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.