Everyday magic continued...

[Ebony AKA AngieJ]

Hey, chatters:

Thanks for all the love and understanding that poured in re: my post 
and Trina's.  I wrote mine in the middle of the night.  I was very 
depressed after a long day at school.  For once HP fandom seemed very 
distant.  Lately I've been thinking about quitting teaching, as my 
health--physical and emotional--has been poor all winter.

The suffering children all over the world have my heart... the ones 
here have brothers and sisters all over the world, in Asia and 
Africa, Latin America and Oceania, Australia and in the heart of 
Europe.  All colors of the rainbow, they pray in a thousand different 
tongues and in scores of different ways... and the One Who watches 
over them all surely hears them, and touches the hearts of men and 
women so that we can answer their cries of distress.

I don't think it's fair to blame heaven for the problems of children 
if we're unwilling to do all that we can for them ourselves.

Lately even the world's most privileged kids have been showing signs 
of extreme distress.  What is happening to us?  Don't we realize 
what's at stake here?

I'm so pleased that on Monday, millions of us all over the world will 
be helping them via JKR's Comic Relief drive.  The 21st century needs 
to be the Century of the Child if we are to have any future as a 
species at all.

Parker wrote:
"I hope I can give them hope, I hope I can give them magic.  I'm not 
in class with them day after day, so I don't know if I do.  But I do 
see the kids when they come in, some of them hunched into 
themselves.  I see them when they leave, walking just a little 
taller.  I like to think I've helped them in some small way to do 
that."

You have helped, more than you know.  I have to remind myself of 
that.  Your phrase "some of them hunched into themselves" was SO 
accurate!  They believe in nothing, not even themselves.

Michelle wrote:
"Oh, wow , Ebony. I am not crying but I am just amazed by your post. 
I can't pretend to understand what it's like to live in Detroit. I 
live in a middle class commuter belt area 45 minutes away from 
London.  But your post is a real eye opener. You are truly gifted at 
giving a Limey like me an idea of what life is like for you."

I'm so glad... when I was a kid, I used to pray that one day I'd have 
the words to tell our stories.  So much is oversensationalized about 
American inner cities--but in the end, most of the kids are just 
regular kids.  The thugs are really a minority in any urban ghetto 
I've ever heard of.  Movies like "Boyz in da Hood", "Menace II 
Society", and all those 'hood flicks DO NOT represent reality... just 
a distorted version of it. 

Why are there no stories about everyday city families like mine?  For 
instance, my mom has two brothers--one is a street hustler, but the 
other is a Stanford graduate and a e-commerce specialist making a six 
figure salary.  The difference is that my hustler uncle couldn't 
detach himself from the ghetto, while the techie uncle left Detroit 
in 1984 for college and swore he'd never live here again.   

So does my seventeen year old sister, a kid who has my brain and our 
other sister's good looks.  She came from school crying yesterday.  
Apparently a kid she'd grown up with was jumped by a pack of young 
boys... his crime was studying with and (allegedly) flirting with 
someone else's girlfriend.  Muideen is a bright kid--his parents 
immigrated from Nigeria a decade ago, in search of a better life in 
America.  One can only hope that the cycle of violence and 
retribution (according to baby sis, his friends are swearing to 
avenge the beating) doesn't transform their American dream into a 
nightmare.

Christian wrote:
"You both manage to make me feel very priviliged to hvae grown up in 
such a place as I did, and most complaints from my childhood really 
trivial by comparison."

Scott wrote:
"But I can't really understand your post, I can't relate to it. I'm 
growing up in a small town, upper-middle class. My life has never 
really been in the positions of those kids, and I wont pretend to be 
able to relate to them. We'd argue that they should never have to 
face what they do everyday, but if they listen to you and others who 
understand them they'll come out better for trying."

Be glad you can't relate, Christian and Scott!  :-)  I used to dream 
about living elsewhere as a kid.  Not in the suburbs, mind you, but 
in the country.  Fields--trees--streams--mountains--beaches.  When I 
went to college in Florida, at night I'd walk back to the dorm with 
my friends or a date with my head flung back... I'd never seen so 
many stars.

That's why I was always attracted to reading about kids who were 
nothing like me... contemporary YA books set in cities held little 
appeal because they didn't ring true.  The slang was usually forced 
and outdated, the characters were uninteresting, and all the bad guys 
were drug dealers.... which made me, and now makes my kids, 
suspicious of the authors.

I should pause here and explain that while drug dealers are a 
problem, and a lot of violence is drug-related, a huge source of 
inner-city violence is the black market in general.  Drugs are just 
one commodity among many.  I have six uncles (my father has 15 
siblings!) who are "hustlers"--they sell illegal or stolen goods on 
the black markets.  In my old neighborhood, you can buy anything from 
music to liquor to appliances to cars if you know the right people.

Because of the lack of authentic commerce, almost everyone in the 
ghetto patronizes the hustlers for *something*.  The watch and 
sunglass stands on the street... the bootleg music seller in the 
shadow of the dirty local grocery store... the person who my father 
knew through a co-worker who ran a videotape racket.  And many of 
them could have told the cast members of *Gone in 60 Seconds* a thing 
or two about car stealing.

There is a complete lack of remorse here about the black market.  
Even I know it's wrong on a fundamental level, but what am I supposed 
to do about it?  Just like I have the hustler uncles and a slew of 
cousins who do it as well, I have five cousins on the Detroit police 
force, which my sister will be joining next year as well.  The cops 
know about the hustlers and vice versa.  The rules are just different 
here, I guess.

At family gatherings, the hustlers and the cops remove their coats 
and their guns, put them above the reach of toddlers,  and we all eat 
and laugh and talk and play cards.  

I used to think this was normal.  And in a way, for me it still is.  
I live in two worlds:  one by birthright, the other by education.  
One is grad classes, writer's workshops, professional conventions, 
and online book clubs like HP4GU.  The other is home, family, church, 
childhood friends, and the old neighborhood.  

The two worlds are in constant conflict within me.  I know it will be 
the same for my students.  It's that way for them to some degree now.

Trina wrote:
"First of all, Ebony, let me join the others who have told you how 
beautiful and touching your post is.  I was reminded of *my* kids 
down here in the Carolinas (both North and South--I've lived and 
worked in both places) who are starting the race after the bell 
already rang."

I loved your posts, Trina... especially the one about the "dirt 
roads".  It wasn't until I visited certain areas of rural Georgia 
when I was in college that I realized that poverty and despair wasn't 
just confined to kids who looked like me.  Be encouraged... what we 
lack in financial compensation, we gain in eternal reward and 
internal peace.  ;-)

Rebecca wrote:
"I may not be an urban teen, but I have so many friends that are
going through all that you described.  You're changing the world, 
Ebony.  By helping all of those kids you're changing their lives, and 
it's so much for the better.  I'm sure you can remember that one 
teacher that said something that stuck with you for your life, even 
now."

There were two principal ones, and then three others.  My 
kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Earle, told my parents to have my IQ 
tested.  My eighth grade English teacher, Mrs. Gibson, said I was a 
writer.  

Actually, I had phenomenal English instruction from grades six 
through twelve.  Mrs. Wiley (grades 6-7), Mr. Payne (grades 9 and 11) 
and Ms. Tobin (grades 10 and 12), along with Mrs. Gibson, had to be 
four of the best secondary English teachers in the nation.  

Mr. Payne was also my "directing teacher"--meaning that I student-
taught under his supervision in the spring and summer of 1999.

I'll end this with one last anecdote.  I've been afk for two days... 
the Stanford uncle is visiting from California this weekend, and the 
family is gathering in the old neighborhood.  I spent the night at my 
mother's house... Mama had plans, and my baby sister didn't want to 
be alone.

At 2 a.m. last night I woke up to the rat-a-tat-tat of gunfire.  I 
sat up in bed, listening.  Semi-automatic rifle... between three to 
five blocks away.  It would start, then it'd stop, then it would 
begin again.  I checked on baby sis, who'd slept through it just like 
I used to do.  Then I sank back into the bed of my childhood and let 
the volley lull me into a peaceful, dreamless sleep.

Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home.

--Ebony AKA AngieJ

(P.S.  This fall I completed a YA novel manuscript in the same spirit 
as these posts.  As I said, someone needed to tell our stories 
without sensationalism, without apology, and without stereotypes.  
I'm going to be submitting it soon... but before it goes out, I'd 
love for one or two of you to beta-read it.  I've had offline people 
read it over, and it's been workshopped twice, but I'd love a fresh 
perspective on what I've written.  E-mail me off list if you're 
interested.)