Fresh out of college, I moved to Philadelphia and joined AmeriCorps. It was easily one of the best things I’ve ever done in my life.
I found myself–a young, middle-class, white woman–walking through the toughest neighborhoods of Philly on my way to improve literacy rates among kids. It was daunting. I imagined all sorts of crazy scenarios, but I quickly learned that no one cared about me. No one was going to bother the white girl in her pickup truck, and the schools all had strict security protocols. Funny where your imagination can take you if you let fear guide it, but recognizing that fear and where it comes from makes all the difference.
Every day for the first couple of months, however, I came home feeling sick. The kids I worked with lived in terrible circumstances, and while I got up close and personal with their daily struggles, I got to walk away from them every day. I got to return to my quaint brick building and eat sundried-tomato hummus from my local co-op.
I wasn’t used to being around extreme poverty, and it made me ache. One of the elementary schools I visited regularly was surrounded on three sides by projects and the fourth side by derelict buildings full of squatters, as evidenced by sheets that hung in random windows. There was a high fence all the way around the building, and inside that fence, at one end, was a small playground that was nothing but blacktop.
One sunny afternoon a boy cried when he learned that it wasn’t his turn to work with me. He had told me the previous week that he watched his mother die of an overdose. He was eight. He was black. He had the sweetest heart you can imagine, but just a few years later you’d probably see him as a thug. Because that’s what happens to black boys. They hit puberty, and we decide they’re dangerous. That may as well be the end of their lives.
At Benjamin Franklin High School, the ninth-grade class I worked with read on a third-grade level, yet they all had passing grades. They weren’t being taught; they were being kept off the streets. There were three pregnant girls. One of the boys who’d done the impregnating strutted around the room while the books provided for them sat in plastic baskets in the back, books about Arthur the aardvark, little boys learning how to play baseball, and monsters eating homework.
When we worked on a project that required us to walk around the neighborhood, drug deals went down right in front of them and they didn’t bat an eye. Maybe they were busy thinking about what Arthur the aardvark might be up to.
Every Monday I spent the afternoon with a group of middle-school and high-school Latinas at a Catholic community center. It was my favorite part of the week despite always needing to go out and move my truck closer to the building before it got dark because a car down the block had been set on fire with a person in it a month before I started. One evening when I went out to move my truck, someone was stealing the car in front of mine. I just pretended I hadn’t seen anything.
The girls were lively and fun and full of ideas, but they were also full of the most heartbreaking stories. One girl told me that her uncle had molested her since she was eleven. I had this idea that two super-smart sisters could do well in school and get out of there, but then I learned that they had no concept of getting out of there. They’d never left their neighborhood. Their mom was an addict who lived and worked on the street, and they lived with their dad and his girlfriend, who was always threatening to kick them out. The older one, in eighth grade, lost her boyfriend when he was shot in the head because he had the best corner.
All of the girls wanted to be Jennifer Lopez, but other than that, they had no thought of moving beyond their neighborhood. It was what they knew. So I tried to nurture their inner JLo. I helped them write about their lives, taught them about acting, and choreographed a dance performance. Every Monday they got a little break from their daily struggle to survive; they got to laugh and sing and dance, which is what living is about.
That was fifteen years ago, and I have no idea what happened to any of those kids. I don’t know who made it, who’s dead, who’s in prison.
I think about them a lot, especially when yet another unarmed black teenager is shot by the police.
I probably didn’t do very much for those kids in the long term, but they did a lot for me. They showed me the reality of poverty and racism. They showed me how the justice system didn’t (and still doesn’t) work in communities of color, how authorities and the media have let down communities of color over and over again. Sometimes I knew about violence that didn’t make the news for some reason. Sometimes it made the news in a way that was utterly different from the story I’d heard from people who were there.
I will never stop fighting for racial and economic justice because I know the lives of kids depend on it. But sometimes it’s difficult to know what to do, especially if you’re white and middle class.
If there are demonstrations in your city, go to them. Connect with the people there to work on real change for the future.
If you work with low-income kids, find ways to nurture their creativity, which can give them solace from the difficulties in their lives and effective ways to work through those difficulties.
If you lead camps or workshops for kids, find ways to make them accessible to low-income kids. Make sure your group is diverse in terms of economic background and race/ethnicity. Get white kids accustomed to diverse environments so they question situations where everyone is white.
If you’ve got some time to volunteer, find an organization or collective that works with kids in low-income areas. Read with kids. Let them sing and dance and paint.
But don’t go in thinking you can save them. They don’t need to be saved, especially by a white person. Think of it as skill sharing or knowledge sharing. You’re going to share what you know with them, and, in turn, you’re going to learn a hell of a lot about the rest of the world.
And then share what you’ve learned with other people. Apply it to your work. Use it to change systems that have long been mired in racism and aren’t doing anyone any good. Use it to increase diversity among decision-makers. Don’t let kids get out of third grade without meeting appropriate reading levels. Question why law enforcement is mostly white in a mostly black city and the effect that has on both police and those being policed. Use strategic creative action.
When I look at pictures of Michael Brown, the young man shot in Ferguson, Missouri, on August 9, I see that eight-year-old boy crying because I don’t have time for him that day. What do you see? Don’t let fear drive your creativity and overrule your empathy. Look beyond the characteristics you have been taught to fear. Imagine that little boy and how different his life could have been.
It was probably my junior year of college that I went to see the chair of the humanities department for a little encouragement. Much as I loved literature, I was feeling uncertain about my studies. I had become quite the budding feminist activist, and when I read Alice Walker or Adrienne Rich, I increasingly wanted to get up and DO something. I was not content with scribbling behind a desk. That’s why I knocked on my professor’s door and asked her why we interpret literature.
Unperturbed, she gazed out the window at the blossoming dogwoods. We sat in an office full of dark, shiny wood and cloth-bound books in muted tones, but the sun lit up the world outside. She smiled. “Why do we enjoy a spring day?”
I nodded. It was all I needed to hear to get back to the books, but when I finished school, I decided to join AmeriCorps and become a VISTA. I wanted to learn through experience and to serve others. I felt a great need to make people’s lives better in some way, and my myopic poetry certainly wasn’t going to do that.
The best part of my AmeriCorps assignment in Philadelphia was my weekly visit to an after-school program for at-risk Latinas. We laughed, danced, and learned. It was their safe space in the day because outside of that program their lives were full of violence. A friendly, open senior on a fifth-grade reading level told me that she had been raped by her uncle for years. Another girl–a vibrant, intelligent eighth-grader who attended with her sister–lost her boyfriend to a bullet in the head because he had the best corner.
I loved those girls dearly. It was a profound learning experience for me, one that confirmed everything I thought about the world: oppressions converge to make the notion of pulling oneself up by the bootstraps a joke, investing in education should always be our priority, and giving is better than having.
But I had a serious hankering for a creative fix, so I went back to school and studied poetry and fiction writing. I devoured the pink-covered Vorticist magazine Blast, the stories of Katherine Mansfield, the groundbreaking fiction of Nawal el Saadawi, the verses of Sharon Olds. I studied Said and Spivak, Gilbert and Gubar. I learned to step back from my writing and to revise, revise, revise.
And what do you think happened next? I had enjoyed teaching composition to first-year students who desperately needed to learn how to write a basic argument, but I soured on the idea of teaching poetry to middle-class kids who wouldn’t do anything with it anyway. Fed up with the ivory tower, I abandoned my PhD applications and ran off to Poland to teach English as a second language.
My students came from all walks of life. One was a wealthy CEO whose wife could never travel to the US with him on business trips because officials would not give her a visa for fear that they would stay. “As if I want to move to America to work at McDonald’s,” he would say. “I am a businessman!” There was a shoe designer, a gregarious woman with curly dark hair, who came from Georgia for a better life, and a teenage girl who was frequently in trouble with her mother. I always enjoyed chatting with an amiable young man who could not marry his girlfriend because his low-wage job in a shop kept him living with his family, six people in a two-room flat. There simply wasn’t room for another person.
Every student there was learning English to improve their lives. Most planned to leave Poland for England, Scotland, Germany, or the Netherlands, where they saw opportunities they did not have at home. I felt guilty for being able to go and do whatever I wanted. I felt frustrated that the only way I could help them was to teach them the language of the people who ruled the world.
I came back and worked as copywriter. It felt amazing to get paid to write and come up with ideas with creative folks, but I hated advertising. Obviously. Then I wrote grants for a nonprofit, which led to my work in women’s advocacy–leading online campaigns, influencing legislation, developing and improving programs for women and girls. I truly love women’s advocacy, but sometimes I get so caught up in politics and analysis that the left side of my brain feels heavy. It’s like the right side is withering away.
I try to avoid binary thinking, but somehow I’ve spent my whole life trying to balance these two sides of myself–my desire to create community change and my passion to create art. Sure, writing itself can be revolutionary, but it never seemed enough for me.
Recently, I decided to devote more time to my writing. I brushed off some old poems to submit and revised a story, but writing is a solitary pursuit and I needed to connect. Therefore, I decided to start a blog where I could discuss current events that disturb me: gang rape, slut shaming, cyber bullying, the bizarre need to legislate my body to death.
And then I thought, hey girl, you don’t have to stop there. I realized I could combine politics and art in one spot. I could make my own creativity political. I could sit behind my desk or march down the street, and either way I’d effect change. That’s the birth of Saga, a place to explore feminism and creativity while engaging with other artists and thinkers and doers.
As I write this, birds in the eaves of my house, in the magnolia and pine trees out back, are singing because it’s spring. It’s rainy, and the slender sprouts in my garden are getting stronger. Even now, without much sunshine, I look from my computer screen to the window and remember why I do what I do.
I hope you’ll join me on this exploration.