At the River Bank, Part II

2

July 10, 2014 by pyaase

There was a sharp snap, like a bite out of a green apple. And it came back in as quick as it went out. A few minutes later, it escaped again, and then snapped back inside, not yet ready for the cold world.

Finally, the tear cut past, curving down the heart rather than down the cheek. A small trail ran down my face but my heart was about to burst, and it somehow let that one tear escape. A gasp went in and out, and there was no more, and no less.

I was sitting in my comfortable, solid and provided home late Friday night. I wiped away the tear and then tried to process everything that happened as soon as the last kid left school that day.

When the kids are all picked up on Fridays, we have professional development. As a high-performing urban school, we’re being trained or checked-in weekly to ensure we’re still strong for our challenging situations. Our principal happened to be absent, so our Dean of Instruction started the meeting.

“Please close your laptops for a minute and put your phone away. I am very sorry I have to start this afternoon with such tragic news.”

The room grew still. I suddenly noticed the a/c was blowing on me.

It was the last day of school for our high school’s seniors, and graduation was scheduled for that night. While walking on her way to school that morning, one of our seniors was shot. Her body was found later. Gone, just like that. While processing what this meant for her, her family, for our HOPE family, we were being instructed not to talk about it with anyone. It was still under investigation. I knew that meant it was unlikely to be solved. It would likely be added to the list of meaningless violence in Harambee.

It was one of those moments when you aren’t sure if you’re really there. I drifted, my feet had been swept from under me and I let myself go with the current. I don’t really know what happened for the next 2 hours of PD, but somehow I left at 4 pm.

I ended up getting lost trying to find a screen printing shop, probably because my ears were ringing from my co-worker’s earlier foreshadowing: “People get shot for no reason, and you’ll never find out who did it.” As I drove through town I kept seeing a dead body on the corner that wasn’t really there. Who was it? Which of those lovely young ladies that I watched walk across the stage just last week was shot this morning? Which of those girls isn’t graduating tonight? They are all so beautiful.

I was trying to get some chorus shirts finished as end-of-the-year gifts for my after school group, and wasn’t having any luck. Finally I parked and fumbled through my car for quarters for parking, paid my dues, and walked up to the shop. “Sorry, we’re closed today,” a sign surrendered. What? I had just put in an hour on the meter. I didn’t know what else to do with my time. I ended up walking into the local sand which shop and found myself ordering a meal to go, though I wasn’t particularly hungry. It was 4:30 pm. I was still drifting.

God, what do you want me to do? What am I doing with my time here? Does anything I do really make a difference here? I figured I’d just take my meal to the park by my car and sit, eat, and think like a good ol’ Southerner lost in the Midwest.

I had to wait for the signal to cross the street back to my car and the park. I sipped my iced tea.

“Ma’am, ma’am?” I stopped sipping and welcomed the Southern term. “I don’t want to bother anyone, but really I’m just $3 short of staying at a shelter for this coming week…I wouldn’t be asking if I wasn’t so close. I’ll even show you the money I have so far to show I haven’t been wasting it…”

A short, stout woman continued her case to ask for money. I listened politely as I could until I could finally get a word in: “I’d be glad to help you, if you let me drive you there.”

She blinked. The bus brakes pushed a bunch of hair in front of her face. She wiped it away and blinked again. “I’m sorry? Wait. No. You don’t need to drive me there. Honest, if you could just spot me the rest, I already have the bus pass.”

“Well, if you’d rather ride that crowded hot bus all over town to get to the shelter than catch a ride in my A/C car, sister, that’s up to you. But if I’m going to help a sister out, I’d rather get the chance to know the person I’m helping. And what better way than driving you myself?”

Maybe it was that the bus drove away and it’d be 15 mins til the next round, but she finally gave in and took my offer.

As we crossed the street at the next signal, she put out, “I’m Tasha.” It sounded like a question.

“Nice to meet you, Tasha. I’m Rosemary.”

I cleared the seat of chorus shirts for Tasha as we got to my car. I helped her in and put her cane in the back. I offered her my dinner I had just picked up for seemingly no reason. Did you want me to take time getting a sub so that I’d run into Tasha? Tasha opened up on our long drive through town.

“…and then when Jimmy was shot, that really turned a bad corner for my family. It left things down to me, and I didn’t know what to do.”

“Jimmy?” I casually dropped. I had missed something in all the details that were coming out.

“Oh, my brother James. He and me were tied at the hip, growin’ up. Then, when he was 15 and I was 17, he was slain.”

I watched the red light. “I’m sorry, Tasha. I’m so sorry.” We watched for the green. I saw the body of our slain senior on the corner, though I knew she wasn’t there.

“Yeah, we didn’t know what to think of God. It was hard enough, bein just momma, Jimmy, and me. I remember he went to meet some friends to play basketball after school. He didn’t come home.” I thought back to the Fall, when my student heard his friend get shot playing basketball, right outside his house. Gone.

“We found his body the next day. We still don’t know who did it. Could be random, could be purpose. Who knows.” Tasha shrugged. I wondered how long she had carried this Great Unknown. She couldn’t be less than 40 years old.

Tasha continued to share about James, sharing a few laughs with me as we both recounted memories of brothers. We wound through the city’s neighborhood streets, staying off the main roads. “Park a little further down. This is the crack dealing block.” I looked around and couldn’t tell a difference from the block my school sits on. “Hey, oh hey!!!” Tasha eagerly waved at a teenage boy (Jimmy?) crossing the street on a tiny bike, charming us with a smile and a wave. “He’s a sweet young man. Goes to my church, Cornerstone, you know?” It was pleasant outside and plenty of people were just sitting on the porch, giving me looks as I waited for Tasha to go inside and get one of her bags she had left at a church friend’s house.

I didn’t know what to do after I got my new friend to the shelter later. She had turned down my offer of my sub meal, and I was still smelling it. It had been an interesting journey with my homeless neighbor and I was finally hungry. I pulled up to a park and found a bench.

I was trying to process what happened as I sat with my meatball sub. Leoncillo was still on my mind, his scribbles of death threats still screaming at me, his cold eyes looking into mine. I thought of our senior shot that day. I wondered if she would be like Jimmy, or if we would soon know what happened. I wondered why Tasha had opened up about her brother getting shot when I hadn’t mentioned our student at all. I wondered why I went against everything my white culture taught me and took a homeless person around town.

An elderly man walked by with a bit of a slump. His dog was doing more of the walking. We exchanged greetings as he inched closer. I saw his hands and ankles were knobby, his joints were elephant sized. RA. My bones ached for him. Who rubs his hands, his feet at night after a long day of just surviving? Behind him a pee-wee league was practicing soccer. I saw all sorts of colors on the field. There must’ve been 7 nations represented among the kids and parents. “If the Kingdom of Heaven is not segregated, why on Earth is it here?” Milwaukee was thirsty for the nations to work together, and many weren’t able to find it in the church. But they found it here, in the midst of a park playing soccer.

I drove though “the hood” as I headed home, passing by houses I had looked up online as possibilities. I was back in segregation. I slowly passed the houses, noticing that despite the enormous amount of people outside, I was the only white person around. Foreclosed home after foreclosed home, I dreamed of turning one into a welcoming light for the kids of the neighborhood.

I squeezed through an alley that was filled with abandoned-looking cars and trash cans. Suddenly a red ball crashed into the fence on its path to me. I little girl ran up to the fence and we locked eyes. I smiled, and she ran back. The fence felt taller all of a sudden, and I noticed her playground was topped with barbed wire. Barbed wire. On a playground.

I had drifted. Where was God pulling me? Was he even directing this path?

I made it “home” with my mind full. In 24 hours I was inundated with the emotions of a lifetime. Was God trying to tell me something? I might never know. But I’m crossing the river. A month after that day, I signed a lease. I’m moving deeper into the city, and am anxious to meet more Tashas, Leoncillos, wobbly knotted grandfathers and little girls bouncing red balls on the other side of the river.

“As I went down in the river to pray
Studying about that good ol’ way
And who shall wear the starry crown?
Good Lord show me the way!

O sisters let’s go down
Let’s go down, come on down
O sisters let’s go down
Down in the river to pray.”

HOPE High C/O ’14 Signing Day

HOPE High Senior Signing Day ’14.