Hartford is a Home

I wrote this essay last year after returning from a summer working as an intern for a day camp with Hartford City Mission. I thought it would provide a nice break from the PNG and 2011 blogs. :)

Connecticut is the wealthiest state in the nation.  Hartford—it’s capital—is one of the top five poorest cities in the nation.  The demographics of the North End of Hartford: 85% African American, 15% West Indian.  One in every three of the city’s residents lives below the poverty line.  In the North End, two of every five.  The murder rate in Hartford is five times the national average. 

“City Limits – Hartford, Connecticut.”  The skyline looks normal.  Just an  average city.  Main Street—looking for Main Street.  Ugh…where is it?  Main Street.  M…M…Mo…Monroe.  Darn it.  Not it.  M…Main!  The car quickly veers to the right as we head up what obviously used to be the main thoroughfare in Hartford.  “Welcome to the North End Neighborhood,” the sign reads.  “Jamaican Bakery.” “Caribbean Furniture.”  These aren’t exactly chain stores. It’s okay.  Just one of those little differences.  Albany.  Albany Avenue.  Oh, here it is.  “Whoa! Mom!  Slow down!”  The car screeches to a halt.  My mom cautiously drives down Albany Avenue or as those in the North End like to call it, “The Ave.”.  I think we are the only white people in this entire neighborhood. Another convenience store.  How many is that—8?  A liquor store. A Jamaican bakery. A giant white church sits on the corner of the intersection.  Vine Street—there it is.  We take a right at the intersection, pausing for pedestrians to make their way across the street.  Not so bad.  Lots of trees, houses.  Less commercialized.  I can do this.  This is my street.  I could live here.  Nerves are calming.  I swallow deeply as I continue to scan the streets for my future home.  Okay.  Look for Edgewood.  Vine and Edgewood.  And...I flip through papers and printed out emails looking for the address.  280.  280 Vine Street. 

The car slowed.   I mentally debated on the parking choice.  Vine Street it was.  I stared up at the big, red house that stood proudly in front of me.  Deep breath in.  Men on the porch next door.  Just talking.  Innocent enough.  “Mom, will you get my pants from the trunk?”  I slipped on the pair of pants over my shorts.  You can never be too careful in a place like this. I slowly, cautiously, opened my door.  Observe your surroundings.  Always.  I looked down Edgewood.  It seemed quiet.  Nothing extraordinary happening on an overcast day in June.  Just people on porches.  As a walked up the sidewalk, I looked up again at the big, red house. Hartford City Mission. This was my home—but just for the summer.  I can do anything for a summer.  I walked up the steps of the front porch, one by one.  I rang the door bell.  The door opened.  I stepped inside. 

Camp Noah was in full swing.  Two weeks down.  Six to go.  My Groovy Green group was absolute chaos every day, but what group of six six-year-olds isn’t chaotic?  I finally started to get their names down.  Rekaya—adorable, quiet.  A cuddler.  She sucks her thumb.  Bladder problem—let her go if she asks.  Nicolas—super smart, talks all the time, independent, always hungry.  Gets mad if he doesn’t get a Hershey kiss during the Spotlight Game.  Sharoy—little red glasses make his eyes bigger.  Looks at you over the top of his glasses with his lazy eye.  So smart.   Lisp.  Perfectionist.  Bawls if he gets a question wrong.  Anthony—quiet, silent leader, always a good listener, nervous personality.  He stutters if he has to talk in front of the group.  Chauncey—tough, raspy voice, really strong, wants to be obedient.  Group drill sergeant. Preferred method of getting others in the group to obey: shouting.  Marvin—joyful, loving, stronger than he realizes.  He’s a 100 lb. six year-old.  Likes to embellish the truth about everything.  Raekwon— Loving, kind, gentle.  Gives me hugs at the beginning of every day.  Disobeys to get attention at times.  Gave me a beaded necklace that he made during craft station last week.  He’s not one of my Groovy Greeners.  Eleven years old, in fact.  He’s with the Ragin’ Red. 

Another tiring week of camp—coming to an end.  I park my car on the street in front of the big, red house. Gathering my things, I glance across the street to the apartment building where drug activity persists.  He walks in.  The door shuts.  I stand in the yard watching, pretending to fiddle with my things.  The second-hand ticks: one-o-two, one-o-three, one-.  There he goes.  A mom sits on the front porch step watching dozens of children play in the yard.  One boy plays alone, only a stick in hand.  He bangs each rung of the wrought-iron fence as he paces back and forth.  “Hi, Miss Kelsey,” he calls from across the street.  “Hi, Raekwon. How are you?” “Good.” He says as his voice trails off into the distance.  I walk up the white front porch steps.  It can’t possibly be true.  Or could it?  Could he be that hardened to the world and to his emotions?  It has only been one month since it happened.  I fumble through my purse looking for the keys, open the door, and walk inside.

                                    

One week ago—he gave me a hug and asked how my weekend was.  I told him what I did Friday blabbering on about trivial things: movies, friends, beaches, and birthdays. Then, he cut me off.  “I went to a funeral Friday.” Well, that’s not what I expected. “Uh oh.  Well, that’s not good.  For who?” “My dad.” I swallow hard trying to wrap my mind around what he has just said.  “Your dad!? Raekwon, I’m so sorry.  What happened?” “He got shot.”  Shot!? How could he be so matter of fact? “I was in the newspaper.  I’ll hafta bring it on Monday.” “You mean, you were in his obituary?” “Yeah, they spelled my name wrong though—with a q-u.  I’ll bring you the little book thing from his funeral on Monday too—if my mom lets me.” There’s no truth in it at all for him.  There can’t be—he’s gotta survive in this place.  

I slowly carry my things up the stairs.  How is he really? My mind wanders.

It’s the shootings that make the news. 

The drug busts.  

Only crime and criminals,

but Hartford is a home. 

It’s not just a story to Raekwon. His father’s murder is the truth.  He knows the truth.

 It’s me.  The problem is me.  I only know stories.  

They are all just stories.  News segments. 

Not people.

 Not fathers. 

Not sons. 

Just statistics.  Dangerous ones.  Ones that make Hartford a home—“but just for the summer.”

I put my things down on the table and turn on the TV, looking for some relaxation and relief from such a long week.  The television blares, “In other news, another man was murdered in Hartford last night on the corner of Garden and Capen streets…” 

But, Hartford is a home.

PNG Realization #2: I'm no conversationalist

I've always prided myself on my ability to step into social situations with new people and facilitate fairly normal, low-awkwardness-level conversations. Well, as is usually the case, God has a funny way of humbling us, doesn't He?

Before ever arriving in PNG, Martha had told me that my two goals for the trip were 1) To survive and 2) To learn some Tok Pisin. So, naturally, I had made it my mission to spend time talking with nationals on my trip out to the bush so that I would learn some Tok Pisin. However, this mission proved to be a bit more impossible than I had first thought.

The PMV that we took from town to the river.

On the very first day, I made it my goal to talk to the two young girls who had come along on the trip from town to the village to watch over me. But, I sat, and I sat, and I sat thinking of a question to ask them. You see, in America, we like to make small talk with strangers (especially children and teens) by asking questions like "How old are you?", "What grade are you in?", "What's your favorite subject in school?", "What are your hobbies?" But, almost none of these questions are relevant in the PNG context. I felt completely lost as to how to even begin a conversation. I had nothing in common with them. They didn't really keep track of dates and ages like we do; most of them have never even been to school (if they have, it was only grades 1 and 2), and they spend their days cooking, getting firewood, washing dishes and clothes. So, you know what I did? I went to bed. I couldn't do it. I felt so confused and lost in this culture that was so radically different from mine. I had no point with which to relate to them, so I didn't.

Even though I failed on my first day, after a few days in the village, I realized that Papua New Guineans don't really do conversation the way we do it at all. They don't ask questions. After all, direct questions are horribly intrusive. Instead, they make statements. And, if the other speaker wants to elaborate on the statement, they can. If not, they won't. It's kinda nice, but it also kinda feels weird.

For example, when I came back to the village with this pile of firewood on my head, the villagers looked at me and started a conversation with me like this, "Kelsey, yu go lo bus na kisim paiawut, nau yu kam bek," or in English, "Kelsey, you went to the jungle and got firewood, and now you came back." It kinda makes you feel like, "Ummm...yeah? That's what I did. And...why are you telling me what I already know?" Or, as Lynn Landweer, a sociolinguistic surveyor and professor of mine who served in PNG for about 20 years, put it, it makes you feel like "they are the champions of all that is obvious."

But, this new way of conversation ended up being one of the most entertaining and easy parts of my language learning. I always had something to say! I could tell someone exactly what they had done, and it was a perfect way to practice my Tok Pisin in a totally acceptable and predictable way! And, though I had begun as a horribly confused conversationalist, by the end of my time, I could state the completely obvious with the best of them.

Hey Readers, I just wrote this blog, and now, you are reading it.

See?

PNG Realization: I'm no Martha Stewart

Among the many things I learned during my time in Papua New Guinea, one of the most salient realizations was that I am no Martha Stewart when it comes to the kitchen.

When I arrived in the village with PBT missionaries Martha and Lindy, I was expecting it to be very "bush", or primitive in other words. As it turned out, Martha did have a bush house, but it was more westernized than I had expected. She had a refrigerator, a freezer, a stove, an oven, and running water! How fantastic! There was going to be less of a learning curve to this bush living than I thought. Little did I know that even with these modern conveniences, I would soon reveal just how inadequate my cooking skills were.

During my week's stay in Martha's house, she and Lindy gave me various cooking tasks: making coleslaw and soup, baking cookies, brownies, and mock apple pie. And, just about every one of them turned out to be a disaster. For now, I'll focus only on two disasters for the sake of my own self-esteem.

Let's start with the coleslaw. The day before we left her house, Martha told me to use the extra cabbage and carrots in the refrigerator to make some coleslaw for dinner. So, I said, "That's fine as long you can show me how to chop the cabbage." (Luckily, I had just seen Lindy peel and grate the carrots earlier in the week for a salad. Whew! I'd never in my life bought regular carrots. I've always bought those cute, baby ones in the plastic bag. At least after watching her, I didn't have to embarrass myself by asking her to show me how to cut those too!) Even still, Martha looked at me over her glasses in utter disbelief and disappointment, "You've never made coleslaw before?" "No? We just buy ours at KFC..."

And, that was the end of that task. Don did the job instead. Ouch. Just what you always wanted as a fiance--having your significant other do the cooking tasks because he can do them better. Don't worry, Don. I'll learn someday, and I'll make you a good wife! ;)

And how about that mock apple pie? Well, Martha gave me the crust recipe and the pie filling recipe, and I got busy cutting up the green papaya. I made up the dough and having watched Don roll out a pie crust just a few days before (after Lindy had given him some pointers like putting wax paper over the dough to roll it), I got started. I rolled and rolled and rolled and rolled and rolled and rolled...and the wax paper got wrinkled and ripped. So I got new paper, and I rolled and rolled and rolled. And, the paper kept walking all over the table. And, every time I put up the dough to the pan, it was still to small. But, it was paper thin! You could literally see through it! What the heck!? So, I asked Don, "Did you have this much trouble when you rolled the dough the other day?" And, he said, "Well, I mean, it did take a while." So, I rolled and rolled some more. After about an hour of rolling, I gave up and just put it in there and got started on the top layer of the pie. The same story. When all was said and done, the pie was in the pan but it was about a half an inch from the rim and a half an inch from the side of pan. Oops! It turns out that I hadn't read the title of the recipe which said, "Single pie crust". Well, actually, I had read it, but I didn't know that "single" meant that you should double it if you were putting a top on the pie. Oops. Martha's response to my blunder? "Well, it'll eat. I guess I just didn't realize how hard this lifestyle was for your generation."

Ouch. And, the worst part about it? She's absolutely right. We have so many conveniences in the States like store-bought pie crust, pre-cut cabbage and carrots, and pre-made cole slaw. I have to admit, it's nice for life here; it makes cooking so much faster. But, those little conveniences aren't available in Papua New Guinea. So, you know what? There's no denying it. I'm no Martha Stewart in the kitchen, but I'll learn, and in the meantime, it'll eat.