just for fun

Helping and Hurting

Surrounding my place of work are rows of low-income projects. Many of the clientele and children I deal with on a daily basis eek out a living in the small, four room apartments that make up a 'block'. Most of them never work, so they live a quiet, listless life of porch-reclining and aimless walking--or if they are younger, “child rearing." And even though I can talk at great length (or write a well-articulated grant piece) about the factors and underlying reasons for their plight and poverty, I have spent very little time actually tangibly experiencing it. What at first started out as fear of the poorer, darker populace in close proximity to my workplace, has now turned into a rather accepted line of demarcation between my world and theirs; I rarely walk the 200 yards it takes to reach the main street that bisects the project compound. I am comfortable having them come into MY place of comfort. I can dictate to them what needs to be done, and I can express frustrations to them about their lack of 'drive' or 'focus' in regards to helping themselves out of the dehumanizing circumstance they find themselves in. I ride my bike each morning and evening past their houses, only passing by with a casual acknowledgement that in those dilapidated frames and behind those streaked windows live the children of my afterschool program, or the adults of our GED classes. I see their houses as blurs of gray through the corners of my eyes as I attempt to steer my bicycle around the gaping pot holes and cracks in the pavement. Even when I hear the startled voice of a familiar child scream out my name, do I rarely acknowledge the admonition with more than just a half-hearted wave. Yet, yesterday was a different circumstance.

I had only ridden about twenty-five feet when I looked into one of the many courtyards that make up the 'green space' between the apartment complexes to see a mass of children sprawled out lying on the grass. I knew that many of the children were East Africans by their dress and the daintily-decorated Hijhabs with sparkling rhinestones and golden thread that they were wearing over their heads. The girls , for their part, were running (barefoot, as is customary) around the enclosed yard as the boys of the family--many of them my students--busied themselves attempting to make repairs on some bikes. They all saw me ride past. I heard them yell. I hesitated, and turned around at the end of the corner. In my mind I now knew that I was on the verge of crossing over a boundary that to me had seemed unbreakable for nearly nine months. I slowly pulled my bike up to the curb and saw the kids surround my bike, imploring me to help them fix the back tire and brakes on a well-worn, cheap BMX bike. Getting down from my seat, I had a few of the youngest girls pulling on my shorts and tugging at my shirt as they led me through an iron gate which opened up into the courtyard. I saw immediately the hulking, round body of their mother sitting on the steps. She was adorned in a most beautiful full-length dress of red flowers and bright yellow suns, and also had hear head covered. We both greeted each other through the distant nodding of our heads, yet we both were mutually leery and embarrassed for each other: She ashamed of the life possessions, ownership, cleanliness and respect that she didn't have; me, for my sorry attempt at trying to portray genuine empathy and care--which is not exactly easy to come by from a white child of privilege.

Aden and James, the two oldest boys in the group, were both attempting to generate more tightness in a worn, stretched out, and by all reasonable measure, rusty chain that had a bad habit of slipping off of the smallest cog. The drive train was not only worn out and neglected, the entire bike itself, through its cheap metal and shiny decals, never had much of a chance at lasting anyway--it was a cheap bike, and would most likely have a cheap death on the trash-strewn lawn of four low-income apartments. I looked at the chain and informed the boys that they should attempt to move the back wheel as far down the frame as they could. They began working on that aspect of the job with a screwdriver and a wrench--one of which is only conducive to the job. I laughed on the inside at their lack of knowledge and innocence; reflecting later at my own callousness by not realizing that their mother, who clearly had no interest in helping her children fix the bike, had not the money to buy proper tools. Some how, after twenty minutes of us prying and pulling, we got the wheel to move and adjusted it so as to create a small amount of tension on the chain, just enough so that it wouldn’t pop off. We then moved onto the tires, both of which were dry-rotted and flat. I pulled out my newly-purchased hand pump and began to push some life back into the deflated tubes. All the while I was working, I had a swarm of about five to ten children going through my pants pockets and my book bag attempting to find candy and money; distracting my focus as I attempted to come to terms with the fact that I had light hands constantly pressing and perusing through the more 'sacred' parts, or should I say, "crevices", of my body. Eventually the tires rose up and I felt relieved that eventually I would be able to leave. But, it was not to be, as two more tires and a few more girls appeared in the doorway. They pleaded with me to fix them; I went right to work. The children began attempting to depart tire from tube by using a spoon, which had the unfortunate habit of bending on every attempt. The rim itself was all rust, which did not exactly help the situation, as even with the tools, the tire was reluctant to let go of is grip. Eventually we were able to pry the tire off enough of the oxidized rim enough to pull out the tube, which was surprisingly in fairly good condition. Aden, their brother, instantly took up the tire that looked to be about 21 inches in circumference, and earnestly began shoving it onto the rim of a children’s bike. Looking befuddled, I told Aden that the tire looks way too big for that tire and that maybe he should try a smaller tube." Upon hearing this, Aden responded, "You-- Jeremy--we know how to do more than you. See, I can put this tire on this wheel. I'll just fold it up into sections and it'll work just fine. We do this all the time. I don't have money to buy a new tube like you." (Little did he know that last week I did do just as he said: two flat tires = two newly-purchased tubes). Not saying a word, I let Aden get back to his task at hand, and five minutes later, when the tire had been placed on top of the over-sized tube, I began to pump it up. I let some of the little girls have a chance at actually pumping the air, and many of them seemed genuinely ecstatic at such an opportunity.

Upon getting up to leave, I turned around and saw a few more children bringing their bikes out of their homes. It was a parade of popped tires, broken chains and rusted out drive trains. I felt overwhelmed, and as I debated about what to do, I quickly stood up and decided to leave before I got in over my head. I turned around to say good-bye to the mother sitting on the steps. She sat there, in the same position, with the same expression that she had worn an hour earlier upon my arrival. And I realized that she did not care for my act of good-will for her children; she did not need my help. I then suddenly felt out of place. I could see that all around her laid the broken remnants of tea mugs, and I saw into the home, which was vacant aside for a few pieces of blocky, dirty furniture and a lone, spindly wire running up a wall.

America!?

In 1991, merely two years after Communism had collapsed in Central and Eastern Europe, Vaclav Havel--The former Czech President, Nobel Peace Prize Laureate, dissident, playwright and philosopher--wrote an oft-forgotten book entitled "Letni Premitani" (translated into English as "Summer Meditations") at the conclusion of his first full year as president of the then newly-democratic Czechoslovakia. In the work, Havel spells out his vision for the redevelopment of the country after more than forty years under an oppressive communist regime with an emphasis on the privatization of business, a focus on the rehabilitation of the environment and the reestablishment of regional cultural centers (villages). However, Havel's writing--at least at this point in time-- is more interesting not so much for its optimism and articulation of how to rebuild a nation, but for its diagnosis of the societal diseases and symptoms therein that are a consequence of totalitarian regimes.

The first symptom upon which Havel chooses to comment was the state of the villages, towns and cities, of which, he found to be "uniform in grayness, ugliness, sameness and anonymity." He laments the fact that nowhere was there to be found uniqueness in character and community, as each village itself was just a copy of the previous' drab architectural design, miserable cultural offerings and insular inhabitants. He juxtaposes this with a vision of building two bakeries, two pubs, two sweet shops and an array of private, small businesses in each town and village that would all agglomerate to produce a unique 'face' and 'feel' of a healthy community, thus sacrificing stifling uniformity for vibrancy.

He then proceeds to accuse the communist regime of undermining the relationship between a person and their work by emphasizing the division of society into working classes that congealed to form one giant 'mass' of workers that did nothing but feed the exploitative machine known as "Collectivization." Havel goes so far as to equate the entire nation of Communist Czechoslovakia to a "stable meant to hold robots" that have no control over where and why they work and also over what is done with the fruits or 'products' of their labor. He claims that nothing destroyed the Czechoslovak society as much as separating peoples' professions and work from personal and holistic meaning.

Yet, he saves his most scathing review for the collectivized farm, which he claims turned villages into "Dormitories for factory-farm laborers" and turned farmers themselves into unthinking machines tied to an exploitative, monopolized industry that emphasized quantity of produce over quality; drove cattle into in-human feed lots where they were unable to run through a meadow or feel the glint of sun on their back; poisoned the land through the use of copious amounts of fertilizer; emphasized the complete mechanization of farms with polluting technologies; and threw the ecological balance of the farm--and nature--into a nosedive, leading directly to desiccation and death.

Looks a lot like modern-day America, doesn't it?

Drab box stores and parking lots stretch into the horizon, choking off regional culture uniqueness by putting in their place chain restaurants, gas stations and stoplights, thus creating a uniformity of 'communities' built only for the car and consumerism. Millions of employees and workers in corporate America have lost meaning in jobs meant solely to expand profit margins for international companies and CEOs often times to the detriment of families and to the individuals themselves. And industrial farming with its tenants of monoculture (corn and soybeans), reliance on chemical fertilizers and its complete disregard for the balance of the ecosystem --and the farmer's relationship to the land itself--has laid waste to the family farm, farm communities and former nutritional health of America.

Yet, ironically, most of the modern-day American symptoms do not come from the often-cited 'socialism' of the Democratic Party, but from the short-sighted policies of a Republican Party becoming more rigid, narrow and dogmatic than ever before.

Back Yard Birdies

What I love most about where we live is our small backyard and it's abundance of birds (and the occasional squirrel or cat). They have been in entertainment through the fall, winter and continue to entertain me even during our dreary spring.

Just the other day a little House Wren was sitting on a branch in the tree near our kitchen window and it had this little stick in its beak. And it must have sat there for 5 minutes (seriously - I watched it an giggled for a few minutes, went and got my camera) and then it dropped the stick and flew over to a little bush were there was another House Wren and it just jabbered away until the other wren flew away.



And the Grackles will pick up acorns and try to swallow them, but they can't, they're too big for their mouths, so they will pick them up try to swallow them, drop them, pick them up, drop them and so on.

Anyway, I thought I should probably write down the birds we have in our back yard, so here's the list. When I see a new bird I'll be sure to update it :)

* Northern Cardinals (2 - a pair)
* Blue Jays (most of the time 1-3, sometime more!)
* House Wrens (at least 2)
* White-throated Sparrows (crap loads)
* Common Grackles (3-5)
* Northern Flickers (2 - I think they are a pair)
* American Robins (3-5 - one is the fattest little thing you've ever seen)

Reflections

As the summer quickly approaches, I find myself more and more in a fit of uncertainty in regards to what I will be doing next year at Marquette University-- even though I've recently come to a tentative 'peace' in regards to my decision to go back to school. Upon first hearing of the fellowship offer, I was actually hesitant to accept--much to the chagrin of my mother--as I was not too keen about the idea of going back to the university setting, where I would (most likely) be learning highly-specialized skills that could really only be transmitted from one office job to another. I guess, in a way, I am still yearning for a more 'holistic' learning experience where my physical, emotional and biological being are challenged to view their existences as mere pieces in the symbiotic relationship that makes up "contentment": I guess to make it more simple, school tends to focus on a narrowly-chosen realm of being to educate-- be it skills in how to clean teeth, or skills in how to convince more people to buy more things. So, I said to myself that if I was going to be going back to school, then I would chose a major/study that would go against the trend of choosing fields due to their potential "job prospects", and instead immerse myself in a more 'classical' form of education that focuses on reading, writing and giving the student a more comprehensive understanding of historical perspective and international/social standing; therefore, I chose to study History (once again) with an emphasis in Global Studies. I know that this degree might not have a neatly-paved road to success and monetary bliss, but I'm content in knowing that I will enjoy the idea of learning, which I think too many universities and colleges have sacrificed to appease the industrial gods of "Profitability" and "Utility."

It's quite hard to believe that the Trinity Fellowship application is still technically progressing: I applied in December, received an answer that they "couldn't give me an answer" in April, and am now in the process of preparing for my "Confirmation Interview", which is to take place with my prospective nonprofit employer, the Adult Learning Center. I'm typing this blog post about thirty minutes before I'm suppose to call the current Trinity Fellow at the Adult Learning Center to ask her more direct questions about the Fellowship itself and the nature of the work I will be getting myself involved in. I'm a little bit hesitant to call, as I'm not so sure what to ask. I know that I'm probably supposed to have 'a ton of questions', but I can only seem to formulate a few, and most of them consist of such softballs as these: "What do you do on a daily basis?" "What is the most difficult aspect of the job at the Adult Learning Center?" "How do you generally balance your school work and you nonprofit work?" "Do you enjoy the professors and the academic rigor of Marquette?" I guess these questions are legitimate, but I feel as if there is some kind of unforeseen pressure on me to ask something really profound, but I'm just not up to it at this point in time...

Ever since a semblance of "spring" has arrived--which in Erie means it snows only during the morning--my muscles have been screaming to wrest themselves from the listless control of my daily movements--sitting in a chair and typing at a keyboard--to bound for the more atavistic pursuits of riding, running and sleeping under the slowly-blooming canopies of hard-wood trees. I hate the feeling of 'softness' within my body tissues, and each day I find that my legs are aching for the freedom to walk, to move and to have blood pulsate to every single fibre of muscle in my thigh and my calf. Yet, I continue to sit. And to the contrary, the dull pain that resounds in my tissue is not a reminder of a previous day's excursion, it is the consequence of four hours of sitting on my hind and squeezing off blood circulation. I want to get out. I don't want to ruin my youth while I'm still limber and full of energy. Oh, I yearn for a reality that doesn't relegate me to having my retinas accustomed to sterile fluorescent light, or my back atrophy into a position of rounded shoulders and shapelessness.