The Sociology Experiments

Sociology: The science of the fundamental laws of social relations, institutions, etc.

Experiment: An act or operation for the purpose of discovering something unknown or of testing a principle. 

The Sociology Experiments:  A set of experiments conducted by myself in January-February 2013 to test societal norms that I had begun to question. These experiments helped me test what it would be like to live a life outside of the "norms." Even though the experiments themselves are on the micro level, they helped me process the cultures around me on a macro level. Most importantly, the Sociology Experiment helped me work through insecurities and gain confidence in my own voice during the process.

*  *  *

Sociology Experiment #1:

Yelled "TAA-DAAA!" as I flung open the Union door and exited.

Results: Tall man with an iPod in glances at me as he walks into the TAA-DAAA door.

Experiment #1 = Success.

TBC.

Sociology Experiment #2:

Stand in the hallway of Olscamp outside of my classroom and give high fives to the people walking by.

Goal: To foster connectedness within the student body, and to put some cheery smiles on some peers in the early morn.

Results: Many passed, and those that did high five (about 7) seemed to do so unwillingly.

Changed approach by saying "HAPPY FRIDAY!" and being inviting with a smile.

New Results: A few smiles, a few passerbys, a few "Ehhhh...not happy Friday"s, some dramatic high fives, and some mild confusion.

Experiment #2 = too early.

TBC.

Sociology Experiment #3: Creative tip leaving.

Results: Joy.

Sociology Experiment #4: Outspoken behavior.

Observation: A Starbucks employee frolicking about on the first floor handing out samples. She was kindly giving them to the workers, so I didn't want to go down and snatch one from her. However, after giving one to all the workers, she had a few cups remaining.

Hypothesis: If I lean dramatically over the railing of the second floor and wave my hands frantically, I may get her attention and be able to obtain a sample.

Test: Gathering courage, I decide to defy numerous social protocols. I leaned over the railing and said very loudly, "HI! CAN I HAVE A SAMPLE?!" She looked up and said yes, and I Cinderella frolicked down the numerous steps to meet her and get a free Pumpkin Spice sample. Leaning, yelling, frolicking with joy. There were stares from others. But...

Results = Free coffee.


Defy the norms.

Sociology Experiment #5: New environments

Tonight Phoebe and I went to the Chinese Spring Festival event in the Union which celebrated the Chinese New Year. There were performances, food, and people of all ages and cultures. It was a beautiful experience--one that definitely put me out of my comfort zone. I am not familiar with the Chinese culture in the slightest. Being put into an environment where the dominant language wasn't English and everything was unfamiliar really gave me a better perspective on what it might be like to be an international student in another country.

It felt disorienting. Unstable. Yet somehow, adventurous.

Intriguing...processing this experience and how it will change my interactions with those of other cultures and countries.

Sociology Experiment #6: Taking action.

After the Chinese Spring Festival, workers began to clean up in the ballroom. I had grabbed 5 pop cans and a water bottle, and was clutching them to my chest like it was life or death, knowing that I was going to recycle those cans if it was the last thing I did. After looking around the Union, I realized they were most likely going to throw all the cans away, as it wasn't efficient, nor did it make logical sense, to separate them from the rest of the trash.

Upon deliberating with Phoebe and gathering courage at the norm defying that was about to happen, I approached those cleaning and ask--

"Are you all going to recycle these cans? If not, can I have a trash bag so I can pick them up from the tables?"

Soon after, a nice man approached me and gave Phoebe and I two trash bags.

Results: More than 100 cans recycled, random strangers joining into help in the gathering of the cans (of all cultures and languages), Diet Coke on my shoe (totally worth it), and a sense of empowerment at the knowledge that speaking out has the potential to lead to positive results and community building.

Sociology Experiment #7: Trying things differently

1. Used a Styrofoam plate at Life Group on Monday and ate dirt (pudding) on it. Wanted to get some popcorn but didn't want to use another plate. Solution? Wash it off in the bathroom.

Results: Odd stare as I stuck my pudding filled plate under the faucet and dried it off with dignity. But other result = 50% less trash.

2. Began saying "Thank you" and truly meaning it when people hold the door for me on my escapades to class. I look them in the eye, and thank them sincerely, instead of rushing and mumbling "thankyou" because it's part of the social protocol.

Results: An increase in not only gratitude, but knowing that I am being served by whoever is holding the door for me. I feel loved, and a greater sense of community on campus. This love is then extended to others as I hold doors and smile at them, and a sense of greater belonging and hospitality emerges. I find that I am being challenged to actually look people in the eyes (something I don't do very often, apparently. It's difficult!)

3. A stranger turned to talk to me with these huge blue eyes and I impulsively blurted out in awe, "WOW! YOUR EYES ARE BEAUTIFUL." The reply? An extremely awkward "Thank you." (This same situation happened twice this week, with two entirely different people in different situations).

Results: It's official. The world is not ready for Compliment Amber to be on full blast. Meh...counterculture. It'll shock people.

Sociology Experiment #8: The Valentine's Day Edition

When people have courage and break norms in some way, I'm amazed at the effect it has on me. These are all from today.

1. Early morning. BGSU Parking lot. Man is checking meters.

"Good morning," he says cheerfully.

Instantly out of my thoughtful introversion, I flash an extremely excited smile his way and yell (practically), "GOOD MORNING!!!"

"Thank you for smiling, I appreciate that," he says.

"RAHHH...GLLEICKDK...THANK YOU!!" I finally spurt out.

IT WAS SO COOL.

2. I was driving this morning and suddenly heard a CLANKSCREEEEEECH!!!!! Pulled into the UHaul parking lot to discover that my muffler had fallen off and needed to be reattached with a wire (that I didn't have). I wasn't panicking (yet), but after talking to my parents about my options, I was about to call a friend who knows more about cars and access to these car parts that I.

Before I could dial the number, a man who had pulled in a UHaul truck right before I had bumbled into the parking lot came out of the back door, wielding a large, copper wire.

"NOWAY." I screeched, phone dangling in my hands.

He proceeded to lay on the dirty asphalt and reattach the muffler so that I could safely get my car to the shop. His boss talked to me as he was doing so.

"He's doing this off-duty. Yupp. You can tell people that it was an employee at the local UHaul...that copper wire? From Beat the Bookstore. Good place to buy and sell your books," he proudly plugged, smiling. He proceeded to then tell me the local muffler shops and how to get there, aiding me even more then they already had.

I could do nothing but say over and over, "THANK YOU. Wow...thank you. This...THANK YOU!"

And as the nice, Valiant Valentine's Day Magical Mechanic stood, I once again said, "RAHHH...WKDHIRLSKDLSIE...CAN I GIVE YOU A HUG?!"

I gave him a hug right then and there. That man is getting a colored picture and a thank you note!

Ps...because that man went out of his way to help, my car got fixed in less than 2.5 hours (total with shop time).
Pss...UHaul is pretty rad. Shameless plug.

Amazed.

3. Sitting at work in the library. Someone approaches.

"Hi!," he said, "HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY!"

He hands me a card from Your Fellow Falcon, with candy attached.

I can only giggle, feeling so loved not only by the hand written card and candy from a stranger, but from the remembering of two strangers who earlier that day had decided to extend love and hospitality through greetings and service.

The Sociology Experiment is rebounding back towards me as I see courage and love extended radically through others.

So beautiful. So great.

Sociology Experiment #9: The Art of Friendliness

The Learning Commons. Work. 4pm.

I am sitting at my table, waiting for my next appointment to show up. While I'm waiting, I pull out a snack--banana chips.

I look over and see my coworker (whom I have never talked to). Spontaneously, I decide to walk over and offer her a banana chip.

"Hey...do you want one?" I ask, extending my Ziploc container. She takes a chip and smiles, and I walk away.

Suddenly I hear, "OH MY...GOSH. What IS this?!"

I frolic back and whisper, "They're banana chips. Aren't they delicious?!"

"Where did you get them?!" she whispers back.

"Kroger. 2 dollars. Near the fruits and vegetables," I whisper, as if giving an important secret.

"...going on my grocery list," she replies.

I skip away, excited to have been able to share the joy of the banana chips, as well as gaining a connection with a fellow writing tutor.

Sociology Experiment 10: Defying norm wake up times.

Grounds for Thought. 7am. All is peaceful. The place is filled with wonderful morning people, social coffee drinkers, chess players. Men talk about their jobs as salespeople when they were young, going door to door early on Sunday morn.

The barista says hi to a man that walks in. The chat about the newspaper and his day. Another man walks behind me, humming jovially. I love this.

Accidental Sociology Experiment #11: Calling your professor the wrong name.

Last Friday, I turned in my Philosophy paper about Environmental Ethics. My professor's first name is Eli and his last name begins with W.

Yesterday, a sinking feeling crept upon me. I quickly opened my laptop and retrieved the Word document. To my avail, my sinking feeling was confirmed--I had written the wrong name for my professor.

My paper heading read like this:

Amber Cullen
Elijah Wood
PHIL 2320
22 February 2013

Yes, friends...I accidentally called my professor a Hobbit. I'm still trying to decide whether or not this will raise my grade, as it is pretty awesome, or if it will be taken as an insult; I did get his name completely wrong after all (and it's week 8...eek!)

...I'm hoping for the first.

TBC.

*  *  *

To all who were wondering how this "accidentally calling my professor Elijah Wood instead of Elijah Weber" situation turned out:

I got my paper back today in class. Needless to say, he did indeed notice my mistake.

Dream (12-22-13)

They brought guns to the birthday celebration, giving the gift of trigger-happy protection as “affection.”

We cannot go anywhere without being followed by fear. Even the grocery greeter holds a butcher knife, eyes darting quickly to the left and right. (I’ve forgotten how to not live in a constant state of anxiety. I’ve forgotten what it feels like to greet another first by looking at them in the eyes rather than checking out the weapon inventory around their waist.)

Our law enforcement tried to teach us to not use guns by using guns.

We’ve been desensitized to their power.

(They gave up and stopped coming by.)

We use guns to protect ourselves rather than what others use as protection—well-thought-out words and fake facades--

Both block out vulnerability and authenticity.

Both are a product of “I’m not enough.”

*  *  *

We cannot go anywhere without being followed by fear.

Dreaming in Gray (the 16th)

You have serenaded me with the pain of the masses.

Dreams of despair, of weddings in Chicago on gray days.

Of drug dealers walking down the aisle at each one.

Of a mother with a young baby boy whose father forced tattoos onto his arms,

Leading the baby to addiction and the father to being out of his life forever.

There is no hope here, as she says she has sex all the time

And I say I color all the time

And he declares both of those statements to be untrue.

In this dark, gray city, where is Christ?

Where is the Hope that lifts people from despair?

Do I truly believe that this Hope can change circumstances?

Like her not having a job?

Like drug dealers desiring other forms of income rather than selling drugs?

Like the rich man stuck in the poverty of heartlessness?

(Is it all the same gray?)

"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.