And this steady stream of thoughts and moments and experiences flow through my brain in a schizophrenic furry.  And I go back and forth on what I’m really feeling—because I can’t actually pinpoint what it is except some combination of anger and frustration and compassion and an honest attempt at understanding.  So bear with me here.

For weeks now the babbling in my head has been about race and class and all the things in between.  Between health care reform and the Tea Party and the economy, I hold my breath every morning as I read the New York Times, convinced I’ll stumble across something that will make me cuss.  Before 8 am.  And almost every morning it happens.  (The cussing)

Today the question was posed to a group of 7th and 8th grade students by a mentor and colleague: “As a young African-American, what negative assumptions do you feel are made about you?”

The words starting stumbling from these young kids mouths—real, fresh, cutting words that didn’t come from some artificial canned place but from real experience.  From real feelings. 

My eyes were groggy with my last three nights worth of work-related events, restless sleep, and anxiety over too-much-to-do-and-not-enough-time.  The coffee in my hand had just barely begun to create the chemical reaction I needed to be alert and then this:

“That I’m ignorant, untrained, impolite, and loud.”

“That I’ll never finish anything I start.”

“There are people who don’t think I deserve an education.”

“That what happens in the neighborhood happens in the school.”

Okay.  Awake.

My guttural response was immediate.  There was something powerful happening in this room.  I let out air from my mouth, quick and fast, and made that sound old ladies make in church when they’ve heard something that moves them—something that cuts right to the heart. 

The students continued, each adding to each other’s thoughts, creating this list that could have been in a textbook.  All the worst-of-the-worst stereotypes of black, urban America. 

Earlier this week, my alma mater hosted Ed Burns, co-creator of The Wire, The Corner, and a variety of other television shows.  I’ll note that I wasn’t there, because I was at a benefit for Wide Angle Youth Media, but I’ve heard nothing but bubblings from my students and colleagues about his talk—mostly negative.  It seems Burns is pretty much over being hopeful about the Baltimore City Schools (that is assuming that he ever really had hope in the system to begin with).  And there is one resonating subject I cannot seem to shake from my system.  From what must be a very bitter, burned place, Burns insinuated that most of these children are too damaged to be capable of learning after age 4 or 5.   That a kid raised in the inner-city was too damaged to learn.  Incapable of success.  These weren’t his exact words, but they were easily inferred.  And the message that was taken home by a lot of people from this event was dangerous.

For someone like me, who spends her days and nights and all my money trying to think of better ways to get these kids to succeed—supporting people and organizations and teachers who BELIEVE in these children, these words strike me as so painfully despairing.  And infuriating.

And the subtlety flows like water—this infectious disease of assumption.  When these words feed fuel to fires that need no help burning.  When the news reports the latest rash of youth violence, of murders, of drug busts—these words feed the hungry people sitting on the sidelines: the hundreds of thousands of people sitting around waiting to say, “I told you so.”  The people who haven’t given up—but the people who never had faith to begin with.

And I'm the first to admit the flaws.  The system is large and unorganized and completely mangled.  My friends who are teachers and principals and administrators come home exhausted and burned and seething with bitter contention for the machine that is the public school system.  It's hugely damaged.  But to think that these children are somehow unreachable.  Unteachable.  It seems so archaic.

And furthermore, to think these kids don’t know where they fall in the pecking order.  That somehow they’ve managed to ignore it and not fall fatal to the painfully well-thought-out role they’ve been given: the black, inner-city teenager.  To think that doesn't play out in real life, with real-life consequences like babies and addictions and death.

In a matter of moments, these young people generated a powerful list of all the things the world thinks of them.  A list that contained dark truth and painful subtext.  It hits you like a ton of bricks.  This “thing” we’re fighting.  This enormous beast of ignorance and racism and classism rolled into one big nasty –ism.

And it struck me as so powerful that here are these children—these supposedly damaged children.  Who were talking with such confidence and such authority.  Who raised their hands when they spoke.  Who spoke clearly and used articulate vocabulary.  And who seemed to exercise a subtle defiance towards those who assume they’re damaged.  They’re broken.

The moderator also asked them about codes—rules they live by in the neighborhood and rules they live by in school.  Maybe two or three rules overlapped while the others remained staunchly planted in direct opposition to each other.  These children know more rules about more places and how to navigate between them than most adults.

As I lay in bed last night awake for the third night in a row, I heard something in the background that sounded like a gunshot.  It occurred to me that it very well could be—it’s never outside of the realm of possibility.  And it occurred to me how rare this moment is for me—the moment where I have to decide if I’m in danger or not.  And how little my roles change from home to work to school.  And listening to these kids today it confirmed all the things I’ve been thinking lately.  How infinitely lucky I am.  And how hard it really can all be.  And how complicated.  And messy. 

I’m reminded of my favorite Thomas Hobbes quote:  Life is nasty, brutish, and short.

But shouldn’t we all have a chance at being successful while we’re in it?

If we don’t get Spring, I want my hour back.

Umm, if I’m not mistaken, April Fools Day was last week.  Right?  Because when I got in my vehicle in the middle of the day yesterday to transfer offices, surely the temperature gauge that read 93 degrees could have only been a joke.  And today, the fact that it’s back to 47 degrees is only slightly reassuring.  We had spring for like five days...five amazing days and BAM!  It's all summertime up in here.

For those of you who don’t know, Baltimore summers are brutal.  The humidity is so thick that you can actually feel the movement of the air around you as you walk down the block.  Your clothes feel heavy on your skin and it can be difficult to breath without feeling like you might have just run a marathon.

And air-conditioning helps, but rowhomes collect heat in unique ways.  Exactly one half of the house is always hotter than the other.  The front bedroom (the one that usually has the big bay window) is impossible to keep cool because the sun just beats in those giant windows (you know, the ones that were the huge selling point when you were house hunting?).  And there are always rooms that just can’t be air-conditioned.  They either lack windows all together or the windows are so small that a window unit couldn’t possible fit.  The kitchen becomes an almost useless tool, as everything gets cooked outside to avoid making anything any hotter than it has to be.  And if you live in an apartment building, and are anywhere above the first floor—my heart goes out to you.

I never knew summers could actually be so miserable, temperature-wise.  I was raised in a haze of idyllic North Carolina mountain summers—hot in the day and cool at night with a daily thunderstorm to cool it all down just in time for porch sitting.  Not to mention four actual seasons (not just winter and summer with 2 weeks of spring and fall).

It's not all bad.  Baltimore summers totally have perks.  For one, Baltimore seems to wake up in the summertime.  There are more people out and about.  There is a festival every weekend (literally).  The farmers markets are in full bloom and they become the who's-who of Charm City.  You stop making coffee at home because you need iced coffee from the local coffee shop every day to survive.  In the evenings, front porches come alive.  Once the sun goes down, people start to trickle outdoors with a drink in their hand (or a juice box for our 21 and under crowd) and this is when the real culture of Baltimore comes alive.  When the locals and the college students and the crackheads all mingle on the front sidewalk to talk about rats, urban gardening, and why the police helicopters appear to be hovering awkwardly over your block.

Summertime is when I almost always get to know my neighbors better (although this year our double-header blizzard helped). We share beer and booze and tonic and try to remember what winter felt like.  We stand outside in as few clothes as possible (without getting arrested) and remorse over how hot our bedrooms are, how difficult it will be to sleep tonight, and how high our BG&E bills are going to be this month. At that point in the summer—usually late July—we don’t care anymore.  We’ll eat ramen to leave the AC on all day in hopes of coming home to a cool house (grilled, because we can't use the stove).   And the dog just pants.  All day, every day and gives me the look of, “how could you do this to me?”  And I promptly respond: “Wanna go to Africa, little girl?”

So when the temperature read 93 in the first week of April, I had a heart-stopping sense of panic that we might have summer for at least five months.  That I might have to give up sleeping all together to take on another part-time job to pay the damn BG&E bill.

Don’t get me wrong.  I’m not a summertime hater.  I enjoy the warm weather.  I love being outside.  I like not wearing a coat (in fact, I really hate all the layers winter requires).  I like wearing sundresses and flip flops and throwing my hair up on top of my head.  Warm weather always makes me happy.  It makes me think about music festivals and swimming in rivers and cook outs.  In fact, I could eat a grilled hot dog right now. 

I think back to my many summers spent at camp and how everyday involved sunshine on my face, making a craft, getting in the lake, and reading.  I was allowed to wear tie-dye and Birkenstocks (and is there much more to life than that?).  Nighttimes were spent around a campfire telling absurd stories and jokes and roasting marshmallows on hand-widdled sticks.  Truthfully, camp was the best thing that could have ever happened to me.  Those summers taught me so much about who I am and what’s really important in life—having good friends, at least one AWESOME tie-dyed t-shirt, and the fine art of telling really great stories.  You don’t need a lot of stuff to keep yourself busy.  It’s really very simple.  You can just sit and talk.  Or not talk (Parker Posey reference, anyone?).  And it’s probably why I love Baltimore’s summertime stoop time so much.  It’s the same.  Simple time spent with fun people.  Minus the campfire.  And the crafts.

But back to the point.  And the fact that we're totally getting screwed out of a season right now.  This week's heatwave has left me less than thrilled.  As much as I can't wait for summer--I also would like to fully appreciate the season we're technically in, thank you very much.  And since we got to suffer through enjoy winter so thoroughly, I'd particularly appreciate any seasonal weather that could be best described as "mild". 

This is the time of year when babies are born (and I actually saw that happen last week and am still recovering) and flowers bloom.  And cars change color because of pollen.  I want that.  I haven't even had a chance to get my seasonal allergies yet!  Don't cheat me out of that!  I'm gonna go ahead and assume that because of the drastically cooler temperature this morning, that it appears to have been a well thought out April Fools hoax.  Also, there is hopeful news on the horizon: the 10-day weather forecast predicts "mild" April weather for the next few days.  Those 80-90 degree days are on hold, for now.  Sorry college students—you’ll have to put your clothes back on.  We can continue to celebrate spring, the pollen count, and eat lunch outside before it’s too hot to want to be outside during the day.  We appear to have at least ten more days of it (which is good because I was getting ready to write Daylight Savings a nasty letter and ask for my hour back).