"Embrace Your Community"

We were walking around the Hunts Point neighborhood when I saw this sign. For the last hour, our tour guides from The Point Community Development Corporation had walked us around from one end of the town to the other. They spoke to us about the lack of fresh fruit in the neighborhood, about the abundance of gas fumes that passed through Hunts Point due to it being a huge shipping port, and about the large amount of asthma that was rampant in the community because of the high gas fumes. They showed us the public park that the neighborhood fought to obtain from the city, yearning for green space in the congested town. They showed us the community gardens, the local business; the locals showed us Hunts Point at its best and worst.

It was about halfway through this trip that this tour of Hunts Point occurred. Before the tour, we had gone to many organizations that also focused on community development, organizing, and activism. These organizations pursued the neighborhoods and populations intentionally with the goal of creating holistic neighborhoods, products of equality and justice. This has always sounded so beautiful to me—this idea of organizing a community and believe in the land that you a member of. However, it was not until this point in the trip that I realized that I was not being an active member of my own community.

The sign reads “Embrace Your Community.” In my time in Bowling Green, I have done anything but this. I have failed to realize the beauty in the integration of students and townies. I have failed to see opportunities to encourage the community around me, instead choosing to bash the small town for the many ways it doesn’t stack up to my preconceived notions. As I’ve begun reflecting on the Bronx, I’m realizing that this is a huge conviction that I’ve taken away from the trip. If I value community organizing, I must choose to see the good in a community and build upon that. Since returning from the Bronx, I have taken intentional time to recognize the beauty and potential in the community that I am a part of—Bowling Green, Ohio. Although I know this town is not the one I will spend the majority of my life in, I still value seeing the potential in this community and fostering that with and through everyone I interact with. I have been able to see the downfalls of this community as well, and have begun to brainstorm what it would look like to do things differently.

This “Embrace Your Community” sign is a reminder to me that this activist, empowering lifestyle that I want to practice in the future also integrate itself into my daily life presently (even if I’m in a city that I’m staying in temporarily).  

The Strangest Fast Food Restaurant I've Ever Been To

         During the trip I found myself again and again recognizing the differences in lifestyles from people that I observed and my own. There were small differences (like what is about to be described), and large differences, such as subway riding to get everywhere, many angry demeanors from residents, and a visibility of homelessness (as well as being able to purchase expensive wine just because you felt like it.) The injustices in the city are incredibly tangible and apparent, something I'm not used to. This picture was chosen to relay a story about a small difference that I witnessed between someone from New York City and myself that involved White Castle.

Before we went to Mothers on the Move, a friend and I stopped at White Castle for a bite to eat.

Needless to say, it was…an experience.

Upon walking in, I was hit with an immediate sense that this place was different than any fast food restaurant that I had been to in my life. Why? Well, for starters there was a glass panel covering the entirety of the serving area, cash registers and all. I can only guess that it was a bulletproof glass situation, making me question if there were thefts in this area frequently. The thick glass had a circle to talk through and a slot near the bottom to push my money under and where my food would be given. It reminded me of the glass that you typically see in the box office.

After ordering, I found that had to go to the restroom. However, I immediately was hit with another difference—the door leading to the hallway of the restrooms was locked, as indicated by a red light. I had to go up to the cashier to ask if she could unlock the hallway, and it was only then that I could get access to the bathroom (and that doesn’t even cover the security cameras that were keeping a close eye on the entrance of the bathroom).  

A few minutes later, my friend and I then sat down to enjoy our small meal when another customer came into the White Castle. The man ordered three small burgers.

Hey, I hear you, reader! I hear you saying, “So what? No big deal. He ordered three burgers…I don’t get it. What’s so different?”

Well, get this—he paid in change.

It was such a small difference, but it really revealed a lot to me. I paid for my two-dollar meal with a $5 bill. This man was paying for his three-dollar meal in change—change that he was picking out of various pockets on his jacket, while the cashier and him made small talk (he was definitely a regular).

How often (or always) I take for granted that I can drop $5 at the hat of a dime. How often (or always) I take for granted that I don’t have to make sure I have enough to cover the bill because I know I do. It is what I’m used to, after all. It’s what I’ve experienced; it’s my norm.

But it’s not everyone’s norm…

(And secretly, I’m starting to wonder if my “norm” is a good “norm” at all. Secretly, I'm starting to wonder if my norm of excess affects another negatively. And secretly, I'm unsure what to do with that thought as a possible reality.)

(But don’t tell anyone, reader. I’m still working it out, all right?)

Our Hotel in the South Bronx

In our hotel----

There was glitter stuck to 

the floor and old, grimy tile 

meeting our bare feet

but it was enough.

There were multiple fabrics 

and textures and colors 

combined making one’s 

inner designer smile

but it was enough.

There was a single 

bathroom for thirty women 

with one working toilet

but it was enough.

There was hard linoleum 

tile floor that served as our 

mattress, leading to aching 

backs by week’s end

but it was enough.

There was cold wind that 

seeped through the 

windows covered by plastic 

bags, chilling us to the 

bones in the morn

but it was enough.

There was a gray squirrel

 that stayed in the kitchen

under the refrigerator who

came out at spontaneous

times to feast and scare

but it was enough.

There was a beautiful

church that allowed us to

stay in their basement for

the duration of our visit,

and it was enough.

Reflections from a Fraud South Bronx Community Organizer

        

      

        The group of Ohio college students stood outside of a pubic housing complex in the South Bronx, awaiting further instructions. One of the fierce leaders of Mothers on the Move, a community organizing organization, was handing out flyers to us and explaining our upcoming task.

        “We’ll split up and go around to the apartments in this building, knock on each door, and give the resident a flyer. The flyer talks about a community organizing meeting that we’re going to have in the building next week. A real big problem in this complex and in public housing in general is lack of attention. There are many, many problems with the individual apartments, such as molding, breaks, leaks—your usual issues that come when living in one place for a while. Here, people come in to take a look at what’s wrong, but then nothing comes of it. A need for repair is reported, looked at, but then never happens. That’s what we’re going to talk about at this meeting. We’re going to take collective action against the inaction with repairs and the building owners. We’re going to change this! Are you all ready? Let’s go!”

        Now recognizing the importance of these flyers, we eagerly got into groups.  Together we walked into the building, verbally strategizing how to best cover the multi-storied building.

        “Ready?” someone asked. Upon nodding, we all walked through the stairwell door.

        A stench of urine permeating from the entire stairwell quickly made my nose curl. My group trampled up the concrete steps, our steps echoing loudly off of the walls, opened the door to the third floor, and walked into the hallway.

        The third floor of the apartment building was made of concrete and the walls brisk white. I walked down to the far end of the hallway and stood in front of the furthest apartment’s door. Glancing down at the rest of my group members at the other end of the hallway, I began to understand that the layout of the complex was similar to a hotel, except instead of a cozy interior I felt unwelcomed by stark hallway. Turning back to the apartment, I reached for the doorknocker.

        BOOM BOOM BOOM. The sound echoed all the way to the other end of the hallway and back. I got the feeling that there was no secrecy in this apartment complex—all was open for all to see. At the next apartment, the booms were accented with sharp barking from three, yippy dogs.

        I walked the last apartment on my side, knocked, and waited to see if anyone would come to the door. I was startled to see the door open and a middle-aged woman’s head appear from the frame.

        “Hi,” I couldn’t help smiling in greeting. “My name is Amber.”

        “Hello, ” she said. “I’m Maria.” An accent added flair to her words.

        I gave her the flier and explained about the meeting that was to happen the following week.

        “Do you have any repairs that you need fixed in your house?” I asked.

        “Yes. My bathroom ceiling is moldy,” Maria stated. I stared at her, almost imploring to know more through my silence.

        “Do you want to see?” She inquired. I nodded as she opened up the door wider and waved me in.

        We turned a few corners until stumbling upon the bathroom. She turned the light on, opened the shower curtain, and pointed to the ceiling. There was mold all over the ceiling with some areas moldier than others. Maria explained how she had reported the mold to the owners, and someone had come in to look at it. She then said that it had been weeks and no one had come back, even though they said that they would.

        I couldn’t help but ask what was on my mind. “It’s not good to breathe in this mold, is it?” Once the question left my mouth it almost seemed to answer itself.

        “No,” she shook her head, “it’s not.”

        We stood staring at her ceiling for a few more seconds. I wanted to ask her how she felt about not having anyone come fix her ceiling. I wanted to ask her what frustrated her the most about living in New York City, about some challenges she was facing, about some encouraging events that had taken place that were positive experiences for her.

        But—

        I told her that I hope that action comes as a result of this meeting. I smiled warmly as we both walked to the door and waved as she closed her apartment door. I walked down the reeking, urine stairwell and out of the public housing complex.

       Much like the empty promises from owners, mechanics, and everyone else involved in this situation, I found that Maria and the public housing complex were playing the same role in my life. Out of sight, out of mind.

       My hands are clean of it.

*  *  *

        It felt awful to walk away from that housing complex and from Maria. I desired to jump in and immerse myself in the community’s pain, yet I had to walk away. I was reminded that I cannot be a part of everything, and that my role in that moment was simply to inform the community of ways to take action. The last line of this vignette shows the cynicism that I had to work through about myself and the world in general upon leaving that afternoon.

The Mic

 

          The crowd sat in the small venue, smashed together like sardines to witness the performances. I myself sat on the floor, in what one may have considered an aisle way (but in reality was posing as my seat.) This was the Nuyorican Poets Café. The Nuyorican was a highlight of my time in the South Bronx because of the tangible way the experience expressed what I was learning that week. The slam consisted of about five talented poets who graced the stage, giving their all in words and then waiting for the scores from the audience. The person with the most points “won.”

          Slam poetry isn’t really about “winning,” though. It isn’t about making the cleverest, rhythmic rhyme (although that is incredible to witness when it happens). It is about having a stage all to yourself and expressing whatever it is that needs to erupt from within you—honest and raw realities. 

           Slam poetry is about having your voice heard.

           The poets on stage were all minorities in some way. There were women, people of color, people from different countries and religions, people of the LGBT community. And the poems that were “slammed” all in their own way addressed the poet’s minority aspects (so to speak.) Many poems expressed anger at some injustice or unfair treatment of the poet during their lifetime and the subsequent roller coaster emotions that came along with it as they processed the realities of their world. The stage was not only a place to express this anger; it was also a place to be heard.

           There were poems of empowerment from a black, gay man who embraced all of who he is. There were poems from a fierce woman and a more timid woman that both touched on being taken advantage of by a man, and the scars that manifested from that. There were poems from a black man expressing his love for his black sisters (in an encouraging way, not demeaning). There were poems from Palestine, the poet’s native land, about bodies bloodied and children losing parents.

           To me, it was beautiful to sit and just listen to each poet. During the entire show, all I could think about was how great it was to not have one single Euro-American perform on stage, as I got to hear the voices of people whose voices aren’t heard nearly enough. The poems I heard still have me thinking, and has inspired me to actively affirm each person in my life of their voice in the world and the journey to break down the barriers that stifle that voice. That night in the Nuyorican Poet’s Café, there was authenticity. Through every trivial or intense poem, there was an awareness of the pain and oppression in the world, but also an awareness of the empowerment and hope. This rich atmosphere has stuck with me ever since we left the Café; I desire to replicate it.

           I chose this picture because it is a slice of empowerment to me. Everyone needs an opportunity to share their story and to be listened to and affirmed in this way. Everyone needs an opportunity to step on stage, take the microphone, and speak from their heart about their experiences. What does it look like to implement this kind of ideology in our communities, above all cultural and personal differences?

http://vimeo.com/79358147

Moondog

      

         I sat quietly on the steps of the St. Peters Evangelical Lutheran Church, observing a group of my Bowling Green peers. They were standing at the corner of the church, socializing, when one noticed the mural on the neighboring apartment building.

        “Awww…” one commented, directing the others’ attention to the mural. “Look!” The mural read “MOONDOG” in large letters on a pale yellow background, with winged dogs flying towards the sun. On the bottom right read the words “RIP WE ALL LOVE YOU.”  

        “Moondog?” another said. “RIP?…wow…he must have been one special dog to get a mural about him. I wonder what happened...”

        I listened as they walked away from the church, still commenting on the mural. Transfixed, I stared at the mysterious MOONDOG mural. I had a feeling that there was more to this mural than what met the eye. A few seconds later I saw the church’s janitor, Walter, appear in front of the steps. His peaceful, warming presence embraced me though we were meters apart.

        “Moondog…he was not a dog; he was a person,” Walter told me.

        The gears slowly turned in my head as I understood the implications of Walter’s statement in correlation with the RIP on the mural.

        “…Moondog was his name?” was the only question I could muster up, still working through what he said.

        “No no no,” Walter laughed, “Moondog was his nickname.” He paused and then pointed at the ground in front of the mural. “He was shot right here by a guy his age who lived in those buildings across the street. It was the ‘80s. In the ‘80s, you know, things were really bad around here then—the crack epidemic. It’s a lot better here now.”

        Walter shuffled his feet, brushing leaves off of the sidewalk. “Moondog was just a youngster...I think he was 18 when he was shot if I remember correctly.”

        “Walter…why was he killed?” I asked cautiously, wanting to know why Moondog was murdered.

        “Moondog? Moondog…he was shot over a girl.”

        Walter walked into the church, leaving me to sit in the mere memory of Moondog’s short, tragic life.

*  *  *

        I took this picture specifically to remember this moment on the South Bronx trip. For me, this moment was full of so many little nuances that really highlighted cultural differences and expectations. 

        One difference that struck me about this moment was the misinterpretation of the mural between my peers (and I) and the reality of the mural. We expected the mural to be a representation of a literal dog, as inferred from the “MOONDOG” and the three dogs flying to the sky. In reality, Moondog was the teen’s name, nicknames being incredibly common in this inner city community. I found this to be a fascinating moment as it showed to me that interpretation varies by culture. 

        From this interaction with Walter, I also learned the importance of not making assumptions about something based on my own frame of understanding. In addition, the interaction with Walter was a moment where I realized how different this world was from the one that I identify most with in Ohio. A teenager was murdered on a building corner that I was sitting next to. The reality of that statement simply boggled/still boggles my mind. 

        Hearing about Moondog was one of the moments on the trip where I really began to grasp the different realities of life in the Bronx from the realities of life in Bowling Green.