Urban Agape

Take a Gardening Tour

2009-06-15T17:05:00.006-04:00

Something that you may not know: Detroit is a green city. Has been for some time, before green was the thing to be. Like many movements, this one came out of a desperate need of the people. Fresh produce is created with the work of activists, community members, and decendents of Great Migrants who brought their knowledge of farming from the rural south. Detroit's revitalization is happening in the backyards of peoples' homes, in vacant lots, and public school playgrounds. Take a tour of a city's humanistic solution to the dehumanization of post-industrialism.

Urban Rhapsody

2009-06-01T11:25:00.018-04:00

Ruben raised his hand and without waiting to be called on to speak he asked, "Miss, do you think the laws are fair?" It was the first time in a year of teaching youth about their rights that I'd ever been challenged with this question. A deceptively simple yet completely reasonable question to ask someone who knows the law.

I gave poor, insightful Ruben only half an answer. I told him that I thought people were flawed. That most laws were created with the best of intentions. But given our prejudices and biases as humans, we often interpret the laws, or bend them, to the disadvantage of others.

I went away from that workshop claiming victory: I'd convinced Ruben that running from the police is not the best means of avoiding them. But looking back, I'm no longer sure of any of my convictions that day.

I go into every workshop picturing my nineteen year old brother sitting in the seats. And everything I say is essentially said to him. In a vain attempt to keep him safe. "Please don't yell at a cop, Matthew, they will try to silence you with their fists." "Please don't run from a cop, Matthew, they will chase you with their bullets."

My words take on a tone of importunity. I implore, I entreat. Perhaps I sound like the mother in Queen's Bohemian Rhapsody, pleading between the dramatic crescendos. But in all my shameless begging, to Ruben or Matthew or any of the Black or Brown youth both intrigued by and suspicious of what I have to say, rarely do I offer my opinion on the fairness of laws.

The big sister in me says, "Who cares? What does it matter if the laws are fair? Just do what you have to do to not get shot." But the thinker in me, the activist, the pinko says, "No Ruben, I do not think that the laws are fair." Because logic, if nothing else, shows us that if people are flawed and laws were written by people, then the laws are flawed as well.

Therein lies the importance of amendments and repeals and the passing of new bills. In theory, We The People have the ability to change laws that are no longer just or ones that our society realizes were never just in the first place. But the process is like pulling teeth. And if you are directly affected by these unjust laws, chances are that you're the marginalized, apartheidic majority, without the resources, the time, or the energy needed to even begin the process.

It is a difficult thing to do; convince people that some laws are unjust. Because we've been taught to believe that the rules which this society was founded on, guidelines that have sustained us thus far and forced us to be more conscious of, responsible for, and redemptive in our actions...Those rules are like doctrine. Sacred text written by men endowed with a divine intellect. Even when the giant boot of that text is stepping on our necks, we are told that if we can't stand up straight, then we aren't trying hard enough.

It's true, that the constitution is an important national agreement. But it was written by men, nonetheless. Men who did not think to include the right of every child to a quality education. And men who most likely did not predict the population of students seated in front of me: male and female and gender non-conforming, Black and Brown, and multi-ethnic with gifted minds and special needs. These students demand to know why the rules apparently weren't written to protect them, or why their best interest takes a back seat to the unions or the legislature or the white middle class.

And as an educator, and an activist, and an advocate of youth, I must ask myself "If I were Ruben; if I were a tall Black teenage boy living in the United States and a cop was walking toward me, wouldn't my first instinct be to run away? And if that wasn't my first instinct, where is my sense of self-preservation?"

Knowing this, who am I to tell Ruben not to run away from a cop? And if I think that the laws were originally intended to protect the white middle-to-upper middle class then who am I to tell Ruben that the laws are fair?

I am the Bohemian mother whose tiny voice is waging war against the thunder bolts and lightening, singing, "He's just a poor boy from a poor family, spare him his life from this monstrosity." And a system made up of bias men who interpret bias laws spits back at me sardonically and says, "Easy come. Easy go." What else can I do but spout false hope, clasp my hands together and implore, entreat.

Urban Defined

2009-03-30T00:21:00.004-04:00

urban¹ (ûr´bən) ►adj. [Lat, urbs, city] 1. Of, relating to, or located in a city or metropolitan area. 2. Used as a marketing tool to refer to black music/culture, while shrewdly avoiding the topic of race. 3. Regions which witnessed the rise of industrialism, attracting a mass migration of marginalized and impoverished communities. 4. Area in which a high density population has led to pollution, exploitation of labor, and degradation of lifestyle. 5. Describing the peculiar relationship become humanity and material. 6. Refers to the greater availability of cultural resources; a manifold myriad of art, language, and experiences. 7. An evolving organism. 8. A conscious work of art, with people as its communal framework.

Agape Defined

2009-03-29T13:08:00.007-04:00

agape¹ (ä-gä΄pā, ä΄gə-pā΄) ►n. [Gk. agapē.] 1. Self-sacrificing love. 2. Understanding, redeeming good will for all humanity. 3. A love which represents divine, unconditional, volitional, and thoughtful love. 4. Not a weak, passive love. 5. A love in action. 6. An overflowing love which is purely spontaneous, unmotivated, groundless, and creative. 7. Love that transcends the particular; a passion without the need of reciprocity. 8. Love which has a redemptive power; a power to transform individuals 9. A love seeking to preserve and create community; it is insistence on community even when one seeks to break it. 10. Agape is a willingness to go to any length to restore community.

MLK

An Ode to Detroit

2009-03-25T17:19:00.007-04:00

This is a video that I put together in homage of the city where I grew up: Detroit. All of the pictures were taken in Detroit, the music was written and performed by local Detroit artists, and the interviews were conducted by Detroit Summer youth investigating the Detroit public education system.

If you ever get the chance to visit, look around. There are dandelions growing out of the cracks in the sidewalk. There are pheasants casting their winged shadows onto the hollowed walls of abandoned homes; people laughing together in the midst of their own suffering. If truth is beauty, then this city is an undiscovered oeuvre. Our culture's piece de resistance.

This is How New York is Kind

2009-03-23T22:10:00.006-04:00

Paul, who I'd never met before, made me cry. Twice. The first time was because he said being homeless had changed his life for the better. And this may seem like a tacky bit of over-sentimentality. The kind of line you might discover in the middle of a big budget, low quality, feel-good movie. This would be the part where you would groan, heavily, and shift in your chair, uncomfortably. But then, that's a movie. This is real life. And when an actual homeless person introduces himself to you on the A train, and says "I'm homeless and living in a methadone shelter, and I have no regrets", then you don't groan, you listen. So I listened.

He seemed tall, even sitting down, and he wore that air of haggard about him. That haggard that older men wear when they've been working menial, laborious jobs their whole lives and are too sad to be bitter about it. Anyway, he tried to give a young woman with a baby his seat, but she didn't want it and so he sat back down and began a conversation with me.

A bit about me: I am the kind of person who will engage in conversations with complete strangers on the subway, or the supermarket, or the sidewalk at night, even though it may not be in my best interest to do so. It's not because I'm particularly reckless. On the contrary, I prefer a low-key existence, one void of excessive drama. It's just that I enjoy people. They can be quite fascinating, even when they are being entirely disagreeable.

But Paul was by no means disagreeable. Paul was the most wonderful, most fascinating stranger to cross my path in a very long time. He told me right away that he was homeless and living in a methadone shelter. He had been a heroin addict for several years. He said that even though the shelter is run like a prison, the young men don't bother him much. The Latino guys call him Papi and the Black guys and White guys call him Pops and he smiles while saying this, acknowledging that this salutation is a symbol of respect. And his smile reaffirmed my faith in young men of color, some of whom (though almost entirely fucked up) still possess an innate goodness which manifests itself in the most imperceptible places. Like in the paternal endearment that they give an old man.

When he first said he was homeless I said, "I'm sorry." I knew that it was stupid, that saying that I was sorry wouldn't change the fact that he was homeless. That, in fact, the whole thing had very little to do with me. But what else do you say? It's like surviver's guilt. I have a permanent residence and a job and relative certainty, and places I can go when I've lost all those things. Whereas this man has been abandoned by an entire system, an entire society which works very hard to ignore him, to displace him, even though there is really no other place for him to go. How can I not feel guilty for that? This country was designed with a certain number of spots for people at a certain comfort level. I feel comfortable right now. Does that mean that I've taken someone else's spot? That's what it felt like and so I said "I'm sorry." And Paul, in all his soft-spoken sincerity said, "It happens."

He said, "I'll tell you this, though. I'll never look at homeless people the same way again. You walk around and it's like you don't even exist, like you're invisible. It's an awful feeling and I can never do that to another person. I talk to people, now. I talk to people that I would never have talked to before, people I may have been afraid to talk to. And you know what, I get the best smiles now. I don't regret being homeless, because I feel like it has taught me so much. I feel as if I've grown so much as a human being. It's been difficult, but I don't regret it."

And that's the first time he made me cry.

The second time is when he talked about his partner. They had been together for 21 years. And eight years ago his partner had been hit by a taxi and died. "He was the best thing that ever happened to me," Paul said. I can't imagine being with someone for 21 years and then losing them in 21 seconds. That's the second time he made me cry. And let's keep all this in perspective: this conversation has happened in the short space between 145th Street and Broadway-Nassau. Forty-five minutes at the most. I could have listened to him for hours.

And the pragmatists may call me a bleeding heart. They may say that I got hoodwinked by a con artist. Someone trying to pull on my heartstrings; to garner some sympathy from a naive young optimist. Well I say that sympathy is too hard to come by in this city. Everyone wants to put a padlock on their emotions. Don't breathe too deep, don't think all day. But if someone trusts me enough to tell me their story, then I'll listen. And if someone smiles at me then I'll smile right back. Because this is how New York is kind. On some rare day it will decide to reveal itself to you in a conversation with a stranger. It will be thoughtful, and sincere, and profound. If you're willing to listen closely you will hear chapters of its story in the silence between words.

And if you're especially lucky, it will make you cry.

Thank you, Paul.