journal: August 2004 Archives

Today the bus to school was about ten minutes late in coming. Kelly, Chris and I looked at each other as we stood outside the campus waiting. “What’s keeping Flacco [our bus driver]?” Then we heard the sound of tire and engine, and Chris started to the road. “I’ll take a jalon [hitch a ride] if Flacco’s not coming.”

We hurried out to the road to look. It was a milk truck, about the size of a small moving truck, with an enclosed bed of wooden slats. The driver beeped his horn on seeing us, and as they neared we saw yellow shirts and students’ faces through the spaces in the sides. “Whoah, that’s us!” Chris exclaimed. And we climbed in obediently. Cesar turned to me and said in English, "With Flacco, happens anything!"

I wished again that I was about two inches shorter -- as I could not quite stand up without banging my head on the roof, which is inevitable on this rutted road. But the students were laughing merrily and having a grand time, and even Flacco seemed to appreciate the humor of the moment, dressed as he was in only an unbuttoned shirt, blue jeans, boots, and cowboy hat. Inspired, Chris sang out (to the tune of Swing Low, Sweet Chariot):
“Keep low, you big gringo
Going to Rio Viejo…”
And with the thought of the milk truck as our chariot, and me as the gringo too big for his chariot, I laughed out loud and joined in:
“Se queda bajo, gringo grande,
Si no quieres golpear tu cabeza.”

When we arrived at the school, Chris called out, “uno, dos, tres!” and started a corporate “moo”. Our bovine chorus was greeted with laughter by the other students walking in the gate. And we laughed back.

On Friday before classes, Ester let me know that she was expecting to meet with the mothers of Ever and Erick, two of my seventh graders from Rio Viejo. “They will come at about nine or ten, I think.” I looked at her questioning. “They not gonna come back to this school. Everyday they wants to fight.” And she listed a few of their many misbehaviors. She tells me Erick even picks fights with the tenth graders, along with many others. She relates how Ever´s father drinks, and how one time in their fighting Ever raised a machete against his father.

Each student is told upon arrival at Instituto El Rey that if they exceed fifteen demerits, they lose the right to return to the school the following year. Erick and Ever each had close to twenty already – for everything from saying “f--- you” in class to swinging shovels at each other to indecent exposure. Worse, they made barely any movements toward changing their attitudes or comportment.

Probably it will be easier for the other students with them gone. And maybe they will use this time to reflect on their lives and the choices they’ve made. I hope so. I told Ester that I think she is wise and brave to make this call. They’ve had chance upon chance to make better, and they haven’t.

But I hate to see them go. Although he almost never does his homework, Ever is a quick study. And although he almost never passes, he is one of the most talented soccer players in the schools. He ran well in the half-marathon. Erick had one of the best ears in any of my classes and walked around calling out, “What do you want!” “What is your name!” “Look at the board!” “Sit correctly!” and “I’m fine you!” He was also one of the most popular dancers in the school, as his limbs didn’t seem to have the same limitations others did.

And in each of them, there were moments when I wondered if there were some deep hurt inside. Ever’s boasting could be a cover for never having felt loved by his parents. The other kids often called Erick “loco”, and his clown act could give way almost instantly to a wounded rage.

So farewell, señores. I will miss you.
Erick

Ever

My roommate Ben went out walking, trying to get to know this strange old neighborhood that was now ours. He walked down 39th Street, steering clear of the projects across the road, and took a right near the Sweetland Market, scarcely two blocks from our little one-bedroom bungalow.

It was there that a young white police officer pulled his car up next to Ben. “What are you up to?” he asked as if he were simply making conversation.

“Going for a walk. I live over there,” Ben explained, pointing.

“Well,” the officer said, “this is a really dangerous part of town. You don’t need to be going for walks around here, ok?” It was clear in his voice that this was not just friendly advice.

“Ok. Thanks,” Ben replied thickly, more out of courtesy than gratitude. He turned back toward Kirkland Avenue, ignoring curious (or were they hostile?) stares from the loiterers at Sweetland, and thought, “This isn’t my stinkin’ community!” all the way back to the supposed safety of the house.

We understood the meaning of Ben’s words when he shared them at the next house meeting. We were five college students living in Alton Park, a neighborhood that had more than its fair share of problems: drugs, prostitution, thievery, promiscuity, deadbeat dads, and so on. In fact, if I remember correctly, it wasn’t too long after Ben’s warning that the police made a major drug bust at the Sweetland Market. On the face of it, our own communities – the people we grew up with and went to college with – were very different: white, middle class, respectable, as opposed to black, poor, crime-ridden. What had Lookout Mountain to do with Alton Park? It was a feeling many of us never really shook.

Now I’m married and living in a mountain village in Honduras. Last week, some hidden gunmen sprayed a round of bullets into a mixed group of people walking up the road. Among the victims were two children not yet teenagers. The boy died almost immediately, and the girl’s arm was so torn up that it had to be amputated.