A story from my AmeriCorps Experience.

I was leading a team of tutors in a South Side Chicago school in the Greater Grand Crossing neighborhood, commuting (a bus to the train to a bus) over an hour from my comfortable apartment on the north side. I had recently moved from Tucson, AZ where diversity was an ideal, but wasn’t real for me in any meaningful way. I learned more from my first ride on the red line than I did in my entire college sociology class. My first day in the school, I met a community organizer who worked at the youth center down the street. She took one look at me and pulled me aside.  She sternly told me that she was glad I was here to help. “But, remember, you probably won’t be here next year. You’re a stopgap support, a piece of putty on a leaking pipe. People in this community are going to see that.” And then she offered me advice, even though I didn’t have the presence of mind to request it. “Every day that you come here, people are going to question your motives. The best you can do is to ask yourself the same two questions every single day: Who are you and Who sent you?

I followed her advice. Here I was, thrown into this situation with little management training of peers and children, and told to do my best. I can’t recount any other time in my life where not only was my best not good enough, but not being good enough could adversely affect someone else’s life.  Because I was overseeing the tutoring program, I only had to tutor a couple of students per day; the other hours were spent organizing assessments, meeting with teachers and administrators, and altogether learning how to appear managerial. One of my students, Elijah, a third grader, was reading at a low first grade level, and like so many of our students, came to school hungry, and, oftentimes, in unwashed clothes.

Elijah, though, was a little different. In the first two months of school he had already wet his pants several times, and had become a target of bullying. He relished the times I’d steal him away from class, and he’d try so hard to make me proud that when he didn’t know an answer, he’d make up an elaborate response to try and mask his reading deficiencies. On our way back to class he’d start shuffling his feet, and if were a particularly rough day, he’d start to cry outside the classroom—just to buy him a few extra minutes with someone who had the time to listen to him. It was heartbreaking.

I’d meet afterschool with his teacher and the school social worker, but there just wasn’t time to go around; “Do you know, Mr. Hawkinson, how many kids in this school have Individualized Education Plans?” The best I could do was to continue to spend time with him every day, and, hopefully, he’d learn something and, maybe, he’d gain a little confidence in the process. Perhaps, he’d even stay at the school long enough so that an effective plan could be implemented for his continued success.

After another month, his reading level began to rise. He seemed happier; not as many tears, less shuffling.  I was sharing the progress I felt we were making as a team with my supervisor one day as we walked through the drab hallways of the school. As we approached his classroom, his teacher poked her head out, and upon spotting us, yelled, “Jeff. Elijah just shit his pants. It’s really starting to smell and kids are getting wise. Can you take him?” I took a quick look at my supervisor, who just shrugged. “Uhh. Yeah, of course.”

As soon as Elijah saw me, he hung his head and started shuffling into the corner of the hallway.
He began to cry. I followed after him, fumbling a few words of encouragement. The smell flooded my brain, I couldn’t think.  I’ll just take him to the office, they’ll know what to do.  We shuffled to the office, passing only a couple of older girls on our way.

The receptionist was taking a personal call in the office, chatting loudly about what she wanted her husband to bring her for lunch. As we entered, she scrunched her nose and looked up at me, and then down at Elijah. “Hold on, honey, oh Jesus, hold on.” She puts the phone down, opens her eyes really wide, and says: “Oh no, oh no. What happened?” “Well,” I told her. “Elijah seems to have had an accident.” The next part I still can’t get over. With our Principal attending a regional meeting, and our Vice Principal out for a long lunch, she tells me, “well, don’t bring him in here!” Are there some extra clothes somewhere, I ask. She replies, less than nicely, with a resounding no. Beautiful.

We shuffle back into the hallway. It’s nearly lunchtime, the halls will soon be flooded with kids. We’re across from a bathroom, but the first thing you learn when working in schools is the rule of three; never enter the bathroom with a child unless there’s a witness. As if on cue, Mrs. Carter, the eighty year-old white reading specialist, exits a classroom and begins the long trek toward us.  She’s been at the school since the 1950’s when it was a white, working class neighborhood; was here when Gary Comer, founder of Land’s End, attended the school; was here when Mr. Comer decided it would be a good idea to build a brightly colored twenty million dollar youth center right down the street (that’s another story altogether). I’ve never been more excited to see the notoriously short-tempered Mrs. Carter in the three months I’ve been at the school. 

I quickly explain the situation, and she informs me she might know where to find an extra pair of pants. “You go with him into the bathroom and help him get cleaned up,” she says. I hardly have time to protest (“what about the rule of three!” I say) before she turns and waddles as fast as she can away from me. I have visions of students flooding the bathroom to chants of “Molester!” before the security guard drags me out in handcuffs and throws me into a paddy wagon, disgracing my team, AmeriCorps, and my family.  But what haunts me even more is the image of poor Elijah, who if we don’t get cleaned up, will be ridiculed endlessly by his peers. If this is to be the cornerstone of my AmeriCorps experience, I want to go down swinging.

The bathroom is a putrid green, a shade of something you’d expect to cough up when you’re sick. Elijah enters a stall and quickly informs me there is no toilet paper. I check the next two stalls; nothing. I grab wads of paper towels—wetting them slightly—and hand them to him under the stall.  He kicks his soiled pants and underwear to me.  The urge to vomit is overwhelming; I swallow it back down.  I pass him some dry towels. He’s no longer crying; he’s too occupied with cleaning the mess he made. We’ve got a rhythm going; wet towels, dry ones, wet ones, until he says he’s done. There’s a knock on the door; Mrs. Carter enters. Three generations of supremely different individuals walk into a Southside Chicago Elementary School bathroom—except there’s no punchline. This is definitely not what I thought I had signed up for.

We slide the clothes under the stall to Elijah and bag up his soiled ones. I’m trying to think ahead. “I guess we need to call his parents,” I say. “I hope the office has his phone number,” she replies. “They can hardly keep up with the changes in address and phone numbers. I’m going to try and deodorize these; you call his Mom.” And say what?  We exit the bathroom as the bell for lunch rings. Elijah still smells, and I hope it’s faint enough for the passing students not to notice. I poke my head into the office to see if the receptionist has his Mother’s contact info.  She rolls her eyes, pretends to check, and lets me know that, of course, they don’t. As we’re darting through student traffic in the hallway on our way back to our tutoring room (a converted storage space), I’m hoping that we had managed to collect his contact information at the beginning of the year.  We escape the hallways with only a few ruffled noses and head-turns.

In our room, my team is eating lunch. I sit Elijah down with a book and rifle through my papers until I find his consent form; there’s a phone number listed. I sit next to Elijah and place a hand on his shoulder. I dial the number. “Hello,” comes his Mother’s voice. I realize I don’t know her name. I stutter: “Uh. Is this Elijah’s Mother?” “Who’s asking?” she says. Who am I? Who sent you? “Yes, this is Jeff Hawkinson, Elijah’s tutor at school.” There’s a silence on the other end. Elijah is staring at me. “Elijah has a tutor? Why wasn’t I told that?” I don’t know, you signed the form. “I’ve been working with him for the last three months, we’re making great progress. But, I’m calling because Elijah has had an accident.” There’s an intake of breath. “What, like he fell?” she asks. “No, ma’am, he went number two in his pants.” I feel childlike. “Ohhh, that boy. Why can’t he use the bathroom like the rest of the kids?” I wish I knew the answer, but I’m inadequately trained in these matters. “He’s pretty upset, and even though we helped him change his clothes, he really needs to be picked up and taken home.” Another silence on the other end. “What am I supposed to do? You want me to just leave work?” Uhh, yes. Isn’t that what parents are supposed to do?

There’s a long sigh on the other end. Elijah is looking down into the book, pretending to read. “Okay,” she says. “You better tell that boy that I am not happy, not one bit.” She curses under her breath and tells me that it’s going to be at least an hour until she can come. She hangs up. I sigh. An hour is such a long time. He tries to read the book aloud to me—without my beckoning. My team is silent, observing. They can smell him. They know that they’re going to have to go get their tutees in a few minutes; they’ll have to bring them into this converted storage room, into this odor and pretend as if nothing is the matter. None of us took this job to pretend that nothing is wrong; we came here with the idea that we could contribute to meaningful change.

Elijah and I read a couple of books about dogs, about frogs, about cats and bats— things with simple vowel sounds. We write the alphabet—in capital and lowercase. Other students come in for tutoring, some plug their noses. “Ugh, what’s that smell?” We stop halfway through a book, so I can ask him what he thinks will happen next. He either doesn’t know, or is so lost in his thoughts about what is going to happen to him, that he doesn’t answer.  He doesn’t look anywhere except for my face and the book; we pretend the other students don’t exist.  It’s Friday. Maybe the kids will forget that Elijah number two-ed in his pants by Monday. It feels like it’s only been a few minutes when Elijah’s Mom lumbers through the door. “Boy, you know how much trouble you got me in?” Elijah takes one last look at me before she drags him out of the room. She doesn’t say anything to me. And then they’re gone.

It’s the last time I ever saw him. By Monday, he was gone; transferred to another school down the road. My principal apologized for her absence, and applauded my initiative in dealing with the situation.  “It happens all the time, unfortunately. We tell them they need to get their children help, and they bolt.” I nodded; I tried to remember the expression on my face as he was being dragged by his mother. Was it bewilderment? Astonishment? Oh, god, not disappointment? I wished I could go back and make sure that the last expression he saw from me was a smile, a sign of joy.

I’ve been told that Teach For America graduates volunteer at a much lower rate than the general public. It saddens me, but I can sympathize.  This one day with Elijah weighs so heavily on me, at times, that I’m constantly aware of how I’m presenting myself to the people I love, how I show them that I care. It reminds me that while maybe I couldn’t have made a lasting impact in this child’s life, if I wasn’t there, what would have happened to him in those two hours? The world needs more young people who can afford to spend their time and energy listening to children whose experience with joy is as fleeting as Elijah’s.   

The Plan: The Next Three Years-ish

Several people have asked me what I’ve been up to lately. This is what is floating through my head. Starting in the Spring of 2012 through fall 2014.

THE ROADTRIP

I’m sitting cross-legged in Olympia, WA’s Sylvester Park next to a portable camping grill. There’s a kettle on, bubbling just before boil, a floor table that you might find in a Montessori classroom with several coffee cups on display; above them are corresponding V60 ceramic coffee drippers.

Someone with a gentle face approaches, curious. Curious people are the most interesting, and, he, being particularly precocious, sits down and asks me what I’m doing. I ask him how he takes his coffee. I grind the corresponding beans with a ceramic hand grinder, place the grounds in the filter and pour him a delicious cup of coffee. Then I answer him.

I’m sharing.

I turn my Tascam DR-07 audio recorder on and ask him a question. “Are you able to tell me about your most satisfying cup of coffee?” He smiles. He’s either able to, or not. But he’s forced to think about it and reply with something. And so begins a conversation. A conversation that I record; a unique story. In my mind it’s part StoryCorps, part Post Secret, part This American Life.

There’s more. I have an aeropress, a chemex pot, vacuum brewer, and a French press. There’s also a cooler with a specialty, slow brewed iced coffee. You pick your poison, sit in the grass with me and allow me to record a story you might have. Or answer a question.

I’ve either bought beans from local roasters, or I’ve had enough time to use a hot air popcorn popper to roast some green coffee beans a few days earlier. I tell the friends I meet about this, how easy it is for them to make really good cups of coffee through their own varied means. I don’t charge for the cups, but I accept tips to cover expenses.

I, of course, become a social media whore collecting email addresses, start a facebook fan page, post youtube videos, blog about my adventures. I tweet. I travel around the country, exploring the parts that I want to explore while sharing something that I love with other people. I get to engage with strangers, weirdos, normal types.

I don’t have a proscribed idea of end result, but have a general idea of what I’m doing. I’m looking for something that I’ve been looking for my whole life. Passion. People to share my passions with and people to share their passions with me. Experience. Change and movement are constant in this world, and I’ve found that embracing the current takes you to unforgettable places. Direction. Were I to define the ideas that drive my pursuits in life, I would say that “storytelling,” “community” and “love” fill my head the most. I want these to always be a part of what “I am doing with my life.”

THE FANTASY—starring Mario Bucca and Jeff Hawkinson

What I have described is the base layer of a cake. Were I to add a layer, it would include one of my best friends in the world, Mario Bucca. Since 2002 when I graduated high school, we’ve moved away from each other geographically while individually pursuing different modes of creativity. Mario went to film school, I studied creative writing. Our studies and close friendship bred many a late-night phone conversation about ways to make our creativity collide. So far it hasn’t happened.

Mario would bring his camera and we would add a visual component to the road trip. Where would it lead? Somewhere interesting, no doubt. It would also partially satiate our thirst for shared world travel and domination. We would forma storytelling community of love. And it would be awesome.

THE FUTURE

Fall of 2012 I’m in graduate school at NAU for their interdisciplinary Sustainable Communities program. I’m trying to duct tape a program together that allows me to study the formation of the modern coffee house, its history as a vehicle for community involvement and change. I’m also researching the concepts of “pay-it-forward” and “flash mobs.”

While hitting the books on these subjects, I would ideally create a partnership with a local coffeeshop institution (like Macy’s) in order to explore ways to strengthen community bonds and promote more meaningful, interesting and creative modes community volunteerism. I think my ideal job would be to run a non-profit (with AmeriCorps volunteers) that operated out of a coffeeshop/co-op/community center/art space. Just one of the many fantasies that float around my brain. And when I say “run,” I really mean something like having a title with the word “creative” in it.

Comments on my 3 year plan are encouraged.

Love #1: Between the ache and the indian burn.

The ache beats the way a tooth throbs. A hard thing hurting like a soft thing. Like a magical, bluesy toe-tapping beat it urges him on. It doesn’t make sense.

Neither does running through a Murakami forest, but he runs anyway. Mostly for love, but in the absence he pretends to chase unicorns. And untether magical conches, their deep moan coming from everywhere.

Everyone he knows tells him that there aren’t seashells in the sepia-toned forest, aren’t fish with flashlights, no stars. Just tangles and plops of green. Fear-flavored odors and shit.

If he were sitting with her in a room he’d tell her that the color brown is comprised of orange and black, and orange is full of light, and stars are light, and, so, there are stars in the forest. She’d look away; she’s in love with someone else.

He’d run through the forest collecting starfish, building cob firepits for wild olive and chloroplast pizza, recording bird chants and mating calls—if he knew it would make her love him. But she believes in time and waiting for him would be time wasted not-loving. He knows this.

The forest is warm now, smells of sulfur, of egg. He can feel it—the egginess— emerging from his pores like wild bullfrogs after a rain storm. This new feeling is different from the ache. It’s like the first slow, tightening Indian burn you got as a child. You thought you could take it, but it got way too hot, way too fast.

She’s gone for now. The forest burns invisibly. It’s just a clearing—not even an open field—with nothing beyond. The color of the ink sack of the cuttlefish without the idea of the cuttlefish. He can remember running, can remember grasping at imaginary, fascinating ideas of things out-of-context. The ideas of the feelings are still there, the compulsion gone.

He remembers a mountain in the middle of the night. A full moon illuminating the route between LA and the Valley of the Sun. The space between the cushions of the couch. The feeling of being there before. The beer. The wine. Falling out of the shower, off the bed, down the steps. The feeling of tottering imperfection. True matters of consequence.

Customer Service.

I come home with coffee stains on my t-shirt, evidence of a stimulant-induced day. I've moved from Phoenix to Tucson to Chicago to South America to my parents house. And, now, to an artist's place in downtown Phoenix. I've spent a lot of time in coffee shops, drinking, dreaming. Spent a lot of time longing for things that everyone does. Creative fulfillment, love, happiness.

I serve espresso, lattes with rosettas, conversation to men in transition, families looking for a temporary repreive--from home, from the hustle, from the responsibility of nourishment. I happily do this. I work overtime, clean the floor with a dirty rag, measure beans out in grams, wash porselain bowls. Wash porcelain bowls.

I'm appreciated. Work hard. I listen to customers' needs. I care about taste, believe that atmosphere has something to do with taste. I'll serve you a macchiato or a caramel macchiato with the same enthusiasm. I'll flirt with you, pull your chain, and I'll serve you.

I moved to Chicago to pursue a job in public service not quite understanding that's what I was doing. Served in an underperforming school, built robot night lights out of pvc pipe and duct tape, and roamed the corn fields with amazing kids at Camp of Dreams. That whole time I was serving the greater good by spending my time with kids that could benefit from sharing a space with me. Many people would say that I was sacrificing --my time, more money elsewhere, my patience.

I'm not doing the same thing now, but I'm unable to look at myself in the mirror if I don't think that part of what I am doing is 'serving others.' When I took my current job in the service industry, I used my experience in the public service realm as 'experience.' And while I would have taken the job regardless of the owner's reasons for opening this cafe/wine bar, she mentioned a couple of magical phrases.

This place is on a notoriously dead corner of the city. If someone mentioned the intersection, you'd say, "there's nothing there." But the owner told me that she wanted to be the domino in the community. She wanted to be a catalyst. She wanted to make money, but more than anything, she wanted to carve a place in the community to call her own--and more importantly--for others' to call their own. She roped me in with that statement, and if this was a place that I wouldn't want to call my own, I wouldn't work as hard as I do, wouldn't try as hard as I try, to connect with each person that comes in.

I recharge when I am alone. I stole that phrase from the last girl I dated. But in all of the jobs that I have ever had, I have had to be extroverted. I've had to open myself to address the needs of the client--whether it be a child, an educator, non-profit, customer. In opening myself, I've let a lot of people in. To varying degrees, but in, nonetheless. It's rewarding.

But when you have so many people inside, it's overwhelming. Like a forest. When you're amongst so many similarly living things, it's difficult to differentiate. When you make your way out and you're alone, there's nothing distracting you from pulling out the ones that you remember. I recharge when I'm alone.

Having moved downtown, I find myself alone a lot lately. And that’s the best way to reevaluate that which you hold dear. Stay tuned for things that I hold dear.

Audio Apology #1: Dear Burning Bush

I am addicted to listening to people tell their secrets. I love listening to people read letters. Post Secret. Found Magazine. 25 Things About My Sexuality. These regularly fill my time when surfing the web. Add my time spent listening to Public Radio, and you could call my a voyeur.

This is me jumping into the game. I recorded an audio letter. It's an admission of something I did as a kid that hardly anyone knows about. It was hard to decide to post this, but I feel it's probably relevant to someone. I hope you enjoy it--or at least can recognize aspects of it in your own childhood.

Dear Burning Bush by Asvariouslyaspossible

I also wrote it out. You can read it below.

The Search For Stories.

I recently attended a volunteer meeting for RadioPhoenix. Among other things, I've been looking for an artistic and creative outlet since I've moved back to Arizona. I took a rewarding screenwriting course that challenged me, but it's ended; summer is coming. Summer in Arizona has always been an artistically stagnant time of year for me. The heat melts my brain, and the dripping wax interferes with the intellectual gearwork. I'm determined not to let this summer be like other Phoenix summers.

At the end of the Radio Phoenix meeting, I talked with gentleman who manages the schedule. Told him my ideas about producing a spot about Phoenix Stories. In the vein of RadioLab, This American Life, To The Best of Our Knowledge. He told me to go for it. So I intend to.

This blog is intended as an outlet for my creative ideas. Storylines that I am toying around with. I've learned that I do best when others are reading my thoughts and ideas; so I invite you all in. I welcome ideas, honest critique, and encouragement.