Can I Do This

It's hard to describe precisely the confluence of emotions I felt stepping into the classroom. A girl had just thrown a fit just outside the door, throwing expletives like darts at two female security guards. I'm guessing they're ladies because touching can't be interpreted. The girl storms away and I'm beckoned to enter.

I walked past old circus performers, night walkers and junkies to get here. At 10 a.m. Fully freakish in front of Uptown Baptist. I remarked at the crater in the street that would soon swallow my ankle and leave me limping for days.

Maybe I should have stopped there.

It's a sea of obstinance in the art room. Palpable anger and apathy. Seniors are sprinkled among juniors, visiting eighth-graders and a row of kids with CP in wheelchairs. I'm there to talk about how to get a job, and how my agency can help you. No one cares, but more than that, there are whispers of violence. Yard sticks are swung and scissors are sharpened. Defiance is omnipresent. And the teacher? Sitting atop his desk, sullen, sulking even. . . alone and content to watch it unfold.

I got scared. Then I got angry. Then I became complacent and shrugged. I couldn't do much with this group. It wasn't my classroom. But what if it was? How would I handle it? Send RaShawn to the principal's office. An empty threat, only effective if the call to a parent goes answered, assuming there are parents in his life.

My message was one of hope. One that would lay a brick toward self-sufficiency, but their ears were clogged with incidents and obstacles far more prescient, more violent. I can't blame them. I can't blame anyone.

I just want to help fix it. I just want to feel like I can. I want to shake loose whatever semblance of motivation might still be chirping inside, bleak and near ash but still aglow. Seeing this sea of apathy and dismay, different than what one might expect from teens so close to graduation. . . I had to pause and think about the truth. They have a lot to be angry about. Now what?

Frayed

Riding the CTA provides endless snapshots of perseverance. The man whose cuffs are threadbare, but he's still in a suit. The woman who got up, provided she slept, to take a train downtown and work minimum wage. You can remain numb to these things, blissfully unaware, for only so long and from only so far away. But I'm at the epicenter of white collar and dire. It's a strange precipice.

And I'm standing on it myself.

So many cliches come to mind in these circumstances. "I never thought it would happen to me." "At least we have each other." "No matter what, someone always has it worse." It's true. I feel humble, and somewhat at the mercy of the world. Not hopeless, but hopeful of what the conditions we are now in (one meager income) will provide in terms of opportunity.

I am not caught up in the struggle; the anxiety. I don't know how this could have been different. I am marveling at the spirit I seem to have that I didn't know was present. I feel connected to others and mostly my husband, who has emerged as a feeling and struggling individual with dreams that may just be realized.

"You just have to suck it up and make it through."
"You're going to get through this. Just a big grieving period ahead of you."

I know that many are thinking, "Phew, I'm glad that's not me." I might be overthinking, but that's how it feels. You become self-conscious when you become unemployed; become poor.

But the gentleman with frayed cuffs and a fedora is on a whole other level than me; than you. He knows the pain of poverty for sure, but you sense a richness rising off of him. That he must be someone special to be up and moving with the rest of us even with hurdles aplenty.

I am listening now.

Compulsion

There's a passage in "Letters to a Young Poet," a Rilke favorite, that lauds the experience of passion. That if you are passionate about writing, you must write. Absolutely must. As essential as air.

I love to write, but I don't have this zeal. I do find inspiration and my brain churns with ideas. It's a never ending scroll up there but little makes it to here or elsewhere. And so it is. I've often wanted a microchip that would store these thoughts, sort them, see what I think of most often. Something tells me racism and crime are at the top. Unrelated in my head but related in my purview. Of the four young men I met with today, three had convictions, two were felonies. They are coming to us, to me, in earnest but the truth is there is little to be done. If it can't be expunged, well, life gets shitty quick.

I'm passionate about approaching this issue strategically. About fighting for them, taking on the statistics and turning them on their head. I met with my advisor yesterday, talked about my pondering a teaching certificate, or a Ph.D. I want to be in the thick of it and get dirty, then pull back and pull strings.

I've taken to listening to rap. I've always liked it but not like this. It helps crack the code for motivations, inspirations and a way in to make change. Misogynistic? Truth. Cutting and violent? Indeed. But it's a narrative to explore.

I struggle with how to best apply this passion, for empowering young people, where the most good can be done. I think there's little else I can do but pick and prod and poke around down every hallway that opens until I make progress I can live with. I'm antsy about it, but this education takes time. This, my friends, is something I must do.

DDPP

Review of Dance Dance Party Party (DDPP) Chicago

I had jeans on. And I'm glad I read the disclaimer. I took off underwire in favor of sports and ditched the denim for breathable cotton. And yes, out too went the judgment of myself and the apprehension of the silliness and in came soooooo many smiles and grooves and bumps and jukes. I mean, this concept is sheer genius. Jenn Brandel is another kind of wonderful.

The studio looks nearly identical to your best friend's basement. The set-up is rudimentary and the prospects are endless. Our playlist, which changes every week, started with R. Kelly's "Echo" and lots and lots of laughs. It ended pretty much the same with plenty of Kid Sister and Gwen Stefani in the middle.

And the sweating, oh the sweating. I have been trying to get motivated to "work out" for weeks, months, years. . . and my version of working out just isn't the same as it used to be. My expectations have changed, and considering the only expectation I had at DDPP was to try something new I was pleasantly surprised that I pitted out and came up drenched after an hour of silly, sexy, full-on feet pounding dancing.

After the gaggle of us left we couldn't stop gushing. At one point, I sat back and listened to some beautiful women laud and smile about the experience. It's enough to make me get mushy, but DDPP is the best therapy I've had in a long time. Heart-pounding, thrilling and special for women (who get to be girls) everywhere.

The Holy Book

I picked up the Bible yesterday. We have a cute yellow designer copy leftover from the previous owner of our condo. Kind of like a Best Western, it was in the bedside table. Since starting my graduate degree pursuits, I've maintained that I need to get to know religion if I am to effectively counsel those who believe (i.e. 95 percent of humans). I'm in the minority but more than that, I'm ignorant.

My parents were rebels in a few important ways; one being pulling away from the church and its teachings after being raised Catholic. Right on! Except that leaves me an empty slate. All at once I lament not knowing Job from Deuteronomy. And my ignorance isn't just biblical, it's all encompassing toward religion. I went to church and temple growing up but those are mere freckles on my holy past.

I'm intrigued. Marc was also raised Catholic and rebelled so he's a good default for, "I know this is biblical honey, but tell me the origins." I'm impressed he retained so much from his time at St. Monica's in Kalamazoo. I don't even remember the 50 state capitols (ok, I probably do, but don't test me). His knowledge comes in handy, but my curiosity has made me crack the binding on the Book.

A couple chapters into Genesis and I've got more questions than answers. I suppose that is to be expected. What I think is really cool about attending a religious service surrounding the Book is it's a chance to come together with a common focus. Like a big book club. Talk about the stories and interpret in real life. That's what our gaggle did with "The Help" last month. We laughed, explored and exclaimed and that's a lot of how I might like to go about the house of worship experience.

My interest of late comes from the number of offers I've received from volunteers and clients to attend their church service, not as a process of recruitment per se, rather to invite me into a community. I dig that, and I'm up for it. All in the name of research and expelling ignorance, as we all need to do in one way or another.

Rap and Rapport

I'm no certified counselor but as I establish rapport and relationships with clients at work, we get in a rhythm that might as well be official "sessions." Brandon comes in every week. Thursdays at 2 p.m. We started working on an outlet for his stress, as his nails were down to the quick. He loves hip-hop, like many of the young adults I work with, but beyond Jay-Z there is J Dilla and Wacka Flocka Flame and, as I told him, The Rolling Stones.

Brandon is a lot like many of our clients. He is Black. He is young. He is unemployed. He is hopeful. But unlike many who self-select to the wayside, he's been determined. And so we write.

Because he has a speech impediment, I suggested his command of the language might best be typed. We started working on an essay, about his love of music and goal of being a producer. It's been through edits aplenty but more than that each time we renew it he's there, present and available. It's an opportunity every time he shows up to continue to inspire, engage and interact. We're getting close a final product but it's more than just a blog entry now.

It's a relationship. Close enough now that I can poke fun at him that he can only carry a black folder (he's a Vice Lord, Chicago's number two street gang and black is all there is) and he can tell me about his dad, Supreme Chief of the Vice Lords (that's like CEO) who did eleven years in a combination of Pontiac, Centralia and Rantoul penitentiaries. He gets upset that rappers like Lil' Wayne think they are "street" because they will do time and man up to the sentence but but when you are a celebrity, according to Brandon, you can't be street. It's different where he hails from.

I just listen mostly. He tells his friends about me. I'm not a nosy white girl, he says. I ask tough questions that get him thinking. The reality is many of his peers won't seek counseling but they need it the most. They won't meet with a white counselor because we can't relate to their legacy and heritage and identity. But I think it's moments like we had today, talking about Coltrane and racism, that I get really amped to be a counselor. To find those entry-points, exercises and conversations that really begin to help. Even if it is just listening.

Close Knit

In fifth grade, my friends and I had a midpoint where we would stop to warm up on walks to school. A gaggle of us walked the half mile (no, not uphill both ways, but yes, in the snow) to Mann Elementary huddling for warmth before the crossing guard bid us across the street.

Jocelyn's house was cozy. In fact, we stayed long enough to get beyond warm to hot and then went back out in the chill. It didn't feel so bad then, and school was in sight before we felt the urge to huddle again.

It's a cold morning walk still. I have several scarves and hats for different temperatures, but my favorite ensemble is one my mom made for me: an extra long, heavy duty, hand knit pink scarf with fringe and a matching skull cap. From under the winter armor, only my eyes peer forth and barely. (I confess I've walked with my eyes closed down Wabash many times, even counting the paces.)

I don't know how to knit but I'm grateful my mom does. I love my scarf that wraps around my neck three or four times before it's run out of yarn. It's my size: big. I also don't know much about cooking, other than I know what I like and want to be able to provide the same bounty of meals my mom did for my kid/s some day. I have less time to cook now than I ever have. . . and that may not change.

I don't know how to sew, nor do I know much about the best cleaning products. I've somehow lost touch with any form of domestication and I'm not happy about it. I have my mom's generation to thank for liberation, and prefer to read or work though I do fancy organizing. I'm not hard on myself about these things, but I do lament that the penchant isn't present. If it was in me, it wouldn't get lost as the genes and personalities are passed down to the next generation.

I suppose instead of knitting or darning or soup-making, I will teach my daughter how to write a resume and work with her strengths; how to ask for help and give too; how to tell the truth about who she is and hope she learns how to sit quietly better than me. Though probably not until well past puberty.

Mind you, I still haven't given up on making good soup, stews and sandwiches. But my time for learning will have to wait, hopefully not until it's too late.