Another insane evening in the center. Actually, things felt quite calm and went relatively smoothly, but there were small moments that sent my heart straight to the asylum, either laughing uncontrollably or weeping silently.
Moment One: I keep seeing Rashad hanging outside the library during Saturday outreach. He runs his mouth like an eigth grader on a sugar rush, a harmless menace but a little gnat of energy nonetheless. He was kicked out of the library, and now spends his Saturdays trying to get back inside. (The library is like the Chateau Marmont of the street. Always perfectly heated or air conditioned, clean bathrooms, water fountains, Internet, cubbies, books, quiet) For weeks now I’ve asked him why he was kicked out of the library, and his answer is usually “Man, I didn’t do nothing and I didn’t deserve it. Seriously! I didn’t do a damn thing!” But out of the blue, as we went through the dinner line, he just casually said, “I threw a pen at a librarian,” with the same tone as he asked a volunteer for another scoop of lasgna. “You did WHAT?” I tried not to laugh, but the idea of this young rowdy man tossing a pen at a prim, crochety librarian was just hilerious. “Man, she deserved it! She was being such an-” “RASHAD! You can’t throw pens at librarians, just like you can’t hit a woman no matter how mad you get, or throw a punch at a policeman. You may dislike these people, but you’ll get yourself in a world of trouble over a two-second reaction.” He persisted that she deserved it and that he didn’t throw it hard and it didn’t even hit her. His friend told me that’s the fourth library in the city he’s been exiled from. I understand why the libraries are doing it, but I wish they also understood that this man stopped developing his mataurity around age 10, when something traumatic landed him in his first of many foster homes.
Moment Two: A nurse came and spoke to our kids about healthy development in children, and it was aimed at our kids who are mothers and fathers. But many of the other kids sat and listened, and Stevie was the most interested. No one is quiet sure what is wrong with Stevie, he’s a kleptomaniac who seems to lose everything we’ve every given him. He obsessively twists his braids in his hands, he can’t make eye contact and he mumbles about things that have nothing to do with reality. The nurse explained about healthy touch, and how babies need to be hugged, wrapped tightly and gently carassed so they are happy healthy adults. Stevie raised his hand. “See boys learn about themselves when they are beaten, see boys get beaten. Boys learn when they are hit all the time. Girls learn when people like them more.” The confused nurse was quited, the told him boys shouldn’t be beaten and continued on in her presentation. I froze and withheld tears. This weren’t the words of a man, these were the words of a small child rationalizing lifelong physical abuse. I went and played with a baby.
Moment Three: Egor finally got into Job Corps. He wants to be an electrician and a plumber. Not only did he actually follow all the steps to get enrolled, he has rational dreams to help him succeed, which is giagantic considering most of our make kids want to make millions writing rap songs. Anyway, he was very excited and more talkative than ever. He told me he hated that one of our volunteers was wearing ash on her head as a symbol of Ash Wednesday (we are not a religious organization, but respect all the religions of our kids and volunteers). “It’s dirt and filth! I don’t care about symbolism! Dirt is disguisting and nasty and she is covering herself in germs.” I let him win this one. This was coming from a man who lives on the street, has leg problems from sleeping cramped up on MARTA, who wears the same cloths every day. Dirt isn’t something you think about when you live in a clean, sanitary home. A little dirt is easily wiped away. You have bleach. You have paper towels. Dirt is terrible thing when it is your bed, when it is your table, when it is your home.
