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November 15, 2010
“I live a good, safe 12 miles from Boston,” she emailed me, “I'm tired of reading about the violence over my morning coffee and then not doing anything to make the situation better. My friends would like to help.”
I sat at the table.
Two white suburban women sat across from me.
They introduced themselves.
“I’m Sally.”
“I’m Deb.”
“I’m Talia,” I responded.
They had read a 2008 Boston Globe article written about Villages Without Walls.
Sally contacted me via the Boston Globe reporter.
Sally and Deb wanted to help.
October 6, 2010
The sky was indigo.
The streets were deserted.
It was as if the Apocalypse had happened.
I covered my head with a hood from my coat.
The chilly rain beat against my back.
I hurried into the projects to find shelter until the rain stopped.
The dumpster was over flowing with trash.
Birds nibbled the rice and beans that seeped out of a garbage bag.
Suddenly, three men ran out of a hallway building.
“Put your hands up,” one of them ordered.
Frightened, I lifted my hands.
Frightened, I began to cry.
“Shut the [filtered word] up before I kill you.”
“Give me your money.”
September 20, 2010
Some of the boys I work with end up in prison. Dion is 22 and in a federal prison doing time for racketeering, gun possession, and car theft.
Talia,
September 9, 2010
“Naw, I didn’t have a gun, T.”
I was visiting Dion at a juvenile detention center.
He was arrested for allegedly pulling a gun on a group of white boys.
The police recovered a gun in his mother’s apartment.
The gun matched the victims’ description.
I first time met Dion when he came in for an interview.
He was dressed in black slacks, a white collared shirt, and a tie.
We sat down.
I asked, “Have you ever been arrested?”
“Yes,” he said. “Is that going to mess up my chances to get this job?”
“No.”
August 27, 2010
"This is my third day of class."
One of the boys from my church texted me.
He just started college.
I remembered when he was eleven.
I thought about how he’s now in the world on his own.
He'll grow in his own perspectives and belief.
My hope for him is that he charts a path for someone coming behind him.
August 24, 2010
Two West Indian men crossed the street pulling a water cooler on wheels.
The water cooler was filled with fruit and water.
One of the men asked if we wanted to buy some fruit.
“Me have bananas, watermelon, pineapple, Mon.”
A girl I worked with this summer brought two oranges.
She gave me one.
Before the fruit men moved on, one asked me, “What island you from?”
“I am not from an island.”
“You must have island blood?”
“No, I don’t.”
Then I thought, “I don’t know anything about my father or his side of his family.
I could be anything.
August 17, 2010
At the sentencing of the young man who wrote the following letter, I shared with the judge that he was instrumental in securing a gang truce. I asked her to have mercy on him. And she did. He was facing 10 years, he got seven.
Dear Talia,
How are you? Hopefully blessed. Call it intuition if you will but I held back from writing you because I just knew that you were about to send me a kite [letter] of your own. True story! I’m doing well. The stress factor has declined something serious now that I have an idea of when I’ll be touching down [released].
August 10, 2010
Much of my job involves listening to and talking with people who reside in the local community.
****
We encouraged residents to reach out to one another.
“How many of you know one person you can ask for help?”
All eleven residents raised their hands.
“How many of you know two?”
Three people lowered their hands.
“How many of you know three?”
Three more residents’ hands went down.
“How many of you know five?”
I looked around the room. Everyone’s hands were lowered.
August 2, 2010
The resident looked at me with suspicion. “I don’t like when you dress like that.” I wore black pumps and a black dress that tied around my waist; and I pulled a rolling briefcase.
I’m a community organizer who works out of a high rise office building in the financial district of Boston’s downtown. A black dress and pumps in the hood is just as strange as jeans and a t-shirt in corporate America.
July 26, 2010
Every time I drive pass Pack Ledge Street, I remember the trial. Paris, a young man I worked with, was on trial for possession of a firearm.
Paris was walking down the street when an unmarked police cruiser pulled alongside him. He turned and began walking toward his girlfriend's apartment. The police officers noticed the turn. They jumped out of the cruiser and Paris fled.
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