Pushing the Cart

When I went to pick my seven year-old up from school today, I passed another mother laboriously pushing three kids in a shopping cart. The children were wrapped in blankets because it's a pretty cold and cloudy day here in Los Angeles. But they were still full of giggles and laughter, like they were having fun riding around.

And really, what kids don't have fun riding in a shopping cart?

However, their mother looked like she wasn't having so much fun. She looked exhausted, like she could keel over right then and there. She looked like the forthcoming tax rebate check might only put a small dent in her stress level.

I'm a pretty fast walker, even carrying a four year-old around on my shoulders. And before I knew it, I was almost to the school and she was several blocks behind me. I wondered for a moment how she pushes all those kids up the hills in this neighborhood. I know I can't push my two sons up our hill if they're both riding in a stroller, so I can't even imagine three kids in a shopping cart.

I left these thoughts behind as I popped into the school, got my son, stopped by the library and said hi to the librarian. Ten minutes later I walked outside and saw the mother and the cart full of kids slowly walking away from the school.

A young boy bounded along next to her. He was probably a third or fourth grader. Certainly old enough to be embarrassed by the sight of his mother pushing kids in a shopping cart.

Instead though, he was clearly trying to take over cart pushing duties for her. She relinquished her grip on the cart for a moment but he wasn't quite strong enough to push a cart full of kids for too long. She gently scolded him in Spanish and motioned him to scoot over.

They began pushing the cart together and she leaned over and gently kissed his brow.

As I watched the pair pushing the boisterous trio of children in the cart, my own sons decided to engage in an impromptu footrace. They began running at breakneck speed toward a tree up the street. I quickened my pace to catch them, passing the mother and her family as I lengthened my stride. I said hello and gave her a quick smile, which she politely returned.

When I finally caught up to my kids, instead of hearing bragging about who'd won the footrace, my four year-old blurted out, "How come we don't get to ride in a shopping cart?"

My eldest concurred, "Yeah, you need to get us a cool shopping cart too."

"You don't really want to ride in a shopping cart," I told them.

"We do!" they insisted and then began chanting, "Get us a shopping cart! Get us a shopping cart!"

"If you loved us, you'd push us in a shopping cart too."

And that is true. Love is without complaint pushing your kids in a shopping cart. And love is a young son trying to help his mother.

One of these days my sons will understand that mothers only push their kids in shopping carts when they don't have the money to afford fancy double strollers. And when they do, I wonder if they'll remember this day.

Code Yellow

In my first year of teaching in Compton, I had a whole lot to learn, just like any beginning teacher. I had to figure out how to plan lessons that were so engaging and interesting that my students didn't want to talk or misbehave because they were too busy learning. I had to learn that I didn't need to assign thirty math problems as homework when five would suffice. And I had to learn what to do during a "code yellow".

I had never heard of a code yellow before that simmering hot August of 1998, my first in Los Angeles. However, I soon learned that if there was someone shooting in the neighborhood around the school, or if someone came on campus and started shooting, that was a code yellow. If this happened, the school bells would ring in a particular sequence and I was to shut the doors to the classroom and have the students get down onto the floor and stay there till an "all-clear" bell rang. We did not have a PA system at my school so those bells were everything. I remember being very worried that I'd mix the sequence of code yellow bells up with the sequence that meant it was a fire drill. I did not want to be the teacher who took her students outside for a fire drill when they should have been inside for a code yellow.

We'd have unannounced code yellow drills just like we had fire drills and earthquake drills (another new thing for a non-California native). The first time a code yellow drill happened, my third graders immediately recognized the sequence of bells and told me that it was indeed a code yellow and not the fire bells. I immediately ran to shut the classroom door and then turned around to my students. I saw them there, flat on their bellies, so innocent yet so hard in their nonchalance. A few boys were discussing wrestling, arguing over Triple H being better than The Rock. Some of the girls were singing a Spice Girl tune. I shushed them frantically. Maybe the gunman would think there was no one inside if we were all quiet. One student, Santiago, told me, "Don't worry. It's just a drill."

Santi then launched into a story of some of the violence that he'd heard about and seen in the neighborhood. Two minutes later, every student wanted to chime in and share their story. They told me of folks they knew who'd been shot, a cousin who had a gun, random gunshots they'd heard in the middle of the night. One boy told of seeing a gun down in one of the curbside drainage ditches. He'd tried to lower himself into the ditch to get the gun but he hadn't been able to reach it.

A moment later, there was a banging on the door and a voice telling me to open up. I recognized the voice of my principal and remembered her serious instructions that no one was supposed to open their doors, no matter what, until we heard the all-clear bells. I didn't open the door and then, fortunately, the all-clear bells sounded a few minutes later.

Sometimes when I'd get to talking with people, you know the business man sitting next to me on a flight to Chicago or the woman relaxing in a cafe, sipping a latte, I'd mention that I was a teacher in Compton. I inevitably would hear something like, "Oh, you must go to work in a bullet-proof vest." That kind of comment used to infuriate me when I worked in Compton and it still does. It represents all of the images and stereotypes about poor communities of color in the United States.

The truth is, if blacks and Latinos get shot in Compton or Philly or DC, on a daily basis, we are not, for the most part, shocked and outraged. We are not calling for more gun control. We are not questioning why someone didn't notice a troubled kid earlier. Heck, I'll tell you what happens to troubled kids in low-income areas. They drop out or are pushed out of school by teachers that don't want to deal with them. And if that troubled kid gets shot, well, that's life in the hood, right? The unsaid message is that that kid brought it on themselves. You know, they were probably involved in drugs or gangs and that's the way it goes. If only they'd stayed in school...and worked harder than they did, right?

How easy it is to forget what that kid would be like if they didn't have to experience years of code yellows, whether real or practice.

Those code yellow drills repeated themselves regularly over the years I taught in Compton. Those drills, and what I knew people thought and expected of my students, were a reminder of why I needed to work so hard as a teacher, why my students deserved the same education as kids in wealthy areas. So, I learned to lay on the floor and continue the lesson I'd been teaching. I'd ask my students comprehension questions about the story we were reading. I'd give them math problems to work out in their heads.

We'd also talk about college and how it was a wonderful place to go. I'd tell them about how colleges have beautiful green grassy lawns where you can relax and be whoever you want to be. I'd tell them how you get to live in a dorm and listen to loud music and go to great parties and stay up all night without parents there to supervise. I'd tell them that they could go to class and learn about whatever they wanted to learn about and not have to worry about people shooting up the neighborhood or coming on campus with a gun. One time a student asked if there were really no code yellows in college. I confidently rolled my eyes and replied, "No, there aren't code yellow drills in college! People don't shoot each other at college."

It's strange to think that if I was still teaching, I wouldn't be able to say that now. I'd always be remembering that some crazy person could potentially walk into their college classroom and murder them, erasing years of hopes, hard work, dreams and determination.

Thankfully, the thing is that in the years I taught in Compton, my school never had a real code yellow. No one ever walked onto campus and shot up the school. But we were always prepared because of the realities around us.

The reality of violence, sadly enough, is everywhere now. Truly, there is no safe space anymore in the United States.

You and Your Crack Pipe

People begging for money at stoplights isn't an unusual occurence here in Los Angeles. The light turns red, you stop your car, someone jumps off the curb with their cup. They approach your window, mumbling for money. They point to their signs, dingy cardboard rectangles asking for spare change for food. At least, they usually ask for food. On Sunday, my car was approached by a man with a sign that was pretty direct about wanting a few other things:

Why lie
ciggs
I want
skunk weed
a beer.

Oh. Ok. That's a pretty straightforward sign, don't you think?

My son asked, "Mommy, is that man homeless?" I replied that I wasn't sure. Although I could guess that he was, it did cross my mind to wonder if he was on some hidden camera docu-drama to see if people actually give him more or less money than if he has a sign asking for money for food.

Why would I think this? Well, I remember when I was in undergrad at Northwestern, some student dressed up as a homeless guy and paid his way into the cafeteria at my dorm, Willard Hall. He talked to himself as he ate. Everyone gave him a wide berth, pointing and whispering, "Some homeless dude is over there talking to himself." What no one knew was that he was recording his observations about how people were looking at him and treating him into a hand held tape recorder.

But maybe this guy just really wanted some skunk weed (what exactly is skunk weed?) and the ciggs and a beer and he was being really honest.

Speaking of honesty...

A woman approached me yesterday in a parking lot outside a Starbucks with her crack pipe in her left hand and her lighter in her right. She kept flicking the lighter on and off, on and off. On and off. Crack crust covered her mouth and her nostrils. Her eyes were blank pools of blackness as they darted to and fro. I didn't know what she was up to, approaching me like that, and I could feel myself physically tense up. Then she spoke.

"Do you have any money? I need a hit." The lighter went on and off, on and off.

"No, I don't." I kept walking.

She followed behind me as I walked toward the Starbucks. "Five dollars. Ten dollars. I need a hit bad."

I didn't respond as I opened the door to the Starbucks and made a beeline for the bathroom. I needed to wash my hands. I felt dirty and I hadn't even done anything.

As she walked into the Starbucks, the guy behind the counter immediately said, "Oh no. You're gonna have to get up outta here with that. Go on, now. Go on." His tone was the same he'd probably use if he was shooing a dog away.

Ten minutes later, she still stood, crack pipe in one hand, lighter in the other, asking folks coming into the Starbucks for some money. Finally, someone from the Subway restaurant next door came out, opened up his wallet and gave her some money. She scurried away, holding her crack pipe and lighter in the air in some sort of sick and twisted victory dance.

I guess honesty paid off.

Christmas For The Privileged Class

Do you remember the olden days when everything was closed on Christmas Day?

It's hard to believe it now but there was a time when stores didn't have signs posted at their entrances proclaiming, "Open till 9 pm Christmas Day". In those days, if you forgot to buy maple syrup to glaze your ham, well, you'd better try to make a coating from brown sugar and nutmeg because every single store was closed. There was no such thing as getting up on Christmas morning to run to the store for another can of pineapple. No visiting the cigarette counter to grab another pack of smokes when you accidentally ran out.

In fact, I remember my parents freaking out one year when they ran out of cigarettes on Christmas Day. Everything was closed so there was nowhere to purchase another pack of Benson & Hedges. They had us kids scouring every single ashtray and waste basket, including the one in the car, looking for butts with some sliver of smokability remaining.

Every Christmas Eve seemed to find me and my father in the local Kroger with my mother's list of last minute requests, written in her painstakingly neat calligraphy. The store would be packed with other last-minute shoppers, eagerly snatching the last package of whole wheat dinner rolls off the shelf just as my father began to extend his hand for it. My dad would agonize over whether to go home with the white dinner rolls or nothing at all. This was before cell phones so he couldn't exactly call my mom and ask her which she'd prefer.

Times have certainly changed. Today I headed down to our local Vons grocery at a little past noon. I didn't even bother to call first to see if they were open. Once there, I slowly strolled the aisles with dozens of other shoppers. I added a bag of baby carrots, luminously red tomatoes and other salad stuff to my cart. In the checkout lane, I picked up a copy of Us Weekly. After buying these things and stashing them in the trunk of my car, I headed back inside to stand in the long line at the Starbucks counter.

I waited behind a woman who was wearing what must have been her special holiday outfit: a red jersey mini dress, cinched at the waist with a wide black leather belt. Her legs were sheathed in an unfortunate pair of black spandex leggings that ended just shy of her ankles. Rhinestone bows trailed up the back of the leggings, disappearing from view as the red dress covered them at mid-thigh. Her shoes were black, open-toed, patent leather heels, the kind of heels I describe as stripper heels. The conservatively dressed man standing by her side murmured to her, "You can't wear this to my mother's house." She ignored him studiously as she ordered her drink. I'll bet there was drama at that Christmas supper, don't you think?

My appetite for observation was whetted. Once it was my turn to order, my annoying curiosity compelled me to ask the barista behind the counter the rudest question ever.

"So, I hope you get paid extra for working today?" I asked. She nodded her head yes as she rang up my grande soy chai with a shot of sugar free vanilla.

"I guess that makes being here worth it then?" I continued.

She looked up at me, tilted her head slightly to the left and twisted her lips into a slight grimace. "I guess," she said.

"Well, thank you and have a wonderful rest of your day," I replied.

She probably wanted to slap me, and rightfully so. How annoying it must have been for her to have me asking these questions. She knows I'm going to take the chai home and sip it while lounging on the couch and perusing the Us Weekly. On the other hand, she won't be going home till 9 pm.

Things seemed so much simpler when I was just an oblivious girl tagging along on Christmas Eve in search of wheat dinner rolls. Now I know, whether or not I want to admit it, that my being in that store today is participating in something awful. My luxury of a chai on Christmas Day is only possible because this woman is working a job with no health care, no paid time off, no benefits at all. That's the real reason my local grocery and yours can stay open nowadays. Stores wouldn't be able to advertise that they're open on Christmas Day if their employees weren't willing to work it. But everyone needs more money when they're only making $10 an hour, if that much.

I came home thinking about how holidays are now only a day off for those of us privileged enough to stay home. We watch "A Christmas Carol" every single year on TV and don't even realize we're living it. It shouldn't be this way.

"You Wanna Go To Jail Just Like Your Daddy?"

The question echoed down the hallway, causing me to snap out of my self-absorbed musings concerning my engine light coming on this morning and my need to clone myself so I can be two places at once this Saturday.

I observed a trio just ahead of me to my left: A little boy, his mother and his teacher. His mother was obviously not pleased and neither was the teacher. The little boy hung his head and shook it from left to right in response to her rhetorical question.

"Then stop acting up, having me come up here off of my job to deal with you," his mother said.

"Mmm. Hmm," said the teacher. "You better listen to what your momma's telling you. It's the same stuff I've been telling you."

I made eye contact and nodded my head to them, the universal sign of greeting for black folks. I scooted past them and on down the hallway.

His mother's voice continued behind me, echoing in it's harshness and anger, "You wanna be a thug? Huh? You wanna try to act all bad and hard? What you think that's gonna get you?"

He didn't say anything but the teacher chimed in, "I tell him that every day. He knows that's not how he's supposed to act."

From his size and the location of the classroom, this boy was probably six years old, either in kindergarten or first grade. This is a scene I've witnessed all too many times over the past eight years. A child misbehaves in school and the conversation isn't about, "You might fall in with the wrong crowd." It automatically jumps to this place of heightened seriousness: prison.

Why are we talking about prison instead of college? I know the answer to that question, of course. There is no real expectation that this boy will go to college. I didn't hear his teacher say, "You are so smart that I think I must need to challenge you more so you don't misbehave in class." No, she'd never say that.

His mom, well, her fear is voiced for anyone strolling the hall to hear. She's probably seen her fears become reality all too frequently in her neighborhood, one of the poorest in Los Angeles.

Of course, I can get up on my soap-box because I don't live there. I get in my car and drive home everyday. My own kindergartener is determined to go to Notre Dame. He's debating whether he should be a pediatrician or a scientist. His teacher showers compliments on him about his behavior and his academic prowess and I'd be ready to sue if I saw otherwise.

I wish this little boy had the same.

What's Poppin' Light Bright?

Light Bright?

I almost didn't realize the man sitting on a table outside the Starbucks was talking to me. But I was the only person walking toward him. You see, it's been a couple of months since I've heard the term, an unfortunate reference to my skin color.

I took in his white wife-beater tee, the black shorts, hanging off his ass so that his blue and white striped boxers were fully visible, the fake platinum and diamond chains, the red and black Nikes.

Yeah. Ok. Does he really want to know what's poppin' in my head right now?

His terminology makes me think about all the guys I've known over the years that would say in casual conversation that they'd only marry a light-skinned sistah because they wanted pretty kids.

"But what about your relationship with (insert name here)?" I'd ask.
"C'mon, you know I just fuck around with them dark girls."

His outfit makes me think about how tired and played the pimping of the ghetto is. Last time I heard, Xzibit, Snoop, Warren G, Dr. Dre and Eazy E's widow no longer live in the hood. They're millionaires living in gated mansions so thug life can't get to them so easily.

He makes me think of the heartbreak I see on a daily basis. I just took a driving detour due to loads of police tape. I managed to gaze past the officer sternly directing me to turn, only to see the very visible lump laying in the middle of the road, covered with a white sheet.

All this came to mind as I strolled a span of thirty feet under the scrutiny of his gaze. I replied, in most neutral tone I could muster, "How you doin, brotha?"

"So, wassup?" He started to get off the table.

"Oh don't get up, I can get the door myself."

The teacher voice and teacher look I groomed a few blocks away at the school I taught at in Compton comes in handy sometimes.

He sat back down, silenced. I don't know if he was going to get the door or not but I'm a grown woman and I really don't have time.

And that's what's poppin' with Yours Truly. Light bright indeed.

Superficial/Reality

I got up this morning thinking about extremely superficial things such as:

• I'm excited that tonight is the Project Runway finale. Will spoiled rich New Yorker Laura win (please, God, NO!) or will it be former drug addict Jeffrey? My vote is Jeffrey. His sob story and his cute kid are the cincher. I don't think Michael Knight will win. (Sorry, brotha but everyone's too busy speculating on whether you're gay or dating Brandy or both!) and Uli's clothes are pretty but...is pretty enough?
  
  
• I'm feeling the dancing in the Justin Timberlake video to "Let Me Talk To You/My Love" -- even if I do think Timbaland is the real genius behind the song, not JT.
  
  
• I need to take some clothes to the drycleaners. But my schedule is packed so when is this going to happen?

And then I got in my car and drove to reality.

I drove to "South-Central" or "South LA" or whatever we're calling the ever-spreading low-income areas of Los Angeles these days.

Today I passed the all-too familiar sight of a shrine to the fallen.

The candles. The flowers. The teddy bears. All homage to someone who is no longer here because of a random act of violence.

Maybe Madonna will decide that she wants to adopt some poor Latino and Black kids from South LA...to keep them from having a shrine on the street like the one in this photo.

Somehow, I think not.

Poor kids living in foster care or in orphanages in the U.S. are never exotic enough for celebrities or the average rich family flying to China to buy a baby.

Who cares about the children here in the U.S. who supposedly have the opportunity to pull themselves up by the bootstraps? Let's see, what opportunities do they have?

• The opportunity to be denied an excellent education. Teachers are NOT teaching these kids like they'd be teaching them if they came from a wealthy area.
  
  
• The opportunity to be sexually abused by the sex offenders that populate low-income areas because poor parents lack the clout to get them out of the neighborhood
  
  
• The opportunity to be recruited into gangs. Yeah, that's a great opportunity.

Ah, reality in all her harshness. Now I'm going home and I'm going to forget about reality for a little while while I watch the superficial Project Runway finale.

I'm telling you, Jeffrey's going to win.