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.
