A Blast From The Past

Maybe it started with the old doo-wahs that Richard, our good neighbor and helper on 31st Street gave me. I was instantly taken back to Gary, Indiana's hot sultry nights when the street lights came on and we were required to be on the porch. Oh those long nights--too hot to go to bed (pre-air for most folks) and nothing else to do except radio--Living with Vivian (Vivian Carter of Vee Jay records fame--the Spaniels, Goodnight Sweetheart and many more) and on a good night, Randy out of Nashville, Tennessee, I believe. Oh what nights. I was a tween and my friends Maxine and Margie could think of so much mischief to get into from that porch between the time the street lights came on and maybe 1 am, depending on how impossible it was to get comfortable in our tiny apartments. Those were the days--sweet innocence. Vivian called those of us under 18 powder puffs and everybody else sponges. I guess we were soft and tender not yet having absorbed life's lessons and toughened by God knows what. I listened and remembered. My how far the journey, away from Gary (It had become foreign to me) to our neighbor to the West-- Chicago and back to the Dunes country and now Kansas City--31st Street. Many things to remember--some happy, funny, some sad but all a part of who I am now--all a part of my relationship to the many people I meet on 31st Street.

I found some pictures stored away in a drawer since movin g to Kansas City. There's my brother 1st Lt. Ronald, lean and mean in January 69, securing Highway 1 between DaNang and Chu Lai and another in Jump School always confident and brilliant. Dance books are passe but I found mine from the sophomore class party of Tolleston High School. Pardon me if I say I was stunning in my sister's pink sheath dress with black suede spike heels. I can tell from the guys recorded that I dance the night away 7-9:30 p.m. And I have the commencement announce--the first of new beginnings and pictures of U of I at Chicago commencement procession. No one would have bet a plug nickle that I'd make it past Tolleston.

I found Mama's evangelist license and a newspaper announcement for State Sunday School Superintendent Piggee's week long Sunday School Convention. Now, I am beginning to see the light and understand what makes me tick. There are scads of pictures of kids with salutations on the back to Mrs. Piggee, counselor Lake County Children's Home. I remember that she'd bring two or three kids home to our tiny ranch style home for Christmas. They had no one to pick them up for the holidays. I got a double or triple whammy--daddy's call, mama's caring and Ronald's determination. I'm a SPONGE now Vivian, but the girl on the porch, the sophomore, the mischief maker is just a doo wah or two away.

I Must Be Dreaming

The day after election, negative ads, standing in line for almost three hours, full of anticipation that a wind is blowing and change is coming and it's here and coming. I can hardly imagine even though I saw with my eyes the sea of humanity in Grant Park and Times Square and..., euphoric, each a small part of the change. I am so proud!

Weeping May Endure For A Night

Wow! Yes, that my word. It's hard to believe what I see and hear with my ears what I hear. For instance, on this this bright, bright sunshiny day, cars lining the curb waiting for Christmas assistance for another agency, I walked into the Emancipation Station and there was this lady and sitting with her, one I assumed to be her daughter. The lady introduced me to the young one as a new client at the shelter. Teasingly, I asked her age and was astonished to find this one was only 17 years old--sexually molested--one of three siblings. Grandma could only take two and one so young was left to fend for herself. I felt like crying!

She walked into the Station. I don't know her age. Black women wear their age well. A staff member approached and said, "I'm sorry about your loss and tears--big tears rolled down her face. I wished that, perhaps, she had been allowed time to sit and adjust. It was her brother's passing and his death had left a big hole in her heart. He was the one who held the family together. What can one say to grief of that sort? I remembered my mama and the dream I'd had after her death. So I told her the dream. "I dreamed that I was walking down the beach. I lived in Gary, Indiana and once you pass the steel mills there is Lake Michigan and beach. While I walked, I saw two people walking toward me. As I got closer, I saw the two were my oldest brother and Lola, my friend who had helped me care for my ailing mother as if she was her own.
My brother handed me my mother's shoes." Me, the one who saw herself as not capable--competent--was handed my mother's shoes. My mother was a giant--a strong women, soft and feminine with a fist of iron. How could I fill her shoes? In time, my siblings began to call me for counsel, prayer and I began to grow. I'm more like mama than I ever wanted to be and daddy too. Sometimes I sound like him. "Do you know why I'm saying this to you," I said. "The mantle is always passed and maybe you are the one who will receive it and become the cement of your family like your brother." "Weeping may endure for a night but joy comes...." Experience the pain and lay on the breast of the Master; He can hold you. The sun will shine again.

She sat on the sofa watching a "judge" show. I sat down and she began to share. " Going to get an apartment soon. My case manager is helping me. Can't get into section 8. Got an eviction and it takes 10 years to get into another section 8." I didn't know that. "My boyfriend busted up stuff and got me kicked out. He got killed right in front of me and I have flashbacks."

Wow, the sun is bright on 31st Street even though the fog of pain lays heavy inside the Station. As I have experienced fog, I know that the sunshine always prevails, if we let it.

Moving Day and Wanna Moves

She was excited! It was moving day. She's been sleeping in the bushes the last couple or three-four days, rising when the sound of traffic picked up, coming to the Emancipation Station for breakfast, a change of clothes from her small duffle bag stored out of sight, then to Metro Lutheran Ministries (MLM) to work on that place we've been praying for, waiting and waiting for. Finally moving day--Emancipation Station has a box of dishes, dinning chairs and stuff waiting for her and around the corner at MLM a sweeper, bookcase and more stuff to be piled in the little Subaru already loaded down with donations. We trudge two flights up, sweating, lifting, dragging and now salty/sweet smelly arm-pits wet from sweat, but happy. Happy about the neat apartment--one bed-room and more amenities then dreamed of. What a thrill! And can it really be after the crack and drugging and partying and nearly dying. Yeah, left for dead in the park. She remembers having a good time at a crowded party and feeling light-headed then being flung over a shoulder and kicks and pain and kicks and fist until---blackness and blankness and nothing waking up, broken up and...a rape kit and being nursed back. She's going to wear a dress soon. Going to take off that "manish" look soon. Going to let peace and joy move back into her life soon and maybe even love again someday.

She's lovely, slim in an almost child-like way with enchanting eyes. She says, "Where do I know you from." Gazing, she says with certainty, "I know I know you from somewhere!" I think to myself, God knows. A lot of people go in and out of my life! I wonder if she might be related to the .... She wants to speak with me. She sits and talks about her journey much longer than I have time to listen but I am caught in the depth of her eyes and words. Raised a Moslem, her path changed somewhere along the way. She knows she's on a journey. Just yesterday evening, homeless, not knowing where to go, she felt a tug that pulled her in hope's direction. She felt hope when she came upon a bag of clothes someone had thrown out. Rummaging through the bag--black pants needed to start a job promised--the job where the needed black uniform pants were unaffordable. On that path, she found the shelter she would sleep for however many nights, safe from whatever menaces that had driven her to this point. On this path, she remembered dreams and visions of starting a gift shop--a beautiful shop and another of helping troubled kids find a way to make a few dollars without standing on corners doing the drug thing. Oh, she dreams of a room with lots of people microphones in hand waiting for her to say something--fame--yes, she dreams of fame. I tell her, "I believe you have what it takes to have your shop, to have fame and recite my life's Proverb, "Trust in the Lord with all your heart, lean not to your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge Him and He will direct your path." I tell her how she knows me--spirit to spirit--sister to sister that's how you know me.

She used to sit in the door way across the street--long, oily blond hair, clothes a little soiled. She didn't say anything--just sit and smoke an occasional cigarette. Sometimes, she would sit near the corner or walk--always alone. She started to come inside for breakfast. Never said a word just walked to the bathroom and to the table for coffee and the days offerings. She'd eat and leave without a word. Then, I started asking her if she'd had a hug and she'd sit stiffly as I wrapped my arms around her shoulder. One day she started to answer, "No, I haven't and reach back." She comes daily now and sits-- taking in the morning show. She likes to read too--thick non-fiction novels. Friday, Jane was doing a sing-along with us. Jane and I believe that music lifts the spirit and her folksy music style makes us laugh as we add our own nonsensical lyrics. I ask Jane to play, 500 Miles. "Lord, I'm one; Lord I'm two, yes I'm three...Yes, I'm five hundred miles away from home." I look at her and her face is red and sad. Her eyes--did I see tears? I move slowly across the room and put my arm around her shoulder and wonder where she comes from and where she's going.

What's Wrong With This Picture?

Wow! It's been a long time since I've been on 31st Street--the blog of course. The problem, I've been quite literally on 31st about 8 days a week. A brief rundown: Yesterday I sat down on the curb with the guys. It felt good to be in touch again--like back to my beginning on the street. No, it didn't bother me that, somehow, the guys can buy beer and drink in their little hubs, but still go into the Holy House for dinner. In fact, True Light Church will take up a little of the slack by taking one Saturday each month to feed the needy. Yeah, I said needy! You see, these guys have kind of dropped out of the mainstream. Some have a felony conviction. If you walk alone 31st Street in Kansas City or any street in your city, you'll see some of the same faces--toothless grins, foolish talk, idle time, panhandling (for the next beer) without much hope and surviving. You see, a fella can run into the same wall only so many times before finally learning that, ouch, this hurts, I'm getting nowhere fast. Do you know how hard it is for a felon to get a job? I believe prisons are designed, like the drugs on the street to keep the consumer coming back. And back they come--maybe not to the prison but to the local jail house. My friend Rebecca says, "At least I'm guaranteed three hots and a cot!" What happened to rehabilitation, and redemption? Why do we continue to punish after men and women have served their time. Isn't that punishment enough?

This lady came into the office. She'd been in before for prayer--sometimes there is nothing else and it's free (free is suppose to be funny). Maybe some charge fro prayer. Stranger things happen. Well, she starts to share her story. She had been sent to prison and became very diligent and intentional about prayer. She read scripture and meditated. After not too long, the big folks, for lack of a better word, sent for her and told her she was going out on an administrative discharge. She said, "They gave me some shorts--way too big and I ran out to that bus holding up those pants. They were like balloons--so big and full of air but I didn't care, I was going home." She was so thankful for another chance--free of drugs, free of hopping in and out of cars, free of low self-esteem, freed from the icy grip of death. She road with the Kansas City serial killer and lived to tell about it. Still, she struggles to make it from day to day.

What's wrong when people pay their dues to society and continue to be punished, living without hope for jobs, housing, maybe even food; where do you cook if there's no housing? Why should some crooks sleep in mansions while others sleep under bridges, abandonmiums, porches and steps? I'm just thinking about 700 billion dollars needed to bail the country out of this financial mess--got to be some crooks somewhere, not on the curb drinking beer, probably in a mansion making a toast with expensive wine laughing all the way to the bank--no no they're part of the problem.

Time Marches On

I headed for 31st Street after dropping my son off at his job on The Paseo. Nothing unusual about this except I had to drive Phil's car--a stick shift and I haven't driven one in a long time and my timing was a little off--at first. I thought I would take a certain short cut to work but when I saw that humongous hill and thought about the coordination it would take to get out of first gear at that angle, I quickly, mentally mapped out an alternative route to 31st Street. To elevate my frustration level even the more, I couldn't answer my cell phone and shift at the same time. Oh boy, I missed Joe waiting for me at Truman's McDonalds, lost $1.00 in the parking meter in the coveted parking spot that I didn't need because my timing was off, Joe gone, and I was even later getting ready for the meeting True Light was hosting. To add to "bad timing" I forgot the water, mustard, and mayo and the only plastic table covering material was too short for the table and looked absolutely tacky! Did I say that the bread was not cut, the pickles were whole and nothing seemed to be going right? Ever had the problem of having your timing off a little bit? Whew! The good news is that I did not ruin the clutch, run into something, stop in the street unable to get the car into gear--my son said more than once, "Mom, you should have practiced like dad told you to." There are some things you just can't practice for.

Timing was off for the dozen or so people lined up to get into the nutrition class for the free food 45 minutes too early because we can only take the first 20 folks. Timing is off--those food cards that are supposed to last a month but most folks are looking to already severely stretch food pantries to feed themselves and their kids. It's summer and a lot of kids are at home. Do you know what kids do when they are home? They eat all day long. What's going to happen with the rising food cost and "food stamps" yes, I know they aren't called stamps, but by any name they aren't adjusting to meet the inflated food cost! My response to the too early line--let those people inside. They do not need the frustration of standing out on 31st Street suffering further indignity as if begging for a handout. We are all about hands up. Does anybody know what time it is? Looks pretty dire to some. Those folks argue about whether we are in a recession. On 31st Street, we're like feeling depression!

Speaking of timing, I got lost in the writing and burned the cabbage in Phil's good skillet. I can't get the window open to get the stinky cabbage smell out before he gets home and in a nice voice says, "Honey, what's that I smell?" Then, he'll come into the kitchen and with voice elevating a little say, "Alice, you burned up my skillet!" I'm always Alice when...."What were you doing; you know you can't do two things at the same time!"

You want to know something? I'm getting better!

It Ain't That Serious

Little Lady came to the office to ask for her brother's telephone number. So, I checked my numbers and no, no name found. She says, "Check D's name!" I did and found not that name either. I checked under Mike--nothing. Finally, I said, "Little Lady, I'm going to check under your name--Ann...." So I did and came up empty. Finally, I said, "Let me check under "L" for Little Lady and whoa...there it was. Little Lady cracked up! "Oh no you don't; Pastor Alice, you know you a mess!" "You the only one that call me by by real name." "Lady, you something else! Can I use the phone?" As Ann...was leaving, I called for her to stop and she said,"What you want now mama?" I asked, "You're a CNA (certified nursing assistant) right?" "Hup, that's right." Didn't you tell me you want to go back to school for an LPN (licensed practical nurse)?" "Hup, hup! "What's stopping you, alcohol?" "Hup." And the conversation sent on to sobriety and reasons. Well, I told Little Lady that I was going to write about her. Laughing, she asked if I was writing about finding the telephone number. I said, "Nope, I'm writing about the laundry." She roared with laughter. "Oh, no you don't, lady, you something else." I'll tell you about the laundry sometime. It ain't always serious on 31st Street.