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.