Once a week, I volunteer at an urban school to spend some one on one time with any kids who need a little extra help or support. This school is located in the heart of the neighborhood, a street away from one of the toughest crime drags, surrounded by boarded up abandoned houses used as homeless shelters and drug headquarters. It’s not the type of neighborhood where you feel comfortable parking your car and walking for a couple of blocks, even in the daytime, but there’s no slick parking lot, no parent pick-up or drop-off zone.

So, in I go. White, mid-30s, middle class, clearly there “to do something.” In a community that has traditionally distrusted authority figures (for very good reasons), my skin color is a barrier to being able to give the help I really need to give. It’s also a unique experience being the only white person, and gives me a deeper appreciation for ethnic groups who have faced this issue for years. All of the children are African American, and there is already a layer of distrust. There is a bit of diversity among the teaching staff, and that gives me a starting point to get in the door.

Today I’m here to see Jayda*, one of the cutest six year olds you’d ever want to meet. On our first visit, she reads me a Dr. Seuss book from start to finish without a pause. Today she wants to draw. We sit on the hard asphalt of the playground—there’s no room for grass or trees here—and she begins to color in chalk. “What are you drawing, Jayda?” I ask politely. “You, silly,” she replies matter-of-factly. She chooses snow white chalk, even though peach is much closer to my skin tone. She draws my red glasses using the darkest pink she can find. “Close enough?” she cocks her head and awaits my response. “Close enough!” I tussle her braids and notice that she’s a little sad.

One of the hardest things for me here is to stifle my natural sympathy. The children here are tough by necessity. Sympathy seems like pity, even condescension, from a person who’s never been in your shoes. Complain to the wrong person in that neighborhood and you may get a cuff upside the head or a swat on the bottom—from anyone, family or not. Children are alternately coddled, ignored, and seriously disciplined depending on the mood, occasion, and people involved. It’s bewildering to make sense of as an adult. I’m not sure how they do it as little children, but they learn quickly that they won’t get away with much. It seems somehow emotionless to someone of my background, and I constantly fight the need to “be that person” for them. To tell them it’s okay to feel and question why. But counselors simply aren’t trustworthy people in this community; pastors, members of the community, and extended family groups fill that role.

I realize that in asking Jayda what’s wrong I’m taking a risk that I’ll get no response, but she surprises me. She’s always been very touchy-feely, wanting to touch my skin and hair and glasses, all the things that make me so different. She lays her head against my shoulder. “I’ve got a headache,” she says and tears start running down her face. I touch her forehead and notice that she feels hot. Too hot. She talks about her “work,” the mandatory homework that children must finish each night. She’s worried that her dad won’t believe she’s sick, but she can’t concentrate on doing the numbers. She shows me her notebook and I see marks wandering down the page, clearly different than her previous work.

I call her father and he comes to take her home. He is very nonchalant, doesn’t so much as take her hand or feel her forehead, and as I contrast this behavior with my own when my child is sick, I struggle not to judge. “She’s worried about her work,” I say to him, “but she shouldn’t come back until she’s been fever-free for 24 hours.” Then he does something amazing. He bends close to me, so close that I find myself intimidated.

“Ma’am,” he says politely, with an edge of something else. “My girl is going to make something out of her life. She’s smart and she’ll get that work done no matter what.” He leans down and picks up his daughter, and I see the pride in her face as she smiles shyly back at me. Sure, she’s going to be pushed in a way I can’t fathom…no laying around watching cartoons until you feel better. Probably not treated any more affectionately than before, and yet…and yet. He is fiercely proud of her. He believes in her. And in a school where every family must be at least 150% below the poverty level, his greatest dream for her is to succeed beyond his level.

Not so emotionless after all.

*names changed for privacy reasons

~ Rachel A. at Spectacular Me

Related posts:

1. Why Do Women Need an Online Community?
2. Autumn brings your opportunity for change!
3. The Fairly Odd Couple

Posted under Articles