Pigtown Homecoming

(I actually wrote this piece a very long time ago and posted it on a different web site. I'm moving it here as part of my effort to consolidate my stuff.)

In southwest Baltimore, a couple of blocks from the shiny Inner Harbor and the pristine new baseball park at Camden Yard, is an area known as Pigtown. The name came from the days when they drove the pigs through the streets to the slaughterhouses. The slaughterhouses are gone, now, and with them, the pigs, but the name lives on.

Most of its residents are poor lower and lower-middle income families. Many families have lived here for generations, since the days of the slaughterhouses. Often, grandparents, parents, children, and grandchildren, live within a couple of blocks of each other. Sometimes, three or four generations are packed into the same row house.

In the summer, the windows are always open, as if gasping for breath. The electric fans rattle at a constant frequency. But they seem to provide little relief to these un-air conditioned brick ovens.

From one window, a baby's scream competes with the hip-hop beat from a boom box. They are punctuated by the occasional "Shut jo mouth, 'Nessa! Momma had just enough of that." A slap silences the scream, but only temporarily. After a few seconds, the scream resumes.

From the window, next door, a male voice and a female voice shout at each other. The argument ends with a slamming of the back door accompanied by the repeated banging of the screen door.

The banging ricochets between the rows and rows of houses. It starts a chain reaction of barking stray dogs and screeching stray cats. Their howls zigzag through the neighborhood.

Washington Boulevard runs through the middle of Pigtown. There, the commerce is conducted by a few mom and pop shops. With sparse shelves and few customers, daily survival is always a wonder. In the cash registers, food stamps outnumber real U.S. currency.

Once, every month, I follow the alleys through Pigtown until I pop up on Washington Boulevard. Just off Washington Boulevard, in a strip mall next to the B&O Railroad Museum, is Diggable Styles.

Diggable Styles is a combination hair and nail salon. It has two shampoo bowl seats, four styling seats, two hair drying seats, and a nail care table. All the equipment look new.

Compare to its peers in the neighborhood, Diggable Styles is a relatively successful shop. It has had its share of bad times but somehow, it manages to pull through. In the desolate economic landscape, it stands in defiance of poverty.

Today, Jacki is the hairstylist on duty. As I step into the shop for my monthly hair cut, Jacki is talking up a storm. "When Ms. Mammy came in, she wanted...blah blah blah"

The manicurist smiles and nods. The two customers listen, without any interjection. I sit down and join her audience.

Suddenly, Jacki stops. She notices a couple entering a car parked outside the shop. Jacki shouts, "Tony left, yet? Tony better not leave without coming by here. I promised him a special cut, so he better not leave without coming by here."

The couple nods, waves their hand, and drives off.

Jacki returned to her monologue, "Hmmm, Hmmm, Hmmm... Such a shame! A real crying shame what they did to him. Tony's a good boy."

Jacki turns to the manicurist, "Remember when Tony was little?"

The manicurist smiles and nods.

"Remember when his mama used to ask him, 'What yo name? What yo name? Is yo name Shit? Yo name's Shit, ain't it?"

The manicurist laughs, "Yes, and little Tony would say, 'No, Ma'am! My name is "Mark Anthony Wilson, the Third.' Then, he'll point in the air."

Both the manicurist and the hair stylist breaks into several minutes of laughter.

"Yes, it's a crying shame what they did to him."

The mood is solemn, again.

"Ju know his mama's a dope addict, don't you? Spent half her life in jail. They finally had to take him away from her. Sent him down to Florida to live with his aunt."

"After all that, he still loves his mama. Every time he comes back to visit, he's begging his mama to leave here to start her life over, down there. After all those times she called him "Shit", he still loves her. Tony's such a good boy."

"Ju know that Tony started college, this fall, don't ju? Did good in school and made it to college! That makes it a bigger shame."

The manicurist nods.

"He came back, this week, to visit his mama over school break... Hmmm, Hmmm, Hmmm!" Jacki shakes her head.

"Answers a knock on his mama's do... Hmmm, Hmmm, Hmmm!" Jacki shakes her head, again. This time, speckles of tear dot her cheek.

"When he opened the do, they shot him. Didn't even know who they were. Suppose to be for his cousin, Leroy. But, Tony answered the do. Shouldn't have answer the do without looking out the window first. Guess Tony got too use to living in Florida."

Jacki stops for a moment.

"Now, he's paralyzed from the neck down."

Jacki is quiet again. For the first time at Diggable Styles, I receive my hair cut in silence.

As I pay for my cut, Jacki breaks the silence, "He'll survive. Tony's a good boy. He'll make it."

"He'll survive." Jacki repeats as if to convince herself.

I didn't know Tony, but I nod in agreement.

At the same time, I question myself, "Will Tony really survive? Will Diggable Styles survive?"

As I walk back down Washington Boulevard, I looked at the empty store fronts and the boarded houses. Urban decay has devoured half the neighborhood and is encroaching on Diggable Styles.

I want to scream, "Run Jacki! Run Diggable Styles! It got Tony and is now coming after you!"

The Invisible Man in Pigtown

(I actually wrote this piece a very long time ago and posted it on a different web site. I'm moving it here as part of my effort to consolidate my stuff.)

There is an invisible man in Pigtown. You don't believe me? He's there, sitting on that bus stop bench on Washington Boulevard; you know, the block between Martin Luther King, Jr, Boulevard and Barre Street, right in front of the Farm Fresh Super Market. If you've ever bought a Big Mac meal at that McDonald's, you've seen him.

He wears an old black derby hat and a thick brown corduroy waist coat. He's usually sitting slumped down with the rim of his hat tilted down to cover his face.

He's invisible because no one wants to see him. As people approach the bench, their eyes turn away to avoid seeing him. People waiting for the bus, will sit on one of the other benches. They would either stare across the street to avoid eye contact or glance impatiently down the street hoping the bus would arrive soon.

He's not invisible to all people. Sometimes, little children see him as the walk by with their parents. If a child stares too long, the parent would yank the child's arm to turn him or her away. In a hush voice, the parent would tell the child, "It's not nice to stare at people."

William isn't really physically invisible, of course. But, he might as well be. William is homeless.

William hasn't always been homeless. For years, he had worked on the loading docks in one of the big warehouses at the harbor. He lost his job when the warehouses were replaced by the swank Inner Harbor shopping pavilions. Afterward, he drifted from job to job. Eventually, age took its toll and William lost his ability to lift heavy objects. Virtually, illiterate, William's job prospects dwindled to none and he found himself on the streets.

One bright sunny Sunday, I ran across William on the bus stop bench. I had just come out of the McDonald's with my Big Mac Meal. It was such a gorgeous day and I didn't want to eat my lunch inside. Evidently, everyone else had the same idea. The only outside seat left was the bus bench where William was sitting. William was sitting there by himself. No one wanted to sit next to him.

Redundantly, I sat next to William. He looked so hungry. I immediately turned away, hoping to erase the image of the hungry man from my mind. It wouldn't go away. As I opened my paper bag, I took another glance at William. He looked so hungry. My internal guilt engine sprang into overdrive.

"Hey, would you like something to eat? Here, you can have this and I can get another."

William nods and accepted my Big Mac Meal.

When I came back with another Big Mac Meal, we ate in silence.

I tried to initiate a conversation but William wouldn't say a word. He responded by shaking his head for no and nodding his head for yes. He wouldn't respond to questions which require answers beyond Yes and No.

When we finished and I started to get up to go, William grabbed my arm. Slowly, he searched for the word in his memory. Then, William softly said, "Thanks." And let my arm loose.

The following week, I came back to check on William and again we had lunch together in silence. After several weeks of Sunday lunches, we finally exchanged names.

Slowly, William regained his ability to carry on a conversation. There were weeks in which he initiated the conversation. William was invisible no more.

One Sunday, William and I went to a Kentucky Fried Chicken for lunch. Our conversation was especially lively because William was hired, that week, to do janitorial work.

As we entered the fast food restaurant, the manager of the restaurant stepped in front of William.

"If you are panhandling, you'll have to stay outside. You can do that out there in the parking lot, but not in here."

I quickly stepped in and explained that William was with me. But it was too late.

William ate in silence that day. William is once again the invisible man.

James 3:3-12

When we put bits into the mouths of horses to make them obey us, we can turn the whole animal. Or take ships as an example. Although they are so large and are driven by strong winds, they are steered by a very small rudder wherever the pilot wants to go. Likewise the tongue is a small part of the body, but it makes great boasts. Consider what a great forest is set on fire by a small spark. The tongue also is a fire, a world of evil among the parts of the body. It corrupts the whole person, sets the whole course of his life on fire, and is itself set on fire by hell.

All kinds of animals, birds, reptiles and creatures of the sea are being tamed and have been tamed by man, but no man can tame the tongue. It is a restless evil, full of deadly poison.

With the tongue we praise our Lord and Father, and with it we curse men, who have been made in God’s likeness. Out of the same mouth come praise and cursing. My brothers, this should not be. Can both fresh water and salt£ water flow from the same spring? My brothers, can a fig tree bear olives, or a grapevine bear figs? Neither can a salt spring produce fresh water.