traitâthe ability to move with ease between cultural groups. We were mainstream types, despite superficial differences, well spoken and warmly dressed. There was little reason to move away from a shared comfort zone, and since we did not allow the full ugliness of racism into our meetings, we couldnât really address solutions.
Right about the time the sculptures at the Ice Park had dwindled away to dripping horns, looking like sucked Popsicles out there, Billy Green announced Southside Cleanup Day. An ugly response from the community ensued. I was astonished. Billy had arranged for trucks from the department of sanitation contractor to cruise the streets all morning, so that residents would not have to haul refuse to the landfill nor pay for the disposal of broken washing machines, old batteries, and dirty crankcase oil. People in other parts of town fired off letters in protest. Why should taxpayer dollars finance special privileges on the south side? Why doesnât landfill amnesty apply boroughwide? Why donât trucks come to my door for my junk?
I was astounded and appalled. Billy Green was forced to explain how the money came from the remnants of a block grant and to pose with the mayor at a press conference. I suspect that was a last-minute repair. The complaints stopped but damage was done. So I decided to give myself another field trip and to cover the event, which had ballooned into a festival, with a 5K Run Against Racism, free hot dogs, burgers, and pie, and a disc jockey from Wolf 97 holding his show outdoors in the community center parking lot.
In spite of two bowls of Cheerios consumed at eight A.M., my blood sugar capsized by eleven, so my first impulse once I got down to the community center was to get hold of a burger. The smell of the grill pulled me across the parking lot to the table where burgers were disappearing as fast as Chester the Starfox, the d.j. and celebrity chef, could produce them on his double hibachi. A plate of fresh hot patties shining with grease appeared as I reached for a plate and bun.
Sometimes plain food is the best. Low blood sugar times, for example. The meat and bread were heavenly; heat and grease are the best seasoning.
I noticed that people were going in and out of the center with more food, so I inserted myself into that stream next. Inside I found a buffet loaded with beans, salad, squares of cake, and sweet potato pies in tinfoil pans.
Itâs odd to look at the world through stained-glass windows, holding a burger on a paper plate. A rambling, plain egg box of a church at one time with the usual three rooms (nave, kitchen, and social hall), the center had a new lease on life thanks to Billy Green. It drew people to community school classes, support group meetings, workshops. In the big room a half-dozen boys were slamming Ping-Pong balls at each other among signs that read âEasy Does Itâ and âKeep Coming Back.â A few women in the kitchen rinsed dishes and refilled a coffeepot. I ate my lunch inpeace, walking past the stained-glass windows in the naveâsimple geometric lambs, candles, a plain cross. Churches are the nearest that the landlocked get to the sea. This one was a fairly simple ship. Beams overhead created that feeling of empty space, as of a cargo hold gently rocking on calm water.
Stepping outside again I heard the wheezing of the sanitation trucks and cheering. Blood sugar restored, it was time to pay for my meal by putting my face back in the crowd.
I took an empty bright orange garbage sack from the pile at the edge of the parking lot and followed the Boy Scouts cleaning up the shoulder and runoff ditch along Twenty-fifth Avenue. There were balloons in the air above me; we were generating trash at the same time as we were retrieving it. Someone in a gorilla costume was waving traffic into the parking lot, and Chester the Starfox was now interviewing Billy Green, no doubt describing the scene in the most colorful
Right about the time the sculptures at the Ice Park had dwindled away to dripping horns, looking like sucked Popsicles out there, Billy Green announced Southside Cleanup Day. An ugly response from the community ensued. I was astonished. Billy had arranged for trucks from the department of sanitation contractor to cruise the streets all morning, so that residents would not have to haul refuse to the landfill nor pay for the disposal of broken washing machines, old batteries, and dirty crankcase oil. People in other parts of town fired off letters in protest. Why should taxpayer dollars finance special privileges on the south side? Why doesnât landfill amnesty apply boroughwide? Why donât trucks come to my door for my junk?
I was astounded and appalled. Billy Green was forced to explain how the money came from the remnants of a block grant and to pose with the mayor at a press conference. I suspect that was a last-minute repair. The complaints stopped but damage was done. So I decided to give myself another field trip and to cover the event, which had ballooned into a festival, with a 5K Run Against Racism, free hot dogs, burgers, and pie, and a disc jockey from Wolf 97 holding his show outdoors in the community center parking lot.
In spite of two bowls of Cheerios consumed at eight A.M., my blood sugar capsized by eleven, so my first impulse once I got down to the community center was to get hold of a burger. The smell of the grill pulled me across the parking lot to the table where burgers were disappearing as fast as Chester the Starfox, the d.j. and celebrity chef, could produce them on his double hibachi. A plate of fresh hot patties shining with grease appeared as I reached for a plate and bun.
Sometimes plain food is the best. Low blood sugar times, for example. The meat and bread were heavenly; heat and grease are the best seasoning.
I noticed that people were going in and out of the center with more food, so I inserted myself into that stream next. Inside I found a buffet loaded with beans, salad, squares of cake, and sweet potato pies in tinfoil pans.
Itâs odd to look at the world through stained-glass windows, holding a burger on a paper plate. A rambling, plain egg box of a church at one time with the usual three rooms (nave, kitchen, and social hall), the center had a new lease on life thanks to Billy Green. It drew people to community school classes, support group meetings, workshops. In the big room a half-dozen boys were slamming Ping-Pong balls at each other among signs that read âEasy Does Itâ and âKeep Coming Back.â A few women in the kitchen rinsed dishes and refilled a coffeepot. I ate my lunch inpeace, walking past the stained-glass windows in the naveâsimple geometric lambs, candles, a plain cross. Churches are the nearest that the landlocked get to the sea. This one was a fairly simple ship. Beams overhead created that feeling of empty space, as of a cargo hold gently rocking on calm water.
Stepping outside again I heard the wheezing of the sanitation trucks and cheering. Blood sugar restored, it was time to pay for my meal by putting my face back in the crowd.
I took an empty bright orange garbage sack from the pile at the edge of the parking lot and followed the Boy Scouts cleaning up the shoulder and runoff ditch along Twenty-fifth Avenue. There were balloons in the air above me; we were generating trash at the same time as we were retrieving it. Someone in a gorilla costume was waving traffic into the parking lot, and Chester the Starfox was now interviewing Billy Green, no doubt describing the scene in the most colorful
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