A Spent Bullet

Life is real here. I have been in Baltimore for two weeks now, and as I continue to try to put a finger on the pulse of exactly why I am here, I keep coming back to this thought: this place is real, these streets are real, and this life is real.

Mr. Moore took me on another neighborhood walk today, this time deeper into Johnston Square. After introducing me to a man he knew on the street (and after he apparently mistook me for a waiter at Denny’s and asked if I’d bring him a sausage and egg sandwich with a cup of orange juice), we proceeded east on Chase St. until we got to Johnston Square Elementary, where a good number of our after school kids come from. The streets were quiet around there, mostly due to the fact that no one lives in the blocks and blocks of row homes. Boards cover every window and door and yellow signs proclaiming “I Buy Houses” canvas the facades of homes where, once upon a time, this neighborhood had a soul. Mr. Moore mentioned that, years ago, he made it a mission to take down those signs from every house, and according to him, it worked for a time. And perhaps in an act meant to rekindle the fire, I saw him walking back from lunch later that day with a sign under his arm. He told me once, “I’ll support any revolution,” and I smiled when I remembered this.

Along the eastern border of Johnston Square is a center called Dawson’s Safe Haven. Named for the family that died in a housefire started by a Molotov cocktail thrown by a drug dealer, this center was built on the very lot where the Dawsons once lived. Mr. Moore told me the story of how, not long after the fire, all the city’s important officials stood on a stage to dedicate the new center. Poems were read, speeches were given, pictures were taken, and all the while the people looking up at the stage were dissatisfied. “We want jobs, we want homes,” they said, and no speech or publicity event could answer their demands. Even now as I look around, I feel as though they are still waiting for an answer.

Standing on top of Johnston Square, which is actually a small hill in the middle of the neighborhood, I caught a nice view of the downtown skyline. I could even see the golden dome of City Hall, once I’m sure the crown jewel of the city, now dwarfed by the towering edifices of Legg Mason and others. From that viewpoint, I felt worlds away from that part of the city, and I wondered if the people in City Hall could see this hill, this neighborhood, and these people from their perch nestled between the giants of finance and commerce.

We went to the community pool where our summer camp kids go twice a week. This past summer, the city made plans to close it down, only to meet fierce resistance from the community center. Petitions were signed, letters were written, and ultimately the mayor decided to keep this haven open for the kids. I was impressed with the efforts of the center and I told this to Mr. Moore. He was grateful, though wary. He said that we’ll probably have to fight the same battle next summer because, “They keep trying to balance the budget on the backs of the poor.” As we were leaving, he bent down to pick up a small, shiny piece of metal from the concrete. He looked at it, placed it in my hand and said, “Here’s a spent bullet.” It was a shell from a .32 caliber gun, lying on the weed-ridden cement playground, surrounded by broken swings and empty homes.

As we walked back to the community center, I reflected upon all that the children here have to face: the shadow of the penitentiary, the threat of a Molotov cocktail, the haunting reminder of a spent bullet on their playground. Their lives are real, the dangers are real, and the struggle is real. But, as two young girls who came in to the center later in the afternoon showed me by their fierce personalities and fiery tongues, their spirits are real. These kids live this reality every day, yet their spirits are indomitable, and their souls are resolute. The After School Program starts on Wednesday, and I can’t wait.